Heartbreaker

HEARTBREAKER © Copyright 2014 by J. Dorothy

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission of the author or except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical article or reviews.

Contact Information:
https://www.facebook.com/heartbreakersj.dorothy

Cover design: J.Dorothy

Publishing history: First edition, 2014

Published in Australia  by Amazon digital services

DeDiCaTioN

To my very lovely, very patient, husband, who I adore.

I know how much you love the mooshy stuff, so I wanted to dedicate my first romance book to you. Love you heaps, Honey.xx

o
Ne

____________________
__________________

A door.

The grain is worn, the dull brown paint beginning to peel. I draw a reluctant comparison to my own life as I reach for the round brass handle and turn.

I don’t know if my father will be home.
It’s been too many years, and I don’t know if he’ll smile or frown when he sees me.

There’s nothing but silence as I take my first step over the threshold to my new life, or back to my old life, whichever way you look at it.

I’m not sure where it all went wrong. Not sure if I want to keep analyzing or rehashing the details.

All I know—it did go wrong.
So wrong.

I twist a long strand of my brown hair around my finger and I take one more step closing the door behind me. Now I’m really here. I look around the room. Nothing has changed. Nothing at all. Not one detail differs from my memory of this place.

The same muted colored cushions randomly spread and squashed into the corners of that old beaten leather couch. The same gray painted walls. The same gaudy framed pictures, motel room replicas—saying nothing, meaning nothing.

The table I spent my life eating at. The orange vinyl chairs pulled out.

The kitchen I cooked in. Dishes abandoned in the basin. The ancient coffee machine on the bench, grounds scattered beneath. Dregs in a mug, the aroma of coffee in the air, the only sign of recent life.

I sink heavily onto the couch and squash another cushion. I close my tired eyes.

I think about Cam. I wonder where he is. I wonder what he’ll say. I wonder if he’ll say anything at all…

It’s been too long. I’ve told myself that repeatedly since it all went to crap and I landed back here.

To this place.

My beginning.

A beginning we should have had together, but stubbornness and stupidity built the wall.

What if?
The biggest question in my life.

What if I hadn’t walked out?

What if I’d given him the answer he wanted?

What if?

My eyes flutter open. I sit up groggy from unexpected sleep. My vision blurred. I have no idea what time it is or how long I’ve been sleeping. Then I hear another breath. And it’s not mine.

I blink, and turn my head.

My Dad.

He’s sitting opposite
, on the only other chair in the tiny lounge. His leather armchair. There’s no smile. But there’s no scowl either.

“You’re back,” he says.

I nod.

It’s been two long years since I’ve seen him. He hasn’t changed. Stuck in time, just like this house. I expected a bit of gray, a few more wrinkles, perhaps some weight round the middle. But he still has those alert blue eyes, cropped black hair, tanned skin, the large physique of a man ten years younger than he is. All that hard labor keeping him fit.

“How long?” he says.

No reactions. Just questions.

I shrug.

He keeps looking at me. Taking inventory. I guess that never changes with parents. From the time you exit the womb they constantly check you still have all your limbs, you don’t look too tired or hungry or sick. That’s what my father’s doing now, even though there’s little, to no expression.

“You look good,” I say.

He nods his head slightly. But doesn’t reciprocate. His inventory has obviously taken in my loss of weight, my tired swollen eyes, my pale skin, my wrinkled black sweater and jeans.

“Want something to eat?” He gets up and moves to the kitchen.

“Um …”

I don’t want to eat. But I know it would make him feel like a parent again. I wonder for a minute if he’s missed that feeling.

“Sure,” I say.

I close my eyes once more, and hear the familiar sounds of the cupboards opening and closing. The fridge buzzing, the pans connecting with the stove, the switch of the gas being lit. The chopping, the sizzling, the smell of onions, bacon, spices. He’s remembered. He’s being a parent again. My favorite as a kid was always pasta with a bacon cream sauce. The familiar smell awakens my stomach. It rumbles. That surprises me, it hasn’t rumbled like that since I left.

Dishes clatter on the counter top, pans are scraped, and a plate full of my childhood favorite appears before my eyes. I take it and smell the memory. The first mouthful is warm and delicious. The second, followed by the third and the fourth, each in turn warming me from the inside out. I haven’t felt this warm in a long time.

“Good,” I say.

My father watches
as I suck the last string of pasta through my lips and scrape the remnants of sauce.

His mind is ticki
ng again. He puts his plate on the table next to his chair and crosses his arms over his large chest. I try and scrape more sauce. To make noise. Any noise to distract him. I don’t want him to ask that question.

“Are you back
,” he starts, then clears his throat, and I feel my hear plummet. “Are you back for him?”

I can’t
answer. Because in truth I really don’t know the answer. So I give the only response I can. I give a small shrug and twist my lips.

My father shakes his head. He stands and takes the empty plate from my lap and puts it on top of his. He lingers, and then strokes my cheek. I lean into his touch. I need this. I need this familiar. I reach up and clasp his hand in mine and hold it to my cheek. So warm, just like the food in my stomach.

My Dad lets go, sighs, and moves to the kitchen.

