Come Break My Heart Again: A Second Chance Romance

Chapter 1

Bright rays of sunshine stream in through the windshield. Warm air flies in through the open window, whipping strands of brown hair across my face. They get caught in my sunglasses and stuck to my lips, but I don’t roll the car window up or use the elastic on my wrist. I press the gas pedal down harder, watching the speed tick higher and enjoying the small burst of adrenaline that accompanies the thrill of going too fast.

It’s a perfect spring day, the sort that makes hope blossom in your chest, no matter what mood you happen to be in. The sun shines down, blinding and relentless, not a single fluffy white cloud visible in the sky. The air tastes fresh, like it was in hibernation all winter and has returned rejuvenated.

I flick the right blinker and tap on the brakes, spinning the wheel slightly as I coast off the interstate’s exit ramp. A pile of road salt sits on the corner next to the stop sign that marks the start of the intersection, the gray a few shades lighter than the asphalt. It was a long, harsh winter, today’s temperature tropical by comparison.

Lana’s distinctive voice is easier to hear now that I’m off the highway, the bittersweet lyrics and ethereal melody my favorite song on the playlist Juliet calls my “sad girl music.” She asked me to send it to her once, in college, after a breakup.

I doubt she’s listened to it since. Because that’s what normal people do. They heal from heartbreak and move on.

Another left, then a right.

The wheel turns without me even having to think about it. This route is so familiar; I could drive it blindfolded.

I wish it were foreign.

I wish I’d been brave enough to turn my back on this town.

I wish I were normal.

Home is such a strange concept when you think about it. How we assign importance to one place based on familiarity or its proximity to certain people. How our perception of it shifts as we grow older. How it doesn’t.

The trailer park isn’t a prettier sight in the sunshine. It sits like that heap of salt—bland yet obvious. Unchanged by shifting surroundings. The brightness beaming from the sky casts a harsher spotlight on the general state of disrepair.

Five years ago, the dirt road was paved. Since then, there’s been little, if any, maintenance to the asphalt. The suspension bounces with each pothole I hit. They’re impossible to avoid, more crevices than smooth and flat surface.

I park alongside the second-to-last trailer, right next to the tiny porch that is barely big enough for two people to stand on. Grab the orange box off the passenger seat and climb out of my car.

“Must be the second Saturday.”

My fingers comb the tangles away from my face until my eyesight is cleared. Mrs. Nelson is reclined in her beach chair. It’s the first appearance the striped mesh seat has made this year. My last visit was in March, and a thick layer of snow covered the ground that was mostly grass worn down to its roots.

“Nice to see you, Mrs. Nelson,” I tell the broad brim of her straw hat.

She’s never shared her first name with me in the years I’ve been coming here. She’s also never asked me why I continue to show up here each month, an unexpected kindness from the woman who appears unbothered by her busybody moniker.

“You’re more reliable than my calendar, dear,” she comments, tilting her head back so I can see more of her wrinkled face. Her eyes are shaded by huge sunglasses shaped like daisies.

My lips curve at the cheerful sight, the first upturn that hasn’t felt forced all day. I dread these trips as much as I look forward to them. As much as I need them.

“Bella bought them for me,” Mrs. Nelson explains, noticing my amusement. “I don’t know where she gets her absurd fashion taste.” She sighs, then sips from the glass in her hand. Judging from the strong smell emanating, I don’t think it’s water.

I have a good idea where Mrs. Nelson’s granddaughter inherited her flair for flashy accessories, like flower sunglasses—today’s outfit a prime example: neon-pink capris, paired with a flowing turquoise top—but I don’t say so.

“I like them.”

Mrs. Nelson sniffs. “I’ll tell Bella.” She glances at the trailer looming behind me, nearly identical to her own. “Nina’s been waiting for you. Curtains keep twitching.”

“There was some traffic.”

There wasn’t. The freeway was wide open. I’d tossed and turned most of the night, anxious about today, then overslept because I don’t normally set an alarm on Saturdays.

“What’s in the box?”

“A gift,” I answer.

Mrs. Nelson shakes her head, the motion making her straw hat wobble. “You’re a sweet girl.”

I’m a selfish girl.

I come here to check on Nina because I care about her. But these visits are for me. Because not coming would be far more painful than showing up has ever felt.

This time, my smile is forced. “Enjoy the sunshine, Mrs. Nelson.”

