The Truth About Heartbreak
Page 1
The Truth About Heartbreak
B. Celeste
Barbara C. Doyle writing as
B. CELESTE
This Book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The Truth about Heartbreak
Copyright © 2019 by B. Celeste
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Artist: RBA Designs
Editing by: K&B Editing
Formatting: Micalea Smeltzer
Published by:
B. Celeste
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
Contents
Author Note
Playlist
Prologue
BEFORE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
AFTER
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Epilogue
Sneak Peek
The Choices We Make
Books by Barbara C. Doyle
Stay In Touch
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Author Note
This book contains cheating.
Proceed with caution.
Hi, Mom.
You should probably skip the epilogues.
Playlist
“Wanted You More” - Lady Antebellum
“i hate you, i love you” - Gnash
“Lights Down Low” - Max
“Lips of an Angel” Hinder
“Mercy” - Brett Young
“Naked” - James Arthur
“Be Alright” - Dean Lewis
“Here Tonight” - Brett Young
“Yours” (wedding edition) - Russell Dickerson
“Ride” - Chase Rice (feat. Macy Maloy)
Prologue
River / Present / 23
The velvet caress of silk sheets against my bare skin leaves me hyperaware of what I’ve done. Early morning sunlight slips through the cracked blinds and kisses my exposed back, coating the room in soft pinks and yellows.
Steady, rhythmic breathing sounds from behind me. In, out. In, out. It’s a melody that makes my muscles lock, too afraid to reacquaint my eyes with every dip and curve of chiseled muscle displayed inches away.
His natural musky scent wraps around me, overwhelming my senses until my heart thumps wildly in my chest. It doesn’t take away the memories of lingering touches, gentle kisses, and an overpowering sense of belonging. And less than twelve hours ago, I belonged to Everett Tucker in ways I never thought possible in the ten years of knowing him.
His touches scorched me.
His kisses burned me.
And his body…
The mattress dips with the shift of his weight. I hold my breath, waiting to see if he’s awake. When his soft snores echo in the half-empty room, I release the breath and white knuckle the sheets against my breasts. Carefully, I sit up and squeeze my eyes closed like it’ll soften the blow of reality.
I wait for the pounding headache or quake of unavoidable nausea to punish me, but my conscience reminds me of what I already know. I wasn’t drunk last night. What I’ve done can’t be blamed on alcohol.
My hand drags across my bare neck until my heart thunders in pure panic over my missing possession. I swallow my anxiety when I catch the silver chain resting on the night stand and remember the very moment he took it off me.
Nothing but skin. That’s what he said he wanted between us. I’ve only taken this necklace off to shower and sleep. It goes everywhere with me, the silver paint palette and brush charm sweeping over my heartbeat as a reminder that he cares. But in the moment I had him as more than a wish, a hope, a dream, he didn’t want it lingering.
Nothing but skin.
My fingertips touch the newest charm, a cracked heart, and I suck in a short breath when the contact shocks me. Clenching the sheets tighter to me, I turn slightly to peek through my peripheral and see a tussle of dirty blond hair against my starch white pillow case.
Look, my conscience taunts. Look at him.
Slivers of tan skin make their way into my sight as I shift, my gaze drifting up the mountain of hard muscles that form his toned biceps as they wrap around a pillow. Worrying my bottom lip, my heart somersaults in my chest when the curve of his square jaw comes into view. The sharp line of it is coated with early morning shadow that he’ll shave despite preferring a thin layer of stubble.
He looks peaceful when he’s sleeping; the hard edge he normally radiates eased to a laxed slumber. From this angle, I can see the faded white scar that stretches from the bottom of his left ear along the curve of his throat, landing just above his pulse. You wouldn’t know it’s there unless you know the story, and he doesn’t tell just anyone.
But I’m not just anyone.
Especially not now.
My throat tightens from the emotions lodging in the back of it as I scope out his sculpted body. He works hard for every muscle, spends countless hours in the gym or training at the fire department, and it shows. The man sleeping beside me has been a figment of my imagination that I’ve conjured thousands of times, but his body is a masterpiece I never could have perfected unless I saw it in person.
