The Truth About Heartbreak

by Celeste, B.

  “Told you so,” I muse.

  She finishes the first slice and grabs another, taking a large portion of the peanut butter with her.

  “Hey now, save some for me.”

  She scoffs. “There’s plenty.”

  “Not before you’re done with it.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Are you implying something, Everett? I like food, what can I say?”

  If she’s asking if I think she’s fat, she’s way off. She’s curvy in a dangerous way, her hips and thighs filled out in all the right places. There was a time she was self-conscious of her new figure, especially when guys took notice. I’m definitely one of those guys, but I told her not to worry about any of them. As long as she’s happy and healthy that’s all that matters.

  “I like that you like food,” I admit. Issy lives on rabbit food; lettuce, carrots, or some other insanely healthy option. It’s not like I don’t enjoy a hearty salad occasionally, but the look Issy gives me if I order a damn cheeseburger annoys me.

  “Steph says real men appreciate the type of women who can eat them under the table.”

  Her words make me choke on my apple slice. Well, maybe not her words. It’s the image of her on her knees under the table in front of me that my mind conjures up out of fucking nowhere. It nearly kills me.

  She pats my back, worry carved into her features. “Are you okay?”

  I wave her off. “Fine.”

  She rolls her eyes and grabs her glass from the sink, filling it with water. Passing it to me, she raises her eyebrows and waits for me to take a sip. Once she’s satisfied, she takes her seat again.

  “Went down the wrong pipe,” I murmur.

  She doesn’t comment on it.

  After we’re done with the snack, she sets the plate down on the counter. I itch to do something I keep telling myself not to.

  I touch her.

  The pad of my thumb grazes the corner of her mouth. Her breath hitches, then blows out slowly against my finger. The thick lashes around her chocolate eyes flutter closed for a moment, absorbing the moment. I do too.

  “Peanut butter,” I whisper.

  My finger trails over her bottom lip, feeling it tremble beneath my touch. She’s affected by me, always has been. I’m not sure when I started realizing it. Maybe after the party. Maybe after Isabel accused her of having a crush on me. Who the fuck knows?

  What I do know is that I like the way she shakes for me. I love how her eyes close and her breath changes and her cheeks color into the prettiest shade of pink I’ve seen on a woman. I want to tell her it’s not just her, that I feel it too.

  But I don’t. I never do.

  “What the hell?” a shrill voice shrieks from the corner. My hand quickly falls to my side when I turn to find Issy staring daggers at us. I realize I’m nearly standing between River’s legs, and I’m not sure when I got there.

  Taking a step back, I clear my throat. “I got River and I some snacks.”

  Isabel glances between the two of us, skeptically. I get it, her doubt. Her disbelief. There are trays of food still outside, some hors d'oeuvres that Robert and his business friends like, some plain sliders and deli meats. We shouldn’t have needed to come in here, alone, for a snack.

  Isabel straightens. “I think it’s time we go home, Everett.” Her tone is deadly, allowing no room for argument.

  When she calls me Everett, it means I fucked up. I suppose I deserve it this time. Glancing at River, I give her an apologetic smile. She’s flushed, her chocolate eyes darker than normal, and she’s speechless.

  Not in the same way she was before. She’s processing. I touched her—I’ve never done that before, never told myself I had the right to.

  I don’t have the right.

  But she didn’t stop me.

  “Goodnight, River,” I tell her.

  She blinks, her teeth biting into her lower lip—the same one I caressed. I still feel its silky texture on my thumb.

  “Goodnight,” she whispers.

  We haven’t been the same since she asked me to take her virginity, since I punched Asher Wilks for taking it, or since I saw her marred body. We’ll never be the same. After all, there was no peanut butter on her lip.

  AFTER

  18

  Everett / 27

  Present Day

  Everett. We made a mistake.

  That tiny sentence still haunts me every time I let my mind drift to the way her husky, broken tone said those four fucking words.

  We didn’t make a mistake.

  The mistake, if that’s what you want to call it, was waiting all these years to finally experience what it’s like to feel her tight pussy squeeze my cock—to know what her salty skin tastes like, her lips, her neck. I’ve wasted years not knowing what the weight of her supple breasts feels like in my palms or the way her nipples pebble when my mouth wraps around them or the soft, breathless noises she makes when she comes.

  The mistake is me not realizing what I could have had all along. The mistake is me. Always me.

  Jesus. I’ve made a lot of bad choices in my life. Like never telling my parents how much I love them or not being there to say goodbye to Granddad. Hell, leaving town to pursue something I’ve never been interested in, leaving someone I care about behind, is just another stupid decision I need to deal with. The only thing I’ve done because I actually wanted to is kiss River James; to make a move. Finally.

  But she thinks it’s a mistake.

  She regrets it.

  It’s a sucker punch to the gut every time my memory takes me back to her hips grinding against mine or her riding my palm when I fucked her with my fingers. The way her eyes rolled, her lips parted, her world stopped, was because of me. She can regret it all she wants, but I don’t. Not one second of it.

  The only thing I regret is how she feels now that we crossed the line.

  I’ll cross it again if she’ll let me.

