Carry Your Heart

by K. Ryan

"Thanks, Isabelle," I murmured softly.

  "No problem," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's not a big deal, Caleb, especially seeing as how I kinda owed you anyways...and it's not like I had anything else going on tonight, you know?"

  I knew she'd meant it as a joke, but the hitch in her voice had me wondering what she was even doing at the clubhouse tonight in the first place.

  "Aw, come on," I shook my head. "Don't you have to avoid what's-his-name's texts or somethin' like that?"

  "I actually haven't heard from him in a few days. I took your advice, by the way, and told him I'm seeing someone else now. I can't say I liked lying to him, but I guess it worked. At least I hope it did."

  I held up two twisted fingers with a grin. "Fingers crossed?"

  "Yeah," she laughed. "So no desperate ex-boyfriend. My best friend's having some alone time with Eli and so I'm stuck in the clubhouse for awhile anyways. What else did I have going on that was so pressing I couldn't help carry your sorry ass in tonight?"

  I nodded, but that was still besides the point. "I mean, a girl like you has gotta have something better to do than hang out with assholes like us, right?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I guess I just figured someone that's got their shit together like you would have better things to do," I shrugged. "And I don't mean anything by that. I just..."

  What I wanted to say was that someone like her was just wasting her time being anywhere near someone like me. I was a train wreck, off the rails and all. Besides, it wasn't like I stood a snowball's chance in hell of ever...

  There were miles in between her and the girls that were literally just in this same room because she wasn't that type of girl. She was better. In a way, she reminded me of Lex, who was barely tolerant of the club simply because of who she'd chosen to be with. If not for Becca, Isabelle would've been somewhere else tonight and it was as simple as that.

  "I just," I started again. "I just feel like—I feel like shit."

  It felt good to finally say that to someone.

  Everyone around me was already thinking it, and I knew I looked exactly like I felt too, but no one would say it to my face. At least now, I had the satisfaction of beating everyone else to the punch.

  I waited for her to say something, but maybe her silence was giving me permission to say whatever I needed to say.

  "I guess I haven't felt like myself for awhile now and I'm sorry you had to put with me tonight."

  When she was still silent next to me, I wondered if I'd shared too much. Some things just aren't meant to be spoken out loud and the words stung worse than I thought they would. It was that kind of dull ache that probably wasn't going to go away anytime soon.

  "Hey, Caleb?"

  My head jerked at the sound of her voice. "Yeah?"

  "I hope this isn't too out of line, but I'm gonna say it anyways, okay?" she waited for my nod of approval before continuing. "My mom used to tell me that if a guy really wanted to be with you, I mean if he really loved you, he would move heaven and earth to be with you. He wouldn't let anything stand in the way of being with you and would do whatever it took to make things work. I think that goes both ways, too."

  It took me a moment to really process everything she'd just said. And for some reason, it was almost a relief to hear someone finally say that out loud, too.

  "So you're saying if Ariel had really wanted to be with me, she never would've left in the first place?"

  Her eyes widened slightly, like she'd just realized that maybe she'd overstepped.

  "I just think you've been spending all this time and energy mourning something that was probably never going to work anyways," she told me in a soft voice I almost didn't recognize. "I know I don't know the first thing about your relationship, but from what I do remember about you and Ariel, it was probably always headed this way, you know? You're never going to leave Claremont and there's nothing wrong with that. This is your home. This is where your family is. This is where the club is. But I guess Ariel just wanted something different. Not necessarily more, just...different. Maybe you were always headed in opposite directions. You just couldn't see it right away."

  "Doesn't make it hurt any less," I mumbled.

  "I never said it doesn't."

  At this point, she'd shifted her body so that her entire head was turned towards me. Her sky blue eyes seemed to glimmer in the soft lamplight just above her head and I had a sudden urge to sweep a wayward piece of hair off her face to tuck it behind her ear, but that was a line I wasn't going to cross with her—especially her.

  "It's hard to watch you do this to yourself," she went on quietly. "Random girls aside, I'd be willing to bet that the only time you're not drinking is when you're on the clock. Don't ask me how I know that...it's just that, God, Caleb, you're not taking care of yourself. I've never seen you eat a full meal at work these last two weeks and you look like you haven't gotten a full night's sleep in days. You just, well, you look like shit. And I guess that makes sense if that's the way you feel. But for what it's worth, and you can be mad at me later for saying this, but...nobody is worth that, Caleb. I don't care who they are or what you think they mean to you, nobody is worth killing yourself over and anybody that would willingly put you in this position doesn't deserve you anyways."