“Oh, I plan to.” She takes another gulp from her glass.

I head for the steps, the two wooden stairs creaking under my weight as I approach the front door.

Nina appears a second after I knock, a few flecks of white paint falling as the door swings wide open.

We don’t hug. She doesn’t even smile.

“Nice day,” Nina comments, stepping closer to the door so I can squeeze past her and enter the small kitchen.

“It is,” I agree, walking straight toward the square table tucked along the wall and attempting to ignore the heaviness expanding in my chest as the first wave of bittersweet nostalgia hits.

Memories.

Mistakes.

Magic.

He’s more than a ghost here, which is exactly why I drive all this way. It’s the place I feel most sane, surrounded by proof he existed.

It hurts to remember.

Forgetting is even more painful. Pain is more manageable when you know the source.

My steps to the chair facing the fridge are automatic. Nina’s memorized the same routine, taking her usual seat directly across from me. The scarred surface of the wooden table is empty, aside from a teapot and two cups. A glass jam jar, decorated with a couple of stubborn remnants of paper label, holds some yellow flowers. Goldenrods, just like the ones lining the road to town. Another squeeze in my chest as I picture Nina picking the blossoms to brighten up the small space. She cleaned recently, the distinctive scent of citrus cleaner mixing with the floral fragrance in the air.

Nina pours the steaming tea, pushing one of the cups toward me.

“Thank you.” I lift the box from my lap, set it on the table, and slide it her way. “For you.”

“There’s nothing I need,” Nina mutters.

She offers some form of protest each time I bring her something, which is every visit. No matter what she says, I know she appreciates the gifts. I gave her the tea set we’re using right now, and she goes through the bags too quickly to only use it when I’m here. The candle I brought back in November is nearly gone. One of the juice glasses, painted with oranges—a present from a couple of years ago—sits, dripping, in the drain rack.

Nina’s opening the box, smoothing a palm across the patterned silk scarf once the tissue paper parts.

“Just a fun pop of color to add to an outfit,” I say. “Wear it to work maybe.”

“They’ll think I robbed the place.” Nina is still stroking the silk. “Can’t afford this on a cashier’s salary.”

Nina’s cycled through many jobs over the years. Her current position is working as a cashier at a grocery store one town over. She says she enjoys it, but I doubt she’d tell me if she didn’t.

“It was on sale,” I lie. “I got a great deal.”

Nina glances up. The dark circles under her eyes are less noticeable, the sunshine beaming through the window casting her expression in a warm golden glow. “You do too much, Elle.”

I shake my head. “I was out shopping already.”

“I meant driving all this way.”

“I don’t mind the drive. It’s nice to get out of the city sometimes, especially on such a beautiful day.”

“Today must be a hard visit.”

I take a long sip of tea—jasmine, my favorite flavor—before glancing up and meeting Nina’s gray gaze.

Her eyes are the exact same shade as his.

Mysterious and moody.

They can shift from soft to stormy in a second. They act oblivious but see too much. They draw you in, even when you know you should keep your distance.

I nod instead of responding, knowing she won’t press for more of a reply. We have good boundaries, Nina and I. We know what to share. What’s best left unsaid.

“It gets easier,” Nina says softly.

I rub a finger against the smooth china side of the teacup. “I know.”

Different wounds heal in different ways. It depends on the type of loss. Death and distance aren’t the same heartbreak.

And I would know.

I’ve experienced both.

I stop at Fernwood’s only grocery store, Provisions, on the way to my parents’. It’s busy, which I should have foreseen. Nearly noon on a sunny Saturday is prime time for all ages to be out and about. There are families shopping with young children, retired couples, teenagers hanging out with friends. I spent most of the walk toward the back of the store observing that last group, experiencing a strong mix of nostalgia and bitterness.

I remember that age. Remember thinking that adulthood would be easier. Exciting.

What a lie.

I manage to make it to the rear of the store—to the floral section, my destination—without running into anyone I know. Unfortunately, that’s as far as I get.

“Oh, Elle! So nice to see you. How are you doing, dear?”

I swallow the sigh that wants to escape and turn to face a friend of my mother’s. “Fine, thanks. Nice to see you, Mrs. Williamson.”

“Marie, please, honey. Are you home visiting your parents?”

I nod, the motion stiff. She doesn’t remember the date despite claiming to be a close confidant of my mom’s. It’s demoralizing to realize how well my fakeness fits in here. How easily it seems like no time has passed at all and nothing has changed.