The running water, the slosh of dishes in the basin. The everyday, the familiar. I’m back. I know now it’s the right place for me to be.

The place I need to mend my broken heart and get it beating again.

TWo

______________________________________

It takes all my courage. And I don’t have much of that. Mostly I shy away from emotions. I blanked that out long ago, after my mother died
from cancer. It was just easier
not
to deal. But now I have to deal, or else none of this would have been worth it.

I look like shit. I know I won’t be like he remembered. I’ve been eating creamy pasta for the last few days. It’s all I want. Like a craving that can’t be sated. But even with all those carbs my weight is still bordering on unhealthy. At least I’ve been sleeping again, and my eyes don’t look quite so sunken and swollen.

I have to see him.

Dad told me where he goes for lunch every day. I figure I’ll just watch him
from a distance. I’m not brave enough to tackle anything else right now.

I make my way across the street. There are more unfamiliar shops. This place is now a tourist trap since two years ago, when some Hollywood film producer used the surrounding area for a big block buster. Brought a whole new trade and clientele to the town.

Even though it’s a bit chilly I decide to sit outside the new coffee house. All decked out in silver. Silver chairs, silver tables, silver benches. From here I have a good view of the diner where Cam goes for lunch. I adjust my shades. Not much of a disguise, but it gives me a small measure of security. It will help me blend in, to disappear. He’ll never notice me.

Or so I hope.

Then my heart stops.

He’s there.

On the other side of the street in my direct line of vision. I want to close my eyes to block him out, but I can’t. I can’t stop looking at him. Drinking him in. Every part of him. From the brown locks pushed back from his forehead, right down to those old boots he loves. He's talking to Mrs Winters standing at his side. He’s smiling at her. That perfect smile. His light blue eyes focussed on her, listening intently to what she’s saying. He offers out his arm to help her across the street. He has more of a tanned complexion than I remember and looks more muscular. His grey shirt pulled tight across his chest. His jeans the perfect fit. Every inch of him I take in. I swallow. Now he’s coming toward me, still talking and laughing with the old lady who owns the only bakery in town.

Then he looks up, his gaze shifts to me, and he stops. Mrs Winters turns to stare in my direction as well. I try to focus on her, not him. But my eyes betray me and drift to his face. To his beautiful face, that is so focussed on mine.

My hands tremble. My legs shake. My stomach twists. I can’t breathe.

He gives his head a small shake, turns, then pats Mrs Winter's arm. She's still looking at me. But he isn’t. Not anymore.

I don’t know what’s worse. To have him look at me, or to look away.

Definitely to look away.
As if he’s already giving me the answer to my unspoken question.

I can’t move. My whole body is frozen in this moment. I didn’t plan for him to see me.

Mrs Winters disappears into her bakery. But he doesn’t move. He’s staring down at the ground, like he doesn’t know where he is, or why he’s there.

I know that feeling. That’s the feeling I had just before I came back.

Back to him.

But it might be too late. I might have waited too long. His next move in the next few seconds will decide for us both.

I close my eyes and blow out a breath. I don’t want to open them again, but I know I have to.

I have to face my future. Whatever it’s going to be.

There are no more
What if’s.

I clench my teeth and will my eyes to open. At first it’s impossible. Then I force it to happen.

I blink to focus. I blink again. As if that will make a difference.

He’s gone.

The hole in my chest widens. The tears well in my eyes. Tears I should have shed two years ago. But didn’t. I can’t stop the tidal wave of sadness that crashes down on me.

My breath is erratic. I try and hold it together. I can’t lose it now. Not here.

But I can’t stop the tears. I can’t stop the pain in my chest.

I want to run.

I want to scream.

I want to go after him.

But I don’t.

I sit.

And I suffer like the coward that I am.

I haven’t moved for over an hour. I keep wiping the tears, but they keep coming. No one
’s noticed me, or asked what’s wrong. My unfinished coffee is stone cold. I should leave.

I hug my arms around my waist. A weak effort to hold myself together. It comforts me for a matter of moments, but then it reminds me they aren’t the arms I need.

I need his arms. Arms that will never hold me again. Not now.

The finality of tha
t nearly undoes my resolve. I lean over to pick up my purse from the ground. The weight of my chest crushes my knees. I want to stay in this position. To feel that weight.

That’s when I feel the weight lighten. A hand is on my shoulder and a sweet voice greets my ears.

“Well hello, there. Long time no see.”

“Gerry.” I look up into the eyes of my old friend.

She hasn’t changed. Still has the same pink spiked hair, the black eye liner making her big brown eyes smoky and warm. Her tiny frame draped in layers of colorful shirts. She never wears just one of anything, but she’s the only person I know who can.

She gives me a big hug and drags a chair over to sit at the table, tucking her black booted feet underneath. Then she stares at me and waits. I know why she does this. She knows me so well. She knows I can’t stand the silence. She knows I’ll crack and speak first.

I do.

“How have you been?”

“Good. And you?”

I bite my lip. Where to start. I’m not good. But I’m not good for so many reasons.

She waits again.

