Page 2 of Come Break My Heart Again

I’m aselfishgirl.

I come here to check on Nina because I care about her. But these visits are for me. Becausenotcoming 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 liningthe 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.”

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