My Foolish Heart

by Susan May Warren

  Then you really are Miss Foolish Heart. Oh, he was a jerk. He’d just been so . . . frustrated. And yes, angry.

  Perhaps he had only been seeing his scars. Because he couldn’t get past the dark fear inside that he didn’t measure up to Issy’s top ten. That he simply was too . . . damaged.

  Okay, a guy could be at least as resourceful as his dog. Caleb moved around the back and through the gate. He climbed the porch stairs and, finding the kitchen door locked, called out, “Issy, I’m coming through the door.”

  Nothing but the sound of crashing, thumping. “Are you okay in there?”

  He debated a long moment, then pushed the cardboard from the frame enough to reach inside and unlock the door. Good thing he hadn’t received that pane of glass yet.

  Issy sat on the kitchen floor, surrounded by books, most of them upturned and open. She looked at him. “I can’t find it.”

  Then, before he could sit down next to her, she got up and backed away, her face crumbling. “I can’t find it.”

  “Issy, listen, we’ll find your dad’s playbook. I’m sure it’s around here.”

  But she just kept shaking her head. “I . . .” She turned and disappeared around the stairs before he could navigate the minefield of litter on the kitchen floor.

  “It’s going to be okay.”

  He heard thumping in the other room, and by the time he got there, she’d dumped out the contents of the bookshelf.

  “Where is it?” Her voice had a wild edge to it.

  “Issy, breathe. Just . . . stop. It’s going to be okay.”

  “It’s gone, Caleb. It’s gone.” Her voice turned whisper thin. “He’s gone.”

  “He’s not gone. I’m sorry for what I said.”

  When she reached out for the piano, she missed and collapsed onto the floor. Moving back between the bench and the wall, she drew her feet close. Clasped her arms around her legs. Put her face against her knees.

  He dropped the crutches on the floor and hopped over to her.

  She looked up at him, and her mouth opened as if seeing him for the first time. Her gaze went to his leg, to his crutches.

  He tried not to let the horror in her face take him apart, tried to steel himself for the blade that went through him, but it still made him wince. “Yes, I lost my leg. Just like I told you.”

  “BoyNextDoor told me.”

  “I told you, Miss Foolish Heart. I didn’t know it was you at the time. But I was going to tell you. I wanted you to know.”

  She pressed her hands again to her mouth, closed her eyes. Her shoulders shook.

  “It’s just a leg.” He used the bench to brace himself as he lowered himself to the floor. Then he reached out and touched her cheek, running his thumb across it. “I’m still alive. That’s the part that took me a while to get my brain around. I’m still alive. And living life as wholly as I can.”

  She opened her eyes, an ache in them. “You’re more whole than anyone I’ve ever met. You were so kind to me, even when I ran from you. You have no business with someone like me. I was horrible to you . . . and I’m so sorry, Caleb.”

  “Of course I forgive you, Issy. But you have to know I wasn’t trying to deceive you. It’s just that . . . you’re so hard to get to know, and I loved being the guy you shared your thoughts with at the end of the day. And I’m not going to lie and tell you that it didn’t feel good to have you pay attention to me, to see me beyond my scars. I thought that maybe if you got to know me on the radio, it might be easier to—” he took a breath—“to love me in person.”

  He swallowed, letting that word hang there.

  She looked at him then, her expression stripped, and all he could think to do was pull her into his embrace, right there under the piano. “I’m not going to let you go, Issy. Not when I just found you. I might have needed a little help getting started, but everything after the spaghetti was all me. I meant everything I told Miss Foolish Heart about you. Everything I told you.”

  He pressed his lips against her hair, loving the smell of her, the lingering scent of her garden, the perfume she used. And she fit perfectly, right there in his arms.

  Filling in all the blank places of his life.

  She let out a trembling breath, and something inside him gave way when she grabbed his shirt, fisted it. “Don’t go anywhere, Caleb. Please, hold on to me.”

  Attagirl.

  She looked at his leg. “Does it . . . does it hurt?”