I absorb the memory of his body spread on my mattress, bare to me. Every vulnerability laying in a mess of sheets, open to pull apart and dissect and regret when the sun fully rises.
Less than twelve hours ago I belonged to the minty eyed boy I’ve loved since I was thirteen. But Everett Tucker isn’t mine to love.
He stirs when I rise from bed.
“Everett,” I whisper brokenly, my heart shattering inside my chest. I can feel the pieces splintering apart as I choke out my final words. “We made a mistake.”
BEFORE
1
Everett / 17
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The loud echo of hard rubber dribbling against wood fills the gymnasium, paired with the piercing squeal of sneakers against the freshly polished floor as they run at me to block my shot. I focus on the basket and side-step Zach, some freshman who
wanted in on our private game, and make the basket without much hassle.
My buddies hoot at me as I jog after the basketball, tossing it at Oliver who catches it easily. Tucking it under his arm and brushing the back of his wrist across his forehead, he nudges my arm.
“How many points is that for you?”
“Like we could keep count,” the freshie scoffs. He’s bitter because I wouldn’t pass it to him, but the asshole wouldn’t even change out of his work boots before joining in. If I were Coach, I’d throw a shit fit for fucking up the floor.
Freemont is scrawled in big blue and white block letters across the red outline of the polished court. Patriotic, since we’re the Freemont Patriots. The mats lining the walls are the same blue as the letters, with some creepy sketch of our first mascot on the end mat since we can’t have an actual mascot anymore. Who knows why? I don’t really care enough to ask Coach.
I grunt when the ball smacks into my chest, and glare at Oliver when he feigns innocence. The fucker loves getting on my nerves.
I toss the ball back and we do that a few more times before we go one-on-one like we usually do right before lunch ends. “I’m trying to talk to you, and you keep spacing out. What’s your deal?”
Shit.
Oliver’s parents have been in the long process of adoption. For about two years, they’ve talked about adding on to their family. I know this because I spend ninety percent of my time at the James’ residence. Bridgette and Robert are practically parents to me, so I know how big today is for them because they’re finally signing papers to get some pre-teen they’ve spent time with for a while now.
He tries tricking me by darting left, but my reflexes are better. I easily block him and steal the ball. “Why aren’t you with them right now?”
Managing to get the ball back, we battle it out until he gets a shot in on me. “It’s not like I haven’t met the girl before. They tried fostering her once before, remember? But something fell through on their application, so they settled for us meeting her in stages.”
I grunt. “Still think you should be there.”
He shrugs, glancing at the clock. “I’ve got a bio test today that I actually studied for. They understand.”
Coach has been on his ass about keeping his grades up, because the ten-week progress reports showed a less than stellar grade point average. Anyone getting a sixty-five or lower in any class has to sit out on games. It’s school policy.
When we realize the bell is going to ring in less than five minutes, we head to the storage room and toss the ball back on the rack. “What’s she like anyway?”
“Quiet.”
My brow quirks.
He shoves the locker room door open. “I don’t know, Rhett. She’s not very talkative, even when my parents asked her questions about herself. Her social worker had to fill us in any time we met.”
Sounds normal given the circumstances. I’m not keen on opening up to strangers about my personal life either.
“What’s her story?”
He splashes water on his face. “Not sure. Mom and Dad didn’t really fill me in on why she’s in foster care, just that she doesn’t have anybody else to take care of her.”
I just nod and wait until he has his books before we walk out into the hall as the bell rings. Crowds of high schoolers swarm the narrow hallways leading to the different wings of Freemont High. It’s not a big school by physical size or number of enrollees considering we’re smack dab in the middle of Bridgeport. Then again, the city has two different private academies across town that battle it out for kids.
I’m surprised some of the students aren’t enrolled in Bridgeport or Rousseau Academy. Oliver being one of them. He comes from money, since his parents are both big players in the business world here in Bridgeport. His dad helped found a multi-million-dollar company with my late father that employs a good portion of the city’s residents. If not in their main building on the outskirts of the business district, then in one of the different branches across New York State.
But Bridgette and Robert thought he would do better in a public setting. If Oliver wanted to switch, they probably would have let him. But he seems to do just fine blending in with the rest of us.
