Come Break My Heart Again

by C. W. Farnsworth

  Paige's snort suggests she’s aware that by “maybe” I really mean “yes.”

  Chapter Six

  My parents aren’t the type to put on a show for others. They’re just as uptight and discerning during a typical Saturday breakfast as they are at an exclusive gala. Their poise is predictable. They’re not putting on an act for any of the four families we're hosting tonight.

  I am.

  Hosting a Sunday night family dinner for a few of Fernwood’s other top-tier residents is a tradition. It’s far outlasted my relationship with Liam, but it doesn’t feel that way. Tonight is the first time I’m attending the monthly dinner since he very publicly cheated on me, and I’m pretty sure the awkwardness at the “kids table” is not just in my imagination.

  Neither my father nor my mother was happy to hear about my split with Liam. The Hathaways are some of my parents’ oldest friends. Liam’s father works with mine. Beyond those entanglements, Liam is exactly the type of guy they want me to end up with. But even my parents aren’t oblivious to the fact high school relationships rarely last long beyond graduation—if that. I didn’t tell them he cheated on me, but the yearning glances my mother is sending our way may require me to. Especially since she chose to seat us right next to each other.

  Thankfully Paige and her parents are in attendance tonight as well. My best friend keeps the conversation lively and free from complete silence. I still grit my teeth when Liam’s arm brushes mine for the I’ve-lost-count-how-many-th time.

  Salad plates are finally cleared for the first course, and I risk a glance at the grandfather clock that’s the centerpiece of the dining room. Not even eight. Past dinners have lasted until ten. At least.

  “Homecoming planning going all right?” Liam asks me.

  “Yup.” I keep my response short.

  “You managed to get the country club?”

  “Uh-huh.” I didn’t think Liam was actually paying attention when I’d tell him about student council complications. At the time, I was annoyed he wasn’t. Now, I’m annoyed he was.

  “Have you heard back from any schools?”

  “Applications aren’t even due yet, Liam.” I point out.

  “We could still end up at the same place…” he cajoles.

  “Go to college wherever you’d like. Won’t make a difference to me. We’re done, Liam.” I inject as much finality as one can into a whisper.

  “I know I messed up, okay? The thing with Danielle was stupid. We lost again, and my dad—”

  “I don’t care, Liam. Honestly, we were over before you cheated.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Things hadn’t been good between us for a while. We were never the type of couple that lasts.”

  “We were exactly that type of couple,” Liam refutes. “We still can be.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  “Why not?” he challenges.

  “Because I don’t want to be, okay?”

  “This about trailer trash?”

  I look over at him for the first time, shocked he’s bringing up Ryder. “What? No.”

  Liam scoffs. “Like I didn’t see you two together at the pond.”

  “He helped me get on a tire swing. I don’t see what that has to do with our break-up.”

  “He lives in a trailer, Elle.”

  “I know where he lives,” I snap. “Maybe I’m not as shallow as you think.”

  Surprise and horror mingle in his expression. “Wait. You’re not actually…”

  “Elle? Could I get your help in the kitchen for a minute, please?”

  I’m not sure what my mother could possibly need help with, especially considering the fact she’s had no involvement in any aspect of preparing this dinner beyond picking the menu and paying the catering staff, but I don’t say that. I seize the chance to put some distance between me and Liam.

  “Sure.” I stand and follow my mother into the kitchen.

  She whirls on me as soon as we’re out of sight from the dining room. “What on earth is going on between you and Liam at the table? It looked like you were arguing. I thought you said you two are still friends.”

  “We were,” I stress. “He won’t stop badgering me about getting back together.”

  Delight replaces dismay. “Liam wants to get back together?”

  “Yes,” I confirm.

  “Eleanor, you should…”

  “We are not getting back together,” I state emphatically. “He cheated on me, Mom.”

  There’s a flash of understanding, but it edges away into acceptance. “People make mistakes, Eleanor. It’s a fact of life.”