  “Sometimes. When I’m standing for a long time or often at the end of practice. And I can easily wrench my knee if I’m not careful.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He drew in his breath. “Issy—you swear you didn’t know it was me? BoyNextDoor? I mean, I didn’t think so, but how could you not know? I did everything you told me to.”

  “I . . .” Her voice caught. “I didn’t know. A couple times, I thought your voice sounded familiar, but . . . no.” Her eyes softened. “But I wanted it to be.”

  He ran his hand down her face. “When I found out it was you, I didn’t want to mess it up. I’d given away some big pieces of myself to Miss Foolish Heart, and I felt foolish too. But it was worth it if you would let me into your world.” He couldn’t look at her then, but she found his eyes.

  “I know. I loved those parts you gave to me, loved seeing inside your heart. And that’s probably why I had such a horrible crush on BoyNextDoor. Here I’d been on the air for two years and never once developed feelings for a caller. Then suddenly, I was thinking about your voice, checking the forum to see if you appeared. And then, when you—Caleb—started . . . invading my life—”

  “Hey, you were the one who came over and barged into my life—”

  “Your dog invaded mine first!”

  “He’s not my dog, by the way.”

  She stared at him. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “But that first day, when I—”

  “Nearly bit my head off, blaming me for my terrible beast? Yeah, well, you scared me a little. I didn’t want you mad at me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I just have to know—how did you start this radio show if you’d never had a date?”

  “Oh, it happened a couple months after my parents’ accident. I called in to a radio station to make a comment about a community discussion and I quoted Jane Eyre. The station’s manager happened to be a friend of my father’s, so he asked me to host a book club from my home. It started as a book club for romantics, and he posted it online as a podcast. My producer, Elliot, heard it and turned it into My Foolish Heart. I took it online not long after and . . . well, apparently it’s a hit.”

  “You were invited to a wedding in Napa for Lauren O’Grady.”

  Her face fell. “Which, of course, I did a great job of destroying. But even if she hadn’t called it off, I couldn’t really go.”

  He ran his thumb down her cheek. “Someday, maybe.”

  She let her breath shudder out like the last shiver of a tree after a rain. “It’s funny—ever since that attack in the grocery store, I hardly had a moment’s hesitation about going over to your house or letting you into mine. Meeting you was a sort of breakthrough for me.”

  “I’m so glad I can infuriate you into healing. I have a feeling I’ll be rather good at that.”

  She wore a small grin. “By the way, yes, I have feelings for you.”

  “You have feelings for me?”

  “I’m sitting here under my piano with you.”

  “That’s significant?”

  “It’s . . . my safe place. My mother used to play the piano, and I’d climb under here while she played and listen. I can imagine her alive, here. Being here . . . it keeps my world together.”

  “I heard she died in your arms.”

  She nodded. “We’d just had tense words, too, about my leaving. I was in town for homecoming, but I wanted to leave on Sunday morning. She’d wanted me to wait until after church. We fought and finally decided to go out for d
inner Saturday night. It was raining, and the semi skidded through the light.” She sighed. “I still can’t figure out why I was in such a hurry to leave.”

  “I’m so sorry, Issy.”

  She leaned her head against his chest.

  “Thank you for letting me under your piano.”

  “Thank you for breaking in to my house.”

  “Sorry about your door.”

  “I think maybe I shouldn’t bother with glass.”

  She looked at him, and he caught her face in the cradle of his hand.

  “Issy, you are so beautiful.” He leaned forward, stopping himself a breath from her lips. “Can I . . . ?”

  She kissed him. Just leaned up and pressed her lips to his, sweet and full on the mouth. Issy Presley, Miss Foolish Heart, kissing him. She made a little sound in the back of her throat, and he wrapped his arm around her neck and moved into the kiss.

  Issy. I have feelings for you, too.

  She broke away, took a breath. “Wow, I break my rules fast with you, BoyNextDoor.”

  “What rules?”

  “No kissing on the first date.”

  “Well, we already kissed. Besides, this isn’t actually a date. It’s more of a rescue mission.”

