The Truth About Heartbreak

by Celeste, B.

  Everett Tucker doesn’t have to break my heart, because I broke it myself by loving him.

  It’s funny how the heart can still hurt over something it has expected all along. But I guess that’s not entirely true.

  The truth about heartbreak is that there is no such thing. It’s your soul that shatters, along with every fiber of your being that screams for another person.

  Gripping the wall leading to the hallway, I make eye contact one final time with the man I’ve held on to since I was thirteen. The man I’ve depended on and trusted and crushed on and loved—loved achingly, desperately, and completely. Our love has brought nothing but pain, to a place where I’m considered the other woman. I’ll never be the one he puts a ring on, who he shares his bed with, we won’t have children and grow old together, because ten years ago he made the choice to do all those things with her.

  I’m not a doormat, and I won’t be second best. I deserve so much more than what he wants to give me.

  “Don’t talk to me again unless you figure out what you really want from life, Everett. I can’t keep living like this. We’re not good for each other.”

  His green eyes glaze over. “Don’t say that, baby.”

  “I’m not your baby.”

  Sniffing back tears, I blow out a shaky breath. My chest hurts. It’s as though my ribs have caved in from all the pressure and misery and hurt.

  Before spinning around and locking myself away, I whisper, “But I could have been.”

  28

  River / 23

  The rest of May passes in a blur and June starts with torrential rain storms and dreary weather that makes my mood worse. I’m supposed to start an Education Law class at the end of the month, but the idea of going to campus every week for the next two months makes me feel like I’m suffocating.

  Oliver calls and checks in on me once a week, and I’ve called him a few times asking how things have been in Chicago. He doesn’t need to tell me he loves it; I hear as much in his voice when he tells me about all the sites he’s gone to. To my surprise, his favorite is The Art Institute, where he wants to take me when we visit him toward the end of summer. He says it reminds him of me, of home.

  It made me smile.

  The small break from college leaves me with more time to help Melanie at Painter’s Choice. I work fulltime hours helping co-teach her classes to get a wider variety of experience. The foster kids will always be my favorite, and most of them seem to enjoy the atmosphere.

  There’s one twelve-year-old who never wants to participate. She sits in the corner at every class with an iPod she said she found at her old foster home. Someone accused her of stealing it, not finding it, and she doesn’t deny it. Whatever she listens to puts her in a trance, because she closes her eyes and absorbs the music like I do with art.

  I don’t expect everyone to be as invested in painting as I am. I just want them to find some sort of relief. When I approach her, I’m slow and calculated because I know sneaking up on anyone in her position is a dangerous game. But I also know if she’s comfortable enough to lose herself here, she feels safe.

  “Charlotte?” Kneeling next to her, I give a small smile when she pops her eyes open.

  The chair she’s tipping back settles onto the hardwood floor, and she swallows nervously.

  “Not in the mood to paint today?”

  Her blonde hair is matted with knots and I wonder how long it has been since it was properly combed or cut. It’s pulled back, so I can’t see how long it is, but I bet it goes halfway down her back.

  “I never want to,” she tells me, glancing at the chipped-blue device in her hand. The screen has a tiny crack in the corner, but it looks like it’s still in decent shape.

  “Do you like music?”

  She doesn’t answer right away, just plays with the iPod. Her thumb brushes over the arrows that skip through the playlist. Oliver gave me his old iPod when he started using his phone’s music app. I accidently broke it a few months later when I got paint into one of the plug-in slots. He told me he could get me a new one, but I opted to use my phone like him.

  Eventually, she nods and sets the iPod on her thigh.

  Standing and pulling over a chair next to her, I settle into the hard plastic. “Have you considered doing something with music, like playing an instrument? Maybe art isn’t your medium, but music can be.”

  Her lips part, and then close, promptly. Before the first class I held, I told them that I understood them a little better than some. I never went into the details of my stay in the system, but I wanted them to know they could talk to me if they needed to. It doesn’t seem like too long ago I was in their shoes, unsure of what to say and do and who to trust.

