Page 32 of The Broken Heart Playlist
Because even an injured animal will hide when it’s hurt. A twinge of guilt plucks at me, but I ignore it and allow annoyance to leak into my voice. “Enough, Tess. I don’t want to talk anymore about him.”
She’s quiet. She knows exactly whichhimI’m referring to.
“Remember that horror movie,Candyman,we watched when we were teenagers?” Tess asks.
“I remember,” I say, wondering where she’s going with this. Mom had expressly forbidden us from watching that horror-slasher film, which meant, of course, we were absolutely going to watch it behind her back.
“If you said Candyman’s name five times while facing a mirror, you summoned him,” she says. “Remember?”
“I do.”
I remember the two of us being so terrified after watching the movie that we covered up every single mirror in the house, making it ridiculously easy for Mom to realize we’d disobeyed her. Tess and I were grounded for a week.
“What’s your point?” I ask Tess now.
“You never mention Oliver’s name,” she stresses in a soft voice. “It feels a bit like he’s the Candyman to you.”
There’s an uncomfortable truth to her words. If I say my ex-husband’s name, it feels as though I’m giving him power and weight in my life, and I won’t grant him that again. Although I’m not generally a suspicious person, I nevertheless try to avoid saying his name out loud.
“I have to go,” I say to Tess.
“Look,” she says hastily, “even if no great, ah, love affair occurs between you and Gideon, maybe he can still be a friend.”
“Maybe,” I say to appease her, but a friendship with Gideon feels impossible. How can I be friends with a man who makes my pulse race and my heart pound every time I run into him?
It’s after five when I pull into my driveway. Lisset is sleeping over at a friend’s house, so there’s no rush to get dinner started. I’m about to head inside when I spot Gideon relaxing on the large, upholstered bench he’s bought for his front porch.
There’s something so inviting about him sitting there in the winter chill, surrounded by the sounds of children playing nearby and the occasional rumble of passing cars. The soundsof people living their lives, while he sits with his thoughts in the growing darkness.
He sees me looking at him and raises a casual hand in greeting.
All of a sudden, I have no desire to enter my too-empty house and be surrounded by a silence filled with whispers only I can hear.
Before I lose my nerve or second-guess myself, I cross the street to Gideon’s front porch.
A slow, pleased smile splits his face as I climb his porch steps. He’s in jeans and a thick navy sweater. A beer is cradled loosely in his hands and his legs are stretched out, crossed at the ankles.
Beards and tattoos and big men aren’t my thing. My ex-husband was lean, clean-shaven, and fancied himself an intellectual. But standing here on Gideon’s porch with butterflies in my stomach and my blood fizzing in my veins, I’m hit again with the realization that I have a thing for Gideon and his close-cropped beard, mysterious tattoo, and powerful body.
“Can I get you a beer or a glass of wine?” he asks, as if my presence here is no big deal, simply a habit we’ve casually fallen into.
“Wine, please.”
“White or red?”
“White is good.”
He pushes himself to his feet and disappears into the house.
I sit on the far end of the padded bench, resting my back against a thick cushion. Gideon has only been in his house for two weeks, but he’s made an effort with this space. New lighting fixtures, potted plants in pretty planters, round side tables, and a cozy bench with patterned throw pillows.
Uno is stretched out on a stylish daybed, looking comfortable and thoroughly spoilt.
“Seriously?” I say to the greyhound. “You have your own outdoor bed?”
At the sound of my voice, he lifts his head and his tail gives three lazy thumps. After acknowledging my presence, he drops his head back down again and closes his eyes.
I raise my eyebrows at him. “It must be exhausting maintaining your princely status.”