  I’m horrified by her blasé response. “Not all mistakes should be forgiven.”

  “Liam’s a good person, Elle. Sometimes things just happen…”

  “Not sure how one just happens to end up in bed with another girl,” I retort. My mother is normally a moral epicenter. Her resignation regarding this topic makes me wonder about things I’ve never considered before, and never wanted to. Like whether she’s speaking from personal experience. “And what are you basing the fact he’s a good person on? His family’s net worth?”

  “Eleanor! That’s quite enough. The Hathaways are some of our closest friends.”

  “Because they’re rich, right?”

  “I know you’re upset, but that’s absolutely no excuse for this sort of behavior. You haven’t acted like this since you were a child.”

  If my mother’s hoping that reminder will correct my behavior, she’s dead wrong. “Then it’s about time I have a relapse, don’t you think?”

  “Eleanor Josephine Clarke! I don’t know what…”

  For the first time ever, I walk out of the room while my mother is still speaking, ducking through the doorway that leads to the front foyer.

  She follows. “Eleanor!” my mother hisses. “We have guests… we’re eating… what are you doing?” She’s discombobulated. Disbelieving. This isn’t how Eleanor Clarke is supposed to act.

  Right now, I don’t care. I need to get out of this house. Away from the stifling weight of predictability.

  “I’m going out.” I grab my keys from the glass bowl on the entryway table. “Tell everyone I’m sick. Burned myself baking dessert. Whatever you want.”

  I head out the front door before she can say another word. Not that she seemed capable of it. Pretty sure I just shocked my mother into silence. I can’t seem to care.

  Betty is boxed in between two cars, but I manage to maneuver out between them. Then, I’m faced with the dilemma of how to spend my newfound freedom. This was the furthest thing from a planned outing. I just start driving. I take a left. Two rights. Get on the highway. Get off. The lack of direction is gratifying. It’s also terrifying. I’m a planner. I follow a schedule. Always know what I’m supposed to do and when to do it. Aimlessly driving around doesn’t fit with any of that.

  I’m halfway to Boston—to do what, I don’t know—when I turn off the highway and head back toward Fernwood. I take the back roads, entering the town limits on the opposite edge of town where I live.

  A tired, rusty sign hangs just off the paved street, and I pull over impulsively, parking right beneath the sign reading Bob’s Garage. I climb out of my car just as a middle-aged man appears from behind one of the piles of car scraps I’m surrounded by. I squint to try and see his features in the light cast by the massive building I’m assuming is the garage. I’ve never seen him before.

  “Can I help you, miss? Car trouble?” he asks me, in a gruff, weathered tone.

  “No, the car’s fine. I’m here to see Ryder James. Is he here?” I reply.

  The man studies me for a minute, shoving the brim of his ratty ball cap upward so he can rub his forehead with a grease-smeared hand. Light blue eyes flick over me, the car to my left, the empty road to my right.

  “Bay six,” he finally says. “Last one.”

  “Thank you,” I reply earnestly, moving past him and walking toward the garage. One en
d of the structure looks like a storefront, with glass windows and a door that reads OFFICE. The rest of the building is separated by massive metal sliding doors, each with a number painted on it stretching upward several feet.

  By process of elimination, I quickly surmise three and six are the two doors open at the moment. Errant stones scatter as I stride across the pavement. I peek inside three as I pass it. The glaring lights are an assault to my eyes after the dark evening. There’s a shiny silver car raised on some sort of structure, but no person in sight.

  I keep walking.

  Four, five, six.

  I slow my steps when I reach the open garage door, then stop entirely when I spot Ryder. I lean against the edge of the opening, surveying him. He’s bending over the front end of the car, tinkering with something beneath the open hood. Wearing a white undershirt that doesn’t do anything to hide the movement of his muscles as they shift and tense while he works.