  I’ll always have those problems, but the James’ have given me a safe haven. These kids need one from me, and Melanie and I are willing to get them to that place.

  “Charlie,” she finally whispers.

  My brows arch.

  Her cheeks color. “I like being called Charlie, not Charlotte.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Charlie.” I hold my hand out toward her, not expecting her to take it. She stares for a moment before her palm slides into mine. I notice a few pink scars on the back of her hand, hurt seizing my heart. One of them looks like a cigarette burn.

  Dropping our hands, I set mine into my lap. “It’s okay if you don’t like painting or drawing. What if there were programs at the school you’re attending for music? Do you go to Freemont?”

  She stays silent, and something about the way she evades my eyes makes a little red warning alarm ring inside me. “Remember what I said on the first day of class, Charlie? This is a safe space.”

  Picking up the iPod, she squeezes it tight in her grasp. “I don’t think I believe you. Not all of us are lucky like you.”

  Inhaling slowly, I give her a tiny nod. “I know I’m very fortunate to have had the opportunities I did in life. But that just makes me want to make a difference in other people’s lives. If you want to do a music program, I’d love to help. Expression is the best way to deal with things beyond us.”

  I startle when she bolts up, the chair flying backward and smashing into the linoleum floor. “What if I don’t want your help? Just because you want to make a difference doesn’t mean any of us wants to be your charity case!”

  When she runs out of the studio, I quickly run after her outside. But she disappeared in the crowd of late-afternoon people on break grabbing coffee from the Landmark Café down the street.

  Rushing back inside, the other kids stare at me with wide eyes.

  “Do any of you know where she’d go?” I try keeping my tone even, but I’m afraid. If she doesn’t turn up, she’ll be considered a run-away. I’m trusted to keep these kids safe while they’re here, not run them off.

  One of the boys raises his hand. “Charlie likes hanging out at the old baseball factory. You know the one by the train station?”

  Melanie comes out of her office. “I’ll watch them, River. Go on.”

  She knows the repercussions Charlie would receive if the van showed up and she wasn’t here. I wonder if Charlie knows those consequences, or if she has long ago given up. When I was her age, I understood it all too well. That was right before Bridgette and Robert started to take interest in me, and my expectations of them sticking around were low.

  I’m grabbing my keys and running out the back door to where my car is parked, and head to the only spot I know to look. If she’s not there, I don’t know what I’ll do. Calling Child Protective Services can’t be an option. If I promised these kids safety, I don’t want to risk ruining it by doing something drastic.

  But Bridgeport, while a semi-safe city, is no place for a twelve-year-old girl to roam alone.

  It takes me nearly ten minutes to get to the factory because of traffic, which is more than enough time for Charlie to arrive by foot. If she’s come here before, she knows shortcuts. I scoured the streets on the way over with no luck, so I’m cr
ossing my fingers that she’s somewhere on this abandoned property.

  Getting out of my car, I take a look at the beat-up brick building. The lot smells off, like mold and mildew, and the walls are covered in various colored graffiti. My nerves pick up and course through my veins as I step toward the broken front door.

  “Charlie?” I cringe when a flock of birds flutter over me from the sound of my echoing voice in the empty building.

  Gripping my keys tightly in my hands, I walk around further, glancing into any nook and cranny she may be.

  “Charlie, are you in here?”

  I squeak when a mouse scurries past me, jumping backward and making my spine shudder. Why can’t mice be cute and friendly like the ones in Cinderella that Steph made me watch with her when we were younger?

  Swallowing past my nerves, I stop at one of the many doors leading out of the main lobby. There’s no noise or voices that I can hear, so I push the doors open one by one.

  No Charlie.