  She held a finger against his lips. “Then there’s ‘No dreaming up a future on the second date.’”

  “Are you dreaming up a future with me, Miss Foolish Heart?”

  “Then there’s most definitely ‘No saying the love word until you’re absolutely, positively sure—’”

  “Are you in love with me, Isadora?”

  “Well, you are pretty easy to love, Caleb. Online . . . and off.”

  His eyes filled. He looked away, and she kissed him on his neck. His devastated skin.

  They sat there in quiet, listening to the thunder begin to rumble outside, the faintest tapping on the house.

  “Are you ready to leave the piano yet?”

  “Why, don’t you like it under the piano?”

  “Actually, I think I’ve found exactly where I belong.”

  19

  The seagulls called from the shore as Seb chased his shadow into town after running out to Kadunce River. The cool breath off the lake dried the sweat from his brow, his back, and the sweet scent of pine called him home.

  Oh, God, let me win.

  He didn’t know how else to say it. Could he live in Deep Haven if he wasn’t coaching?

  He climbed the deck and opened the door to the mobile home. It squealed, and at the noise, his father turned away from the stove.

  Seb stood on the small patch of linoleum that served as an entryway and stared at him. “What are you doing?”

  The man wore a pair of jeans so saggy on him he might not have bones beneath them, and a blue T-shirt with Deep Haven Fire Department embroidered by the pocket. He had shaved, his eyes clearer than Seb remembered. He’d even . . . showered?

  “Making eggs.”

  “Making eggs?”

  His father turned again, this time with the pan in hand. “I always make you eggs before your games.”

  Did he? But even as his father walked over to the tiny Formica table, the memory rose, vivid and sharp and burning his eyes. Yes, he had. Even when they went uneaten.

  His father slid a couple eggs, over easy, onto a plate. “You still like yours with the runny yolk?”

  Seb nodded.

  “Well, sit down, kid. You need your energy.” He plated two more eggs for himself, then set the pan back on the stove.

  “Dad, I—”

  “Sit down, please.”

  He didn’t really need a shower, not yet. “Okay.” Seb pulled out a chair. His father poured him a glass of—milk? “Did you go shopping?”

  “Got paid.”

  “You have a job?”

  His father didn’t look at him as he cut his eggs. “Cleaning the fire station.”

  Seb looked away, blinking.

  “I’m coming to the game, if that’s okay.”

  He picked up his fork. “You’re coming?”

  “Of course. I love watching my boy play ball.” His father gave a sort of half smile. “Out there you were bigger than what I gave you. Not a quitter like your old man.”

  “Dad . . .”

  “No. Listen to me.” He put his fork down. “You got something special in you, Son. A magic that can make people listen to you, make them want to play for you. The Sebanator.”

  “You knew about that?”

  “I chanted it with the crowd.” His smile fell. “I went to every game, Seb. You probably didn’t know that. And that last couple years when everything fell apart, you probably didn’t want to know it. I know I hurt you and especially your mother. Even when I couldn’t tell you, I was so proud of you.”

  Seb stared at the runny eggs, the yolk now bleeding into the plate. “I did quit, though, Dad. I quit the Cyclones.”

  His father shoveled a bit of egg into his mouth. “But you got back up. And you kept going. And you came back to Deep Haven.”

  “What if . . . ?” Seb’s throat tightened. “What if I’m not cut out to coach?”

  His father considered him a moment. “Then you find something you’re good at, kid. You just keep trying. It doesn’t matter what you do, just that you do it with heart—isn’t that what Coach Presley always said?” He looked down, away from Seb. “At least, that’s what he kept saying to me all those years ago. I just wish I’d believed it sooner.”

  Coach had talked to his father? He shouldn’t be surprised, perhaps.

  His father drew in a breath, looked up, smiled. “Be a better man than I was.”

  Seb had no words. Instead, he reached for his milk. Smelled it. Yes, his old man had gone shopping. “You promise to keep making me eggs?”

  A chuckle, something deep and fresh. “Deal.”