  Her words sliced through my chest, a direct hit on her target. Hearing all of that—everything I knew the people around me were thinking, but wouldn't say to my face—was a hard slap of reality. The sting still lingered long after Isabelle turned her tired blue eyes back to the carpet.

  She was right. I knew she was right. If she'd put money down on that bet, I would've had to pay up. The worst part was she really didn't know me well enough to be able to just assume all this just by looking at me, but she still knew it all anyways.

  Words failed. It just didn't make any sense. She knew all this from what, observation? We were tentative acquaintances at best. We shared a lunch table together and talked sometimes while we ate. That was really it.

  Yet she still understood something so basic, so raw about me. It was like she took one look at this haphazardly constructed wall of booze and empty one-night stands and saw me exactly for what I was: lost, broken, damaged, and completely pathetic.

  The thing was...Isabelle didn't look at me like I was beyond repair. She looked at me like maybe I had a shot at actually gluing myself back together. And as that reality wove its way into my consciousness, the request fell out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

  "You know, I really am sorry I've pissed you off so much," I whispered hoarsely, staring into the mug clenched in between my hands. "I never meant to—look, do you think it'd be okay if I still called you Iz?"

  She blinked back at me. "What?"

  "I don't know," I started to explain, but for the life of me, couldn't grasp the words. "I know you don't like it, but I guess that's just who you are to me. It's weird to call you anything else and I swear to God I'm not tryin' to be an asshole. I mean it."

  She said nothing and gave away nothing.

  "I've been tryin' to figure out what this is," I was fumbling now. After everything that had happened tonight, I needed her to understand, but I also needed her to not take this the wrong way. "When I'm talkin' to you, I feel normal again. Like this isn't the end of the world. I didn't mean that you're not normal...that's not what I'm tryin' to say. I don't think that. I just mean that you make me feel normal. Like I'm not some sort of goddamn freak that everyone needs to tip-toe around and whisper about like I'm not standing right there."

  It hadn't come out as eloquent as what she'd said to me, but it would have to be good enough. Isabelle had relaxed a little bit more and a ghost of a smile lifted her lips. Well, at least she didn't look like she wanted to slap the hell out of me. Maybe the message was delivered as I'd intended, which was probably a first for me.

  "So..." I prompted, waiting for the answer to my not-so-articulate question.

  She chewed on her bottom l
ip in thought, scrutinizing me with careful, clear blue eyes. Finally, her lips curved up and for the first time in months, I was about to finally get something I wanted.

  "I guess I could live with it," Isabelle allowed. "As long as you promise to start eating normal meals again. And take a shower. Seriously. You stink."

  "Got it. Thanks, Iz," I grinned victoriously, relishing the feel of saying that name again. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it until I had it back again.

  "For the record," she grinned back. "I really don't have my shit together."

  "Sure you do."

  She just shrugged, leaning forward to hug her knees into her chest. "Well, I don't. I don't think anybody really does."

  I wanted to say that someone like her, who'd been through just as much pain and destruction in her life as me, if not more, to not be falling down drunk, in some sort of rehab, in bed with some random guy, or doing anything else that could be labeled self-destructive, well, she was doing okay. A helluva lot better than me, that's for sure.

  Quitting school and working at the shop didn't qualify as reckless in my book. And it was easy to just sit there next to her and enjoy this feeling, this normalcy for a little bit longer because soon, her cell phone buzzed in her pocket and she stepped out of my dorm to meet up with Becca.

  Then I was alone again, lost in the emptiness surrounding my room and what was left of my pathetic, miserable life.

  Great.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  FML

  Two Weeks Later

  Isabelle

  "Come on, now," Dominic yelled, thumping his fist against the counter. "One more! You can do it! I know you got it in you!"

  "Oh God, no!" Becca cried out. "I can't look! Oh my God, I think I'm gonna be sick."

  "Do you not see that I'm goddamned pregnant here?" Lexie demanded, one hand fisted into her hip and the other resting firmly on her stomach.

  "I don't care," Caleb shot back with a wide grin. "She's doin' it whether she likes it or not."

  I gulped and then had to squeeze my eyes shut when swallowing down phlegm did nothing for my courage. Crap, that didn't work either. One eye flipped open and all four of my bar companions at Graffiti's tonight were staring at me with either eager expectancy or disgusted hesitancy.

  My current nemesis glared up at me and I met it head-on. When someone dares you to take a Three Wise Men shots, you can't turn him or her down, especially when that someone's name is Caleb Sawyer.

  You just suck it up and you do it.

  I blew out a breath, more for strength than anything else, gripped the cold glass in between my shaky hands, and then downed the entire contents. Nothing but sheer willpower kept it all from coming right back up.

  Just as the room seemed to twirl on its axis, a pair of strong hands ghosted across my back to hoist me up just enough to keep my balance. Given that Dominic and Eli were to the right of me and the hands came from the left, even my current dizzy, alcohol-leaden state couldn't confuse whose hands were on me now.

  Don't shiver and definitely don't stare at him like you want him to keep touching you in other places, too.

  "Easy there, killer," Caleb laughed softly, keeping a hand lightly on my back to make sure I wouldn't sway again. A second later, his hands shot up in defense. "Sorry, no touching. I forgot about that, Iz."

  I smacked him on his leather-clad chest and shrugged. Lexie slid a tall glass of water over to me with a mirthless cringe and I knew it was only because I'd just made us both literally and figuratively sick. If anything, it was a good distraction from all feelings Caleb kicked up with that nickname.

  "Don't worry about it, Caleb," I replied, my eyes widening when I realized how much my words were slurring.

  If I didn't take it easy for the rest of the night, I was going to be face down in a bathroom somewhere before I knew it. That water couldn't go down fast enough. There was a small part of me that whispered words like hypocrite and idiot. Here I was, doing the very same thing that was basically destroying what was left of my family.

  You're allowed to have fun with your friends, I told myself. Seriously. You're 21-years-old. And you're not him. You're not the one with the problem. Quit your bitching.

  "I never lost faith in ya," Caleb leaned in a little closer so I could hear him over the buzzing crowd behind us.

  "Well, thanks," I laughed. "Now that I know I'm capable of such an amazing feat, I'll finally get to sleep tonight."

  Caleb's head fell back as his shoulders shook with laughter. "Good, I was worried about that, Iz."

  His calloused hand grazed over my skin and gently squeezed my shoulder before snatching his hand back almost as quickly as he started. I couldn't decide where the fluttering in my stomach was coming from: that whisper-like touch or the copious amount of alcohol I'd just consumed.

  Probably both.

  Although it had completely snuck up on me, our interactions had subtly shifted since the night he'd emptied his stomach and his dignity all over my studded stilettos. The next morning at the shop, Caleb wordlessly set a bag of Gardetto's and an ice cold can of Mountain Dew on my desk and walked out of the office with a sly wink.

  On the outside, he pulled on this persona of the careless and cool bad boy. Maybe that worked when we were in high school, but now, I knew better.

  Sure, he had swagger in spades, but the facade just crumbled whenever we were alone. The carefree asshole I thought I'd known, the same one who buried himself in whiskey and women just because it was fun and because he could, didn't exist.

  He wasn't an asshole. He was just...complicated.

  A walking, talking, cocky, and sweet contradiction.

  In the two weeks since that night at the clubhouse, when I'd bluntly told him exactly what I thought of she-who-shall-not-be-named, an easy understanding had blossomed between us. The more time I spent with him, the easier it was be around him.

  The conversations at our shared picnic table carried on and our interactions had become—dare I say it—friendly. I had, above all odds and circumstance, become friends with Caleb Sawyer and I knew this because I'd told him things about myself I'd never told anyone before.

  And I couldn't even begin to wrap my head around his reaction to my sketches. No one had ever taken my sketching seriously before and no one had ever called me an artist before. He'd just taken one look and that was it. No arguing. No room for judgment. He'd just accepted me as I was without questioning it.

  I didn't know what to do with that.

  It was that thought that propelled me towards the bathroom for a break. Those shots of tar and sludge must have really went straight to my brain. Some splashes of water woke me up a little more and I quickly reapplied some powder so I wouldn't look so scary. A little more lip gloss didn't hurt either and with a deep breath, I pushed through the bathroom door only to collide into a mass of solid muscle.

  "Oh crap, I'm so sorry!"

  My hands immediately thrust out to steady myself and when I looked up, a familiar pair of chocolate brown eyes stared down at me.

  "Brandon?"

  "Isabelle?"

  Brandon Davis was gaping back at me in happy surprise, a beer in hand, and a cigarette dangling between his fingers. For a moment, I think I forgot where I was. Right before the start of our freshmen year of college, we'd parted ways, having the foresight to realize that a long-distance relationship wouldn't last longer than a few months once we settled into colleges hours away from each other.

  A beat later, I was enveloped into the strong arms I used to know so well.

  "What the hell are you doin' here?" he practically shouted into my ear he seemed so happy. "I thought you were back in town. How are you?"

  Ah. Such a loaded question. But this wasn't the time or the place to saddle him with any of that, if ever.

  "I'm good," I pushed out quickly, wrapping my arms around his neck to hug him back. "It's so great to see you."

  "You too, Isabelle. Who ya here with?"