I stir the dregs in my coffee cup with my spoon. “I’m okay.”

“Uh-huh.”

I wish she’d say something else. Anything else to kill this silence. She won’t give in though. She’ll wait it out. She has the patience of a saint.

I bite my lip again and take off my shades.

She
gasps. “You look like shit.”

I manage a wry
smile. “Gee, thanks.”

She shakes her head. “What happened?”

We haven’t had much contact since I left. I flicked her the occasional email and we exchanged Christmas and Birthday cards. But these last few months I stopped all communication. Stopped, because I couldn’t deal.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Oh, I think I do.”

And there it is: my in. My in
, to tell her all the black, dark details of my life for the past two years.

A life I’d much rather forget.

Gerry’s been looking at me with those big bug eyes for the past few minutes, freaking me out. She wants to know. And she wants to know bad. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the look she gave me when I told her I was leaving.

Leaving her, leaving here, and leaving him.

A cellphone rings breaking the silence. And a tiny wave of relief rushes over me, till I realise it’s mine.

I
sigh and  reach down to pull my iphone from the pocket of my purse. I know who it’ll be. I’ve been waiting for his call. I can’t avoid talking to him anymore. He’ll want answers.

I see the familiar grin of his photo as it shows up on my screen, and I can’t help but smile. Gerry narrows her eyes and I give a small shrug. She doesn’t flinch, just keeps watching. I make sure not to show her his pic
ture, unsure what her reaction might be.

He’s beautiful. There’s no other word to describe Bennett. Beautiful, in a: I want to preserve your look kind of way. Preserve it for future reference so the human race can strive for perfection. I always tell him that’s what he’s carved from—perfection. Perfect white teeth, perfect complexion, perfect blue eyes, perfect black hair and of course perfect physique—buffed and shaped like an athlete. Which is ironic, because he never makes an effort to work out.

Bennett doesn’t see it though, never has, which makes him even more beautiful.

I press answer. “Hey.”

“Hey back,
Miss leave town without a word
.”

“Um … yeah, sorry about that.”

“No you’re not.”

“Well, I’m not sorry I left. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye.”

“Ah, forever the honest one. Even though it breaks my heart.”

“Yep, that’s me, a heartbreaker.”

“So …”

“So …”

Gerry is listening to every word, and I have to be careful. “Thanks for calling. I miss you.”

And I really do, but I really want him off the phone. So far, Bennett hasn’t probed any further than surface deep. I want to keep it that way.

“I miss you too. When are you coming back?”

I suck in a quiet breath. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“You aren’t coming back.”

“Not sure.”

“Bales, I understand. I really do. But, the Double A is out of the office more, and things aren’t the same without you.”

Double A is our code word for my old boss. A-grade asshole. But he’s more than that. He’s mostly the reason I left, but I don’t tell Bennett that, he only knows so much of what went on. Just thinking about it, and hearing Bennett talk about him makes my stomach churn. I blink, get up and move away from the table where Gerry is watching me like a mother hen watches her baby chicks. I quickly walk over to the alleyway that runs beside Mrs Winter's bakery, the whole time listening to Bennett give me reason after reason as to why I should come back. There’s school, your job, your apartment, me: all excuses.

Yeah but there’s so much else. And it’s the
else
that has me fleeing to my hometown. Well that, and missing Cam and wanting to get him back.

“Is it because of your old boyfriend
?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. Seems like the best defence. The only thing that he’ll understand without further explanation. A cop out, I know, but I’ll use whatever I can right now.

“Have you seen him?”

“Yep.”

“How did that go?”

“As well as I expected.”

“That good.”

“Yep.”

“Full of interesting facts today, aren’t you Missy. Do I need to come visit?”

“No! … I mean no, not right now. I mean I’d love to see you, but I just need some time to think.”

“I get it Bales, but I won’t leave you alone for long. I worry about you.”

“Yeah, I know. And I’m real sorry I left without seeing you. That was shitty.”

Bennett laughs. “You know I can put up with shitty, Bales, but yeah it did blow. I came over and the neighbor, you know the one with all the cats…”

“Mrs Feldon.”

“She’s a Mrs? Huh, never knew that.”

“
Her husband died ten years ago.”

“Right. Now the cats make sense.”

“Bennett! I was going to get a cat.”

“Sure you were. Anyway, the
nice
cat lady told me you’d gone and said you’d given her your key, so of course I charmed her into giving it to me, and I checked out your apartment to find it completely empty.”

“Yeah, I gave my furniture
to the thrift store.”

“Bales, you could have kept it. And I’m
not sure your single bed, old couch and crappy dining room chairs, class as charity anyway.”

“Hey, they were okay. They worked didn’t they? Gave yo
u somewhere to sit and sleep ...”

And it's just as I pop out the last word, that I look up to see a chest. A very
familiar chest in a grey shirt. My eyes trail over that glorious view, and my breath hitches, my hearts racing. I swallow and bite my lip, but I can’t help it. I have to look. So I do. I look up into Cam’s glaring face for one brief moment. Then a rush of burning pain crushes my stomach and I drop the cell, with Bennett still waiting on the other end, and my world goes black.