  This section is just as well-lit as bay three was, and I look away from Ryder to peer at shelves holding a wide array of items. Orange plastic bottles, metal spray cans, stained rags, disposable gloves, clear containers, drills, and a lot of twisted metal I’d guess are car parts but can’t even attempt to name. A radio croons in the background, spilling out lyrics to a leisurely country song that seems out of place under harsh artificial lights.

  Ryder turns to grab a wrench off the tray parked beside him, and my stealthy perusal is over.

  Wary, surprised eyes meet mine. “What are you doing here, Elle?”

  I shrug. “No idea,” I reply honestly.

  He studies me. “I’m working.”

  “I won’t bother you.” I take a few steps forward. Tentative ones, under Ryder’s watchful gaze. He doesn’t seem mad I’m here, but he’s definitely not happy about it. I make a show of glancing around the space I already scanned. “This is… cool.”

  He huffs out a laugh.

  “I mean it. I don’t know anything about cars.”

  “I know. You drive a convertible.”

  “What does that mean?” I cross my arms.

  “We don’t live in the south. Or California.”

  “Well aware.” I take a seat in the swivel chair to his right, making myself comfortable.

  Ryder’s eyes narrow. “What are you doing?”

  “Sitting.” I give him a saccharine smile.

  “Is there something wrong with your convertible? Did you crash it?”

  “I didn’t crash my convertible.” I roll my eyes. “My impractical car works perfectly fine, thank you very much. That’s not the reason why I’m here.”

  “That’s usually the only reason people visit the mechanic,” he replies.

  I don’t say anything, just start fiddling with the radio until I come across “Brown-Eyed Girl.”

  “This song makes me wish I had brown eyes,” I inform Ryder.

  His lips quirk. “Yours are fine.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I roll my eyes. “You used to be less stingy with compliments.”

  He eyes me, visibly cautious about my reference to our shared past. “I used to be a lot of things.”

  “Like…” I prompt.

  “Stupid things.”

  “And I fall into that category?”

  Ryder breaks my gaze, rattling some wrenches together and then turning to work on the car again. “You should go.”

  “I walked out of my parents’ dinner party. Not exactly eager to head back home.”

  “How come?”

  “Uh—they’ll be pissed?”

  There’s a flash of a grin. “No—why did you walk out?”

  “My mom was telling me to get back together with Liam.”

  “Hmmm,” Ryder hums. But for some reason I get the feeling he’s not as indifferent as he sounds.

  “I’m not going to,” I say unnecessarily.

  The only response is clinking metal as he continues to work on the car. “Hiding out isn’t very mature,” he finally replies.

  “Neither is fantasizing about pushing someone into a body of water,” I retort.

  Ryder grunts. “No one except for employees are supposed to be in the garage.”

  “Do you want me to beg for you to let me stay, or something? Because I will.”

  “Why did you come here, Elle?”

  “You mentioned a garage to your brother. I figured it had to be this place.”

  “You came here because you thought I would be.”

  It’s a statement, not a question. I answer it anyway. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  “Why?” he repeats, giving up any pretense of working on the car. Guess I lied when I said I wouldn’t bother him. He returns the wrench to the tray and wipes his hands with a rag as he studies me, waiting for a response.

  “It’s been weird ever since you came back. I’m different. You’re different. But we don’t feel different. I feel like it hasn’t been two years since the last time I saw you. Like I should still be meeting you at the treehouse after school or smiling at you in the halls. So… I left my parents’ party, drove around for a while, and then ended up here. Because I wanted to see you.”

  Ryder’s silent as he drops the rag back on the tray. Mad? Annoyed? Surprised? All of the above, probably.

  The song changes. Opening strains of Sixpence None the Richer’s “Kiss Me” float between us. I’ve heard this song dozens of times before, yet I suddenly know every time I hear it for the rest of my life I’ll think of this exact moment.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say, Elle.”

  “You could listen to the song,” I suggest.