Mrs. Williamson doesn’t notice the tension humming through my stiff posture. “What a wonderful daughter you are. I hardly get to see Fleur these days. She works at the most charming little art gallery in New York. I must admit, I don’t really understand most of what they display …”

The little attention I was paying Mrs. Williamson fades when I spot Archer Hathaway approaching the buckets of tulips. He hasn’t seen me yet, so I don’t avert my gaze right away. His dark blond hair is shorter than it was in high school, neatly trimmed and combed. He gave up on ever growing a beard, I guess, because his jaw is clean-shaven. Unsurprisingly, he’s dressed in the preppiest outfit possible—pressed khaki pants, boat shoes, and a polo shirt. He’s either headed to the country club to play golf or coming from there.

“Elle? Elle?”

I refocus on Mrs. Williamson. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

Archer has seen me.

My cheek tingles with uncomfortable awareness as Mrs. Williamson says, “I was asking you about law school. You’re close to graduating, right?”

“Yes,” I say. “Next month.”

“How exciting! Your mother told me you were already hired at one of Boston’s top firms. Hardly a surprise, of course, but still very impressive. Congratulations.”

My cheek muscles are rigid as I shape my expression into something I hope looks modest and appreciative. “Yes, it is exciting. Thank you.”

“Well, I should go find Edward. I’m sure he’s still wandering around, looking for the cheese that I asked for. Give my best to your parents.”

I keep my smile fixed in place. “I will.”

Mrs. Williamson nods and spins. She glimpses Archer halfway to the aisle, her steps stuttering as she quickly glances between us. No doubt debating turning around so she can witness this encounter firsthand. There’s nothing Fernwood loves more than a juicy piece of gossip. But basic decorum wins out, and she continues down the cereal aisle to find her husband.

“Hi, Elle.” Archer takes one step closer, still leaving a gulf between us. A beautiful bunch of red tulips are clutched in his left hand, one of Provisions’ wicker shopping baskets held in his right one.

“Hi.” My tone is flat as I stare at his wedding ring. The gold band is impossible to miss against the backdrop of bright green stems.

I knew Archer got married last summer. My parents attended the wedding even though it wasn’t a celebratory event for them. More of a wake—the death of their dream of me becoming a Hathaway. As if that outcome hadn’t been determined a long time ago.

“How have you been?” he asks.

I’m still staring at his wedding ring, incredibly irritated by the shiny, obvious sight. Even Archer fucking Hathaway got his happy ending. I’m bitter enough to resent him for it.

“I’m great.” I force yet another smile, certain he can tell that it’s fake.

“I was eavesdropping. Big, fancy job all lined up. I’m not surprised.”

“Me neither,” I reply.

That’s what happens when you follow all the rules—you end up exactly where everyone expected you would.

Archer nods, one corner of his mouth lifting an inch. “Wouldn’t want my lawyer to go up against you.”

“Then be careful who Daddy insures.”

Archer glances down, any lightness in his expression bleeding away. “I’m sorry, Elle. Truly. If I could go back and?—”

“You can’t.” I inject steel into the two words.

My life is already plagued by plenty of what-ifs. I don’t need to pile Archer’s regrets on top of my own.

“I know,” he says. “I just wanted to make sure you … knew that.”

“Yeah, got it. Thanks.” I look away purposefully, hoping he’ll get the strong hint I’m finished with this conversation and keep walking.

“They don’t have any roses.”

I say nothing, running my tongue along the backs of my teeth as I continue to stare at the metal buckets filled with flowers and pretend he’s not here.

“That’s why you’re in town, right?”

I don’t like that Archer remembers anything about me. Even if his recollection of the anniversary of Rose’s death is only because our mothers are best friends and not as my ex-boyfriend.

My mouth stays stubbornly shut. I’m done socializing, and I don’t owe him any explanations about where I go or why.

Archer exhales, realizing the same. He rubs his jaw once, pulling the skin taut over his cheek and drawing my attention to the thin white line there. The sight of the scar stings. I don’t like this serious, somber, remorseful version of him. I prefer him as a smug prick who’s neither agreeable nor apologetic.

“I hope you’re happy, Elle,” he tells me quietly, then walks away.

I stare after his retreating back, my teeth clenching the inside of my cheek hard enough that I taste the metallic tang of blood.

