Page 3 of Come Break My Heart Again

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.

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