  19

  River / 23

  The brushstrokes leave behind a blur of emerald green across the stark white board, the gritty material blemishing the flawless curves of the form. Another layer and the imperfections will be covered completely; smooth and beautiful. That’s what you need to do, add layer after layer until nobody can see what’s underneath.

  A soft melody lulls from the speakers in the back storage room. Melanie says it helps the kids concentrate, so I keep it on even after the youth group leaves. It’s instrumental, wordless, which I usually despise. It isn’t distracting enough like the words of someone else’s struggles serenading my guilt. But it does the job, fills the silence now that I’m the only one left in the Painter’s Choice studio.

  The new groups of kids I’ve started teaching are part of a special program sponsored by the Bridgeport Community Center, who also happens to own the art studio. Usually, the youth groups are just children whose parents can’t pick them up after school, so they send them to afterschool activates the church puts on in town. But after reaching out to Jill, my old social worker, I set up a program to offer classes to foster kids in the area. After it was approved by the church board, of course.

  Mrs. Cohen used to teach me how to channel my emotions into my projects, so my hope is that these kids can too. It’s been a success so far, and it makes me feel fulfilled knowing I can be part of their lives somehow. Even if it’s just by bringing them somewhere to go besides back home to who knows what. I can tell these kids have stories, we all do. Once you’re a foster kid, you never really stop being one. Robert doesn’t like when I say that, but he doesn’t understand.

  I never try to make him.

  Examining my canvas, my eyes travel the long stroke of the green circle. Grabbing a new brush, I wet it and dip the bristles into the white paint of my wooden palette, mixing it into the emerald tone and swirling them together. There’s a hollow inner circle, still empty from the board. It’ll be black, maybe navy blue. I’m not sure the mood yet.

  The outline of the light green hue I’ve created is
a dark shade of blue, not quite royal or navy but somewhere in between. It’s a unique color, one that’s hard to capture.

  Before I can fill in anything else, I’m startled by the bell ringing on the front door. Melanie walks in with a smile on her face when she sees me positioned in the front of the empty classroom, hovering over a new painting.

  “I thought you’d still be here.”

  She goes in the back and flicks off the music. The studio is drowned in a deafening silence. Setting the paint brush down, I push off the stool and wipe my stained hands on a damp paper towel.

  “The kids were good today,” I note, leaning my shoulder against the doorjamb to our office. I got a part time job here teaching art classes to the local youth, mostly the fosters since I pitched the program. Sometimes I’ll fill in for Melanie, like today, and teach all the classes that come in.

  Her smile widens as she organizes some paperwork on her desk. “I’m glad. How’d your class go? It’s only the third one, right?”

  The Church board had to weigh in on the decision of allowing me to bring fosters to the studio. Their extensive knowledge of local foster homes makes them extremely beneficial in swaying the vote.

  I was too determined to start this program to to let a room full of stuffy old people stereotype these children, most of whom just wanted a safe place to hang out. The head of the clergy listened to my speech and watched my presentation, but ultimately stretched their final vote over a month-long period. When I finally got the okay, I had to figure out how to contain my emotions because it seemed like they flooded me at once.

  “They’re adapting, I think.” Shuffling into the office, I sit on the torn upholstered chair. It’s blue and uncomfortable but it was a donation from a local business, so we keep it around.

  She leans back in her seat. “And everything else? How’s life. I know you don’t like talking about yourself, but you seem like you need to talk about something.”

  Melanie is over ten years older than me, twelve if memory serves, and she’s perceptive. She knows I’m a foster kid, which is why I wanted to implement the new program into our schedule, and that I was adopted by the James’. Over the past few years of working for her, she’s seen me interact with Oliver when he stops in to see me “do my thing” and Bridgette if she’s in town running errands. A few times, she even saw me with Robert if there’s a meeting in the building we share with other businesses.

  But the one person she’s only seen twice with me is Everett, and there’s good reason. She just doesn’t know it. If I keep pushing those reasons away, I won’t have to think about them either.

  I do though. Every day for the past three weeks, I’ve been taunted by the memories of callused caresses and husky moans. My brain has nothing better to do than to replay that guilt ridden, ecstasy-inducing night repeatedly.

  Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I force a smile. It hurts my face, like I’m cracking in half at the seams. “I’ve just got a lot going on. You know, with school and whatnot.”

  I finished my bachelor’s in Art History and moved onto a master’s in Education. Both degrees will come from Bridgeport Community College despite Robert trying to get me to go to a bigger university for my master’s program. I thought about it but opted not to keep walking away from my problems. From him.

  No. Not him. Them.

  I see them everywhere and it suffocates me. They’re on my morning walk to Landmark Café where I get my lavender tea, or the short commute to BCC for evening classes.

  My mistake haunts me.

  “If working is too much—”

  “No!” I exclaim quickly. “It’s the only thing that keeps my mind off … school. You know, stressful things.”

  Her eyes narrow in skepticism, but clear of doubt before she nods. “Art has a way of being the very thing we need to cope with life.”