  Brushing hair out of my face, I turn around and stand on my tip-toes to peer out one of the broken windows. The glass is missing from the corner of the windows, as if someone threw rocks at them. Considering the stones littering the dirty floor, I believe that’s what happened.

  When I catch familiar blonde hair peeking out from the corner of my eye, I shift to see Charlie poking her head around the corner of the hallway I had yet to check.

  Relief floods me. “There you are!”

  Her lips waver. “Are CPS coming to get me now? I bet Connor ratted me out, right? He’s such a tattletale.”

  I don’t want to talk about Connor. “I didn’t call Child Protective Services, Charlie.”

  Those big green eyes I know she has widen. “Why not?”

  Walking over to her, I stop a few feet away. She wants space, so I’ll give her space. “I told you before, I want to make a difference. If I called them, what good would it have done? You’d be in trouble.”

  “But …”

  I wait, crossing my arms on my chest.

  “But I yelled at you,” she murmurs.

  I shrug it off, because there’s a lot worse she could have done. Some of the kids in class have files ten times thicker than mine, and while I didn’t read through them, I was warned of “violent tendencies” which made Melanie a little nervous to sign off on to the idea.

  But even she says everyone deserves a chance, and we seem to be the people willing to hand them out to the kids who need them most.

  Gesturing toward the door, I give her a reassuring smile. “Are you ready to head back? We’ll make it back in time before you’re picked up, so no need to worry.” I notice the dark dirt staining her jeans. “We’ll just say we played outside today.”

  When she smiles, I welcome the idea of having a new friend.

  A couple weeks following the double date with David, Emma, and Luke, I decided to reach out to David using the number he gave me. Emma told me after our last final that David couldn’t stop talking about me, and Luke even admitted that he hasn’t seen him like that before.

  So, I ask if he wants to see the studio.

  Melanie was teaching a class when he stopped by, so I gave him the tour. There’s not a lot to see because it’s a small building, but he seems to genuinely enjoy the art hanging on the walls from the kids. Although, I’m pretty sure he didn’t get what most of it was supposed to be.

  After the tour, we went out to the diner for an early dinner. Patty almost put in my usual when I opted to get a chicken parmesan sandwich instead. David teased me for coming here so often, and I blushed.

  That day at the diner, I learned a lot about him. He grew up as the youngest of two, with an older sister, and has very strict parents. While they don’t get his choice in careers, they support him and his endeavors to become a teacher. He doesn’t have a middle name or a favorite color, though he wears a lot of red, so I tell him that must be it. He goes with it, because he’s a nice guy.

  He found out that, outside of art, I enjoy reading. Mostly romance, but sometimes I’ll read non-fiction biographies about infamous criminals. He didn’t seem surprised when I told him I binge-watched all the Ted Bundy Confession Tapes on Netflix, or the original series the company has of true crimes.

  I bet Everett would be shocked over my obsession in television shows. Sure, violence terrifies me, but there’s something about the psyche that makes me want to know why people do bad things. I suppose getting in Ted Bundy’s mind isn’t a healthy choice, nor are the other criminals featured in the documentaries I watch, but it’s an interest I never had before—never thought I would. And change is good, it’s important.

  It’s why I keep hanging out with David. After the date at the studio and diner, it was a movie and ice cream a few days later. Turns out, we both love mint chocolate chip flavored anything.

  After the movie and ice cream was a walk in Fuller Park, where David didn’t once reach for my hand like I thought he would. I kept asking myself if I wanted him to and could never come up with a response before my emotions knotted and made it hard to think.

  Now we’re sitting in Underground East, one of Bridgeport’s fancier dining establishments. I’ve been here once or twice with the James’ for special occasions; Bridgette’s birthday and celebrating a deal at Robert’s company. Everett has asked me to eat here with him and Oliver before, but I never did.

  Part of me feels bad I agreed to come here, not because I don’t enjoy David’s company. It’s expensive, and I know he’s not making much more than I am right now, especially because his contract is up for the maternity leave he’s covering. I ordered the cheapest chef salad I could find, and it was still over ten dollars.