“You coming over to meet her later?”
His question catches me off guard. “Why? It seems like that’s a family thing.”
He smacks my chest when we stop outside my history class. “You’re family, dude. She might as well get used to seeing you around. You practically live with us.”
He’s exaggerating, even if there’s a room with some of my shit in it. Spare clothes, a toothbrush, the basics. It’s mostly if I crash after a game or just don’t feel like going home.
“She’ll have enough people to meet.” I wave him off, backing into the classroom. “Let me know how it goes though.”
He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything, disappearing in the crowd of lingering kids getting to their classes.
Mr. Hall tips his head as I pass his desk to my seat. “Mr. Tucker. Good of you to join us. See me after class about the work you missed.”
He’s referring to my habit of skipping afternoon classes. Not enough to fail, just to catch notice. Most of my teachers have mentioned it to me, even to my grandfather. But since I’m usually with my grandfather in the afternoon, he doesn’t scold me for it. He knows I’m trying to help, even if he prefers I stick out the school day.
Fact of the matter is, I don’t care for school or my grades. It’s a waste of time to sit in class and hear about how the Industrial Revolution transformed America. The only thing worth sitting through is English, which most people dread. Not just because Ms. Perkins is a hard ass, but because the material is usually dry. Me? I prefer the subject. I’m one of the few.
I respond with a tip of my head, which he takes as a confirmation of his request. He leaves me be as the rest of the class pours in.
Peter York saunters into the room and drops into the seat next to mine, absentmindedly waving toward the group of girls who greet him in shrill voices.
My chin tips in their direction. “Don’t want to sit by your fan club? Seems like they’d be good company to keep during the lecture.”
He snorts and smacks his notebook and pen down on the desk. Images of genitalia are carved into the green cardboard cover. “Aw, don’t want me around, Tuck? That shit hurts my feelings.”
I ignore him. He knows I hate when he calls me Tuck. My last name is Tucker, which plenty of people refer to me as. But he feels justified to call me anything he wants.
He nudges my arm. “I know I’m not James, but I think I’m pretty awesome company.”
York is the point guard of Freemont’s basketball team. He’s up against Oliver to make captain since our last one got expelled, but Coach told them both they’d have to prove to him who wants it more. They’re both good players—great, even. But York’s arrogance will get in the way of Coach choosing him if he’s not careful.
“You’re all right.”
Peter snorts. “Whatever, man.”
He used to be tight with Oliver until they both made the team. Then York’s competitive side came out and screwed things up. He’s always given me shit for being close with the James’. Not just because of my friendship with Oliver, but because their family took me in. He knows the circumstances, the reason I need a set of parents like Bridgette and Robert. But he doesn’t see it like that. He just wants to be in with Bridgeport’s biggest names.
That’s why I’ll never respect Peter. Doesn’t mean I’ll willingly be an ass. I’m a lot of things, but nothing like him. Stooping to his level is below me.
When Mr. Hall starts class, nobody tries talking to me. It gives me time to soak in the pointless information, jotting down a few notes but mostly drifting off and wondering about the newest James member.
Freemont isn’t a bad school, and the people are better than the ones in the ritzy academies. But that won’t stop people like York trying to get in wit
h the family using any means necessary. And this girl is young, twelve or thirteen if I remember correctly. I wonder if Oliver thought of that before, if he’ll make sure she’s protected from the gold diggers disguised with friendly smiles.
For her sake, I hope so.
2
River / 13
The exterior of the house that the car rolls up to is made of pristine red brick with large white pillars lining the front. It’s a mansion, nothing like I’ve ever been to before. From my view through the tinted car window, I’d guess three stories if not four. That doesn’t include the full basement and attic they probably have.
Considering the James family’s wealth, I expected there to be a gate protecting the property. Instead, it’s surrounded by similar, less extravagant houses in the residential side of town.
They told me about their home. My home now, I guess. It’s no surprise that Bridgette and Robert James are made of money. I could see that the second they stepped into the small room Jill, my social worker, had us meet in. Robert’s gray suit was pressed, and Bridgette’s plum dress was ironed and tailored to fit perfectly to her body.