I haven’t been happy since I was seventeen.

That’s not entirely Archer’s fault. But I blame him.

Partly because he bears some responsibility.

And mostly because Ryder isn’t here to blame instead.

A terse, “You’re late,” is my mother’s heartfelt greeting when I arrive at my childhood home.

I slam my car door closed. Gravel crunches beneath my shoes as I walk toward my father’s car. It’s parked just past the front door, around the curve that surrounds the stone fountain. I can see his tall profile through the tinted window, waiting in the driver’s seat. Impatiently, I’m sure. He usually spends Saturdays at the golf course with Mr. Hathaway and the rest of his friends. Once this unpleasant outing is over, I’m sure the country club will be his next stop.

My mom climbs into the passenger seat without waiting for a response.

I slide into the back seat. “Sorry. Bad traffic. Hi, Dad.”

“Hello, Elodie.”

My mom clicks her tongue as she buckles her seat belt. “You should have left earlier.”

“Sorry,” I repeat.

I don’t defend my excuse. She’d be more understanding if I mentioned I ran into Mrs. Williamson and Archer at the market. She’d get more annoyed if I mentioned the cemetery is only ten minutes away and open until sunset, so there’s not exactly a strict deadline regarding our departure time.

Instead of saying anything at all, I stare out the window at the passing houses of the neighborhood I grew up in. The stately homes look larger than I remember, like my perspective has shrunk—instead of grown—as I’ve gotten older. The thought is depressing, almost as crushing as the omnipresent silence sitting in the car like a fourth presence.

It’s so quiet that I can hear the steady hum of the engine and the soft hiss of air-conditioning blowing out of the vents. It can’t be more than sixty-five degrees out. But that’s my parents—cold and impractical.

I rub my arms in an attempt to combat the bumps rising, the rasp of skin against skin audible in the silent car.

The cemetery where my sister is buried is small, the gravel road to reach the rows of graves narrow. A silver Jaguar partially blocks the thoroughfare; my father’s annoyed huffs as he maneuvers around the sedan the only commentary, aside from the car’s noises.

My palms dampen with sweat as we draw closer to the massive oak tree that marks the prime plot my parents paid an outrageous amount of money for. The wet stems of the tulips I’m holding don’t provide any absorbance.

This annual visit—on the anniversary of her death—is the only time I visit Rose’s grave.

I wish I wanted to come here more often. Wish I felt like there was something here, aside from stone and sorrow.

I was twelve when my older sister died. I’m twenty-five now. More than half my life, I’ve felt like an only child. My most vivid memories of Rose are these annual visits to the hunk of rock that marks her final resting place with my parents.

The walk to Rose’s grave is short and as silent as the car ride. Between us at least. A few birds chirp overhead. It sounds like they’re celebrating the weather, and I wish such a beautiful day hadn’t dawned on this particular date. Today has always felt like an anniversary more fitting for heavy rain. It poured the day of her funeral.

We stand as a somber trio, me between my parents, all staring at Rose’s grave. The gray surface is flawless, unmarred by time or the elements. Polished to a sheen resembling glass. Sunshine glints off the smooth stone, making me squint behind the shield of my sunglasses. I crouch down to set the bundled tulips on the grass that’s growing green again, brushing my fingers against the carved letters that spell out Rose’s full name. Beloved Daughter and Sister is written below the dates of her birth and death. I linger on the last word, then let my hand drop and stand.

“Pretty tulips,” my mom says.

The pink flowers are a vibrant spot on the ground against the green and gray of grass and graves.

“They didn’t have any roses,” I reply softly.

Most days, my mom would take that as an opening for criticism. Ask me how many stores I stopped at. Mention that many flower shops allow you to place orders ahead of time, that it just requires minimal planning in advance. Frances Clarke has a gift for finding criticism in any situation.

Today, all she says is, “The thought is what counts.”

We’re very different, my mother and I. She and Rose were similar, both effortlessly poised and endlessly critical.

I’m not much like my dad either.

I’m some strange combination of my parents, which means neither understands me. I have my dad’s drive, but not his detachment. My mom’s charm, but not her composure.

The invisible barrier that often separates us is thinner here. There’s no mystery behind my father’s stoicism or my mother’s lack of judgment.

They’re grieving. They lost a child, suddenly and senselessly.

And if there’s one thing I understand, it’s sudden and senseless loss.