  Then again, it didn’t stop me from ordering dessert when he asked if I wanted anything else. I was still hungry after the sorry excuse of servings they offered me of lettuce and toppings, so I said yes.

  David leans over his carrot cake toward me, his eyes drifting off to the side. “Do you know that woman, River? I think she’s staring at you.”

  His gaze is pointed toward someone across the restaurant. Trying not to give myself away, I brush some hair behind my ear and glance in the same direction. There’s a woman who is looking this way, but she doesn’t look familiar. From this distance, it looks like she has dark brown hair, almost black. But she’s sitting in the shadows off to the side of the room, so besides her straight hair, I can’t tell much about her.

  Shaking my head, I focus back on my chocolate parfait. “I don’t think so. She must be looking at somebody else.”

  His brows pinch skeptically, because we’re the only ones in this section of the dining room. Piecing off another forkful of his cake, he tries redirecting the conversation. “So, would you be interested in attending an event with me next weekend? It’s sort of a family thing …”

  A family thing? Choking on my spoonful of sugary goodness, I pat my chest and take a sip of water. Is he asking me to meet his family, because that seems like a big deal?

  He must sense my anxiety. “It’s really not a huge thing. I mean, it’ll mostly be my cousins. My niece is having a party for her fifth birthday and they’re doing a potluck. Nothing fancy and there’s no pressure.”

  Except there is, because I remember what Oliver said about people meeting the family of someone they’re dating. And I don’t think I am dating David. I mean, he’s nice and we’ve hung out quite a bit in the past few weeks, but he hasn’t even really made a move besides a kiss on the cheek the night we strolled through the park. I didn’t mind that he never made a move, because I wasn’t ready. I figured that out just now from the pounding rhythm of my heart.

  Before I can answer him, the woman who was sitting across the room, steps up beside our table. Her hands fidget in front of her loose, stained black dress as her brown eyes focus on me. This close, I realize her hair is a dark shade of red, almost like mine but tinted with brown like it has been dyed a few times. Her skin is pale, maybe paler than my milky white, and
she looks nervous.

  “River? A-Are you River?” Her voice is a low, shaky tone, like she’s not sure she should be here.

  David’s eyes bounce between us in uncertainty, gauging my reaction to the stranger.

  Shifting back, I draw my hands to my lap, unsure of what to say. Obviously I’m River, but a stranger shouldn’t be coming up to me and asking.

  “River Jean Scott?”

  My body goes on high alert as the woman locks eyes with mine. The sharp breath I inhale burns, because I haven’t heard that name in ten years. When I was officially adopted, Jill told me I could take the James’s name if I wanted. It seemed like a perfect way to start over.

  “It’s me,” the woman moves closer. “It’s your mom. You’re real mom.”

  David’s eyes widen as he reaches over and places his hand on mine. I must be pale. No, ashen. Because standing in front of me is a ghost. Not a memory. Not a salvation. A person who has haunted me since I was old enough to understand what being a foster kid meant.

  David’s hand squeezing mine pulls me back to reality. “I-I don’t know who you’re talking about. I’m sorry, but we have to go.”

  David doesn’t argue as he pulls out his wallet and drops money onto the table. Going the long way around the chairs, I tuck myself behind him, so there’s no contact between me and this woman.

  My birth mother.

  She doesn’t have to tell me anything more, I know the truth. I see it in her straight, pointed nose and heart-shaped lips. The bottom one is fuller than the top, like mine. Her eyes are the same round shape and color; only her lashes look much darker and frame her eyes better. This woman is undoubtedly who she says she is.

  But that doesn’t mean I have to face her this way.

  “Can we go?” I whisper to David, wrapping my arm around his.

  He draws me in closer to his side, keeping me away from the woman as he walks us around her defeated form. “Of course.”

  Neither of us looks back.

  29