  That gets his attention. Green eyes snap to mine. A glimmer of humor twitches on his lips. Then, shockingly, he straightens. Approaches me.

  I freeze. It was a joke. A deflection from my honesty. Not an opportunity I expected him to take advantage of.

  But he does. He hauls me to my feet and presses me against a red metal chest of drawers. And kisses me.

  Desperately.

  Urgently.

  His eagerness makes me feel less like a girl chasing the boy she can’t have. Less like a girl chasing the boy who doesn’t want her.

  The memory of our kiss in the treehouse was tarnished by the events that followed, but it didn’t affect my recollection of what it feels like to kiss Ryder James. I’m expecting it all this time: the heat, the excitement, the sensation of being aware of everything and nothing all at once.

  “Hey, Ry, we’re headed—”

  Ryder pulls back abruptly, but not before his friend Tommy gets an eyeful of what we were just doing, if his raised eyebrows are any indication.

  “Oh. Hello again, Elle,” Tommy says, as a smile starts to unfurl across his face.

  I risk a glance at Ryder. Impressively impassive.

  “Hi, Tommy.”

  “Mike and I are headed to Danielle’s,” Tommy tells Ryder. “You staying here?”

  There’s a pause. A long one. I look over at Ryder, and he’s already looking at me.

  “Yeah,” he replies finally. “I’m staying here.”

  “Oh-kay. Sorry for interrupting.” Tommy winks, then disappears.

  The radio’s changed again, now playing Oasis’s “Wonderwall.” Ryder flicks it off, then shuts the hood of the car he was working on.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Thought you just told Tommy you were staying?”

  “He was my ride.”

  “Does that mean you’re willing to be seen in a convertible?”

  Ryder scoffs. “Not planning on anyone seeing anything.”

  He starts toward the door, and I follow, watching as he flicks off all the lights and then hits a button that causes the heavy metal door to slide down into place with a clang. I stare at the number six for a moment before realizing Ryder has already started walking. I follow him on the same route I traversed solo earlier. All the doors are closed now, the office dark and silent.

>   “Do you normally work this late?” I ask.

  “If there’s work to be done,” Ryder replies, heading straight toward my car. It stands out like a shiny red apple in a sea of rusty scrap metal. He veers for the driver’s side, and I raise both eyebrows.

  “You’ve insulted my car multiple times, yet you think I’m going to let you drive it?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, I’m not,” I inform him.

  “Wanna bet?” He grins, and my heart sets off at a gallop.

  “Bet what?” I manage.

  “You tell me.”

  “I bet you won’t tell me what you said to Tommy about me.”

  “You’re perfectly imperfect.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what I told Tommy. Keys.”

  His tone is brusque. Business-like. Matter of fact. It catches me off guard. I expected him to waver or hedge around a half-assed response.

  I pull my car keys out of my pocket and toss them to Ryder. He settles in the driver’s seat, and I climb into the passenger side of my convertible for the first time.

  Perfectly imperfect. I wish I hadn’t asked him. Wish I’d kept wondering if he said I was hot or exasperating. Or that Tommy was teasing, and he really had simply said nice. Anything but those two words worming their way inside me with a warmth similar to that of a candle cocooned from the wind. Everyone else in Fernwood thinks I’m perfect. Ryder thinks I’m imperfectly so. I know which perception I prefer.

  Ryder turns the car back onto the road, and I steal glimpses of him out of the corner of my eye as he drives along, timing the glances to correlate with the streetlights we pass that illuminate his features. None of the confusion I’m grappling with is evident on his face.

  Is he clear on where we stand? Or does he just not care?

  He takes the turn that leads to the trailer park, and I swallow a sigh. I was hoping he’d drive to the field.

  The trailer park doesn’t look quite as wretched this trip. Nightfall blankets the rougher edges. The darkness hides overgrown yards and missing stairs. Lit windows are all that shine through the absolute black that cloaks everything else, appearing more cozy than crestfallen.