  That’s why I stayed. I could have left, could have avoided my problems. But I’ve never done it before, and now that I’m stronger, I won’t throw in the towel. Art is the only way to run without actually leaving. So, I paint. I draw. I sketch. I mold. I let my brain, my heart, and my soul do the talking, the running.

  Clearing my throat, I stand. “I’ll clean up and be done for the day before I head up. Do you need anything else?”

  Her head tilts. “If you want to finish your project, feel free. Something tells me you’re nowhere near done with that painting in there. I see it on your face. You have a lot to say, and if painting it helps, I won’t stop you.”

  She starts gathering some papers, which gives me a chance to slip out. Facing my painting, I realize she’s right. If I don’t finish this tonight, I may not have the inspiration tomorrow. It’s weird how my feelings fuel me these days, eat at me in ways I wouldn’t allow them to before.

  I wish I could turn them off.

  I send a text to Bridgette since I’m supposed to come for dinner.

  Be there late.

  Nothing but the glow of the dim streetlights cascade through the front windows of Painter’s Choice. There are planes of glass stretching from floor to ceiling in the front of the building, revealing a quiet night beyond the glass.

  The white earbuds plastered in my ears sing to me as I finish the last part of my painting. Sinking into my stool, I absorb my newest creation. My heart hums in satisfaction as my eyes roam across the minty green and black and white that form the iris; tortured with guilt as it looks out into the world. The black pupil within tells a story, a hand reaching out and grasping a ball of orange and yellow flames. Smoke lines the edges of the canvas, leaving no open space. Everything is consumed by fire, by feeling, by torment.

  I shriek when the earbuds are yanked from my ears and nearly fall off my stool as I bat my arm at the person behind me when a familiar musky scent overwhelms my senses.

  “You shouldn’t have your earbuds in when you’re alone in an unlocked building,” Everett scolds in a deadly tone, his eyes hollow and as dark as the bags resting beneath them.

  My heart is still racing from the unexpected intrusion.

  “Why do you care?” My words are biting. He’s the last person I want to see right now.

  “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

  My teeth grind. “Why are you here?”

  His eyes narrow. “What did I just say?”

  The harshness of his cool tone snaps me out of my surprised haze. “You have no right to talk to me like that.”

  He cants his head to the side. “Don’t I?” His eyes shift from me to my painting. Something flickers in them. Realization. “Is this your way of saying you want me to catch on fire?”

  “What? No.”

  The tension he holds in his shoulders doesn’t ease. In fact, his corded muscles tighten. He’s suddenly too tall, too overwhelming. I stand back.

  He notes the movement, his nostrils flaring, but doesn’t say anything. Maybe he knows whatever will come out won’t be pretty. I don’t do well when people yell, and he looks like he wants to scream.

  What does he want me to say? To do? He can’t deny that what we did was a huge mistake. If anyone should be eaten alive by guilt, it’s him. He’s the one who has a girlfriend.

  I’m just the one with a crush.

  The other woman.

  He finally huffs. “What? No, hello?”

  My hands tighten into balls. “Hello.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  He doesn’t respect my personal space like he used to. Instead, he takes a massive step forward until all I see, feel, and smell is him. “I woke up in your bed and you were fucking gone, River. I think that warrants a conversation. Now, I’ve given you time. Nineteen days, to be exact. No more bullshit.”

  That’s what he thinks this is? Bullshit?

  He doesn’t stop there because he knows I’m too stunned to speak. “I’ve had a lot of time to think, to really fucking think about what we did. And you know what I’ve come up with?”

  My lungs sting w
hen I force a deep breath. “W-What do you think?”

  “That I miss you.”

  I miss you, too.

  It’s such a quick internal response that I nearly choke on the words. They’re not a lie. I miss Everett. I miss his friendship and his wisdom and his wittiness. He makes me laugh and smile and sometimes angry, but only because he pushes me in ways nobody else has; without force or ill will. He does it because he wants to see me flourish even if it’s annoying.

  Like when he helped me study for math classes in undergrad because statistics kicked my ass. Or when he helped me dissect a Dickens novel when I had to write a twenty-page paper on thematic ideologies on Victorian literature. He made sure I passed even when I set myself up for failure. He never let it happen.

  “I miss your warmth,” he adds, taking an impossibly close step to me. “I miss your voice.” His polished Cole Hann black dress shoes brush the tips of my Walmart five-dollar ballet flats. “I miss the feeling of your skin against my palm.”

  Can’t. Breathe.

  His fingertips graze my arm, up, up, up, until they’re somehow tangled in my hair. How did they get there? I tell myself to push him away. I don’t. God, I don’t want to.

  His fingers tighten around a fistful of hair, but it doesn’t hurt. One more step and my chest is flush against his and I’m afraid he can feel the way my nipples pebble under my thin dress. I’m affected by him, even when I shouldn’t be.

  Always when I shouldn’t be.

  “We didn’t make a mistake,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear. His breath causes goosebumps to form on my arms and a shiver to rake down my spine.

  “You heard that?”

  “Every fucking word.”

  My eyes close. “We did, though.”

  “You’ll never be my mistake, River.”

  There’s a strong pull to let him inside the deepest parts of me, to let him soak into every crack and crevice, to rip my heart wide open.