  The conversation clung to Seb all day, even as he went to the school, stood in the field, played the game in his head. Overhead the clouds hung low, bleaching color from the sky, and over the piney hills, thunderheads gathered. The wind carried the smell of rain.

  Seb finally climbed into the bleachers, sat on the fifty-yard line.

  He heard the verse from last night again. “I will give you a new heart, and I will put a new spirit in you. I will take out your stony, stubborn heart and give you a tender, responsive heart.”

  He contemplated that stony heart, the miracle of a new one in his chest. Once upon a time, on this field, he’d lived for the cheers of others instead of the cheers of God.

  Seb drew in a breath. Not anymore. He didn’t want to worship at the altar of the Sebanator any longer. He wanted a new heart, a heart free of the filth—the mistakes, the failures, the selfishness of his past. A heart that understood and drank in grace.

  “God, this game is Yours, whatever You have planned. Make me a man built for others. A man built . . . for You.”

  He lifted his face skyward, closing his eyes as the first drops of rain began to fall, splashing like tears over his face.

  * * *

  It felt like a game day. Issy woke with a soft hum under her skin, and when she turned on her radio, Ernie had already started taking callers at the local station, waging war on the airwaves over who would walk away with the win.

  The Brewsters against the Knights, and the town picked Brewster on top by two touchdowns. But they didn’t know Caleb like she did.

  Didn’t know that they had a coach who’d forgotten how to quit.

  “Can I touch your leg?” she’d asked when they finally climbed out of the shadow of the piano and he let her see his wounds.

  Amazing how the skin on his stump so neatly folded over itself, the reconstructive surgeons bending his flesh over, almost like an envelope. Four inches remained of his tibia, enough to create a solid residual for his prosthesis. The extra length gave him more motor control and balance, “and when I wear my athletic prosthesis, I’m still fast. I probably could beat you around the block.”

  And yes, h
e’d let her touch his leg and met her eyes when she looked at him. Clear and solid, they reached inside and told her the truth.

  She could beat this fear. She could beat it because he was right—God did not give her a spirit of fear, but of power and love. And He’d reminded her of it by having the last person she thought she could ever love move in next door and invade her life.

  Her perfect world . . . with the perfect romance.

  “I’d love for you to go to the game,” Caleb had said as he left last night, a new moon hidden behind storm clouds, a turbid breath in the air.

  Her father would have loved it. Something about playing in the rain stirred his competitive edge, although Issy never understood it. Rain made her want to shut herself in her room.

  But maybe that was starting to change. “I would love to go,” she’d said last night. “But . . .”

  Caleb had cupped his hand to her cheek and run his thumb across her lips. “I know.” Then he’d kissed her again, and with everything inside her, she’d longed to see him on the field.

  Even now, as she turned up the radio for the kickoff, she could see him, wearing the blue Huskies jacket he’d purchased at the Ben Franklin, his red cap. For the occasion, she’d dug out her mother’s foam finger, the Huskies stadium blanket, the bleacher cushion, and even her father’s old megaphone. She’d set up camp in the family room, with Duncan wearing a Huskies bandanna.

  She could see the game in her mind. The three sections of bleachers crammed with familiar faces—Jerry and the staff of the paper, of course, with Brian down on the field, taking shots. And Nancy from the diner, Anthony from the hotel, probably having dragged along a few guests for the hometown showdown. Nothing like small-town football to attract tourists. Nelda and the booster club on the top rows, their own foam fingers affixed, wrapped in blankets.

  The blue and white scrimmage had always rounded up the town for the start of the season. Issy guessed, from the buzz she’d heard on the local radio station and from Lucy, that the stands might even be full.

  In the announcers’ box, Ernie and Wade would be waving to the crowd, cracking jokes, reading off advertisements from the hardware store, Pierre’s Pizza, the bait shop.

  If it were a real game, not a scrimmage, the pep band would be warming up with something cheerful—“Go Big Blue!”—the band wannabes with their horns and cowbells manning the rail.