Page 89 of The Heartbreakers
I sighed. Of course I missed Oliver. It was impossible not to. As hard as I tried to block him from my mind, he kept slipping in through windows and cracks. The cycle was vicious. I’d go a few days without thinking about him, but then I’d see the Heartbreakers posters in Cara’s room or hear one of their songs on the radio, and then all the memories and feelings I was keeping at bay would surge into me like I’d been plugged into an outlet.
There were so many things I missed about him, like his easy smile and how he ran his fingers through my hair. Most of all, I missed how being around him turned me into someone new, someone who was strong and confident and ready to take on the world. I was still that person now, but there was no doubt in my mind that if it weren’t for Oliver Perry and the Heartbreakers, my new self would still be trapped inside the older, scared version of me.
Minutes of silence lapsed before I could turn back around and face Cara. “Yes,” I finally said when our eyes met. “I miss him more than I should.”
“More than you should? What do you mean?”
“That moving on is hard.”
Cara was slow to answer, and she sat for a long while considering my response. “Did you ever consider,” she said hesitantly, “that you can’t move on because it’s the wrong thing to do?”
I sighed. “It would be nice to think so, but trust me, I’m doing the right thing.”
“How can you know that?”
For the past four years, I’d been preparing for my heart to be broken. I knew that Cara’s chance of survival was just as great as her chance of dying, and that was something I’d privately acknowledged but never spoken of. There was nothing I could have done to prepare for Oliver though—I never saw him coming.
When I’d been left heartbroken by him instead of my sister, the surprise was so crippling that I wasstilltrying to pick up my shattered pieces. Yes, I’d forgiven Oliver. But was I willing to hand back over my heart when there were still a few cracks left to be sealed? Not a chance in the world.
“Because he hurt me, Cara,” I said. “Even if he’s sorry, there’s no guarantee he won’t do it again.”
Cara shook her head. “But there’s no guarantee about anything in life. Sometimes you just have to take a chance.”
I knew she was trying to help me, but there was no way she could understand how it felt to have your heart fractured by someone you possibly loved. And beside, after all the pain and hardship of the past few months, I wanted to feel safe and whole again. Talking about this brought the hurt back up in stinging waves, and I took three deep breaths to curb my ache.
“You’re wrong,” I said, hugging my arms to my chest. “By letting him go, I’m guaranteeing that he can’t hurt me again.”
She tried to keep the disappointment off her face, but it didn’t matter because I could hear it in her words. “If you think it’s for the best, then fine,” Cara said. “But just so you know, it seems like you’re still in pain.”
Chapter 24
I woke up on Thanksgiving Day to a layer of snow outside my bedroom window. Only a few inches were on the ground, but they were enough to transform our lawn from a sea of brown grass to a pristine white blanket.
“Good morning,” my mom said when I wandered into the kitchen in search of a cup of coffee. “Happy Turkey Day!” She was standing at the counter with an apron on, already working on tonight’s feast. I frowned and looked up at the clock above the stove.
“Morning, Mom. Why are you cooking already? It’s only nine.” As soon as the question left my mouth, I realized what I’d just said. “Wait. Why areyoucooking?” My mom’s lack of culinary skills had ruined many meals in the past, and suddenly I had an image in my head of the entire turkey on fire.
“Don’t worry,” said my dad. He was sitting at the kitchen table with his usual breakfast: half a grapefruit, a cup of green tea, and the sports section. “I’m cooking the bird. Your mother’s help is restricted to the mashed potatoes.”
“Drew won’t be happy,” I said. Potatoes were his favorite food at Thanksgiving. Luckily, mine was pumpkin pie.
“Hey!” my mom said, brandishing the kitchen beater in my direction. Chunks of potato fell from the silver blades and splattered on the floor. “Just you wait. These will be the best taters you’ve ever tasted.”
“Can’t wait,” I said. “Food poison is my favorite flavor of potato.”
I tried not to laugh at my own joke, but then I heard my dad’s deep, wheezing chuckle and I couldn’t contain myself. My mom pretended to look angry for a few seconds, but it wasn’t long before she cracked a smile too.
“So,” I said, once we all calmed down, “you never told me why you’re cooking so early.”
“Your sister requested we celebrate at lunchtime,” my mom said. “She has something going on later tonight.”
As Dr. Mitchell had warned, Cara’s recovery was a slow process. She was still fatigued most of the time, but she’d gained back enough strength to start taking daily walks on the treadmill, and last week we took a trip to the mall. But even though she was steadily getting better, I didn’t understand how or why Cara would leave on Thanksgiving, especially when we had so much to be thankful for this year.
“What? Where’s she going?”
My mom smiled, and it was one of those I-know-something-you-don’t grins. “Can’t tell you.”
Right when I opened my mouth to grill her further, Cara stepped into the kitchen still wearing her bathrobe and slippers. “Have you guys seen outside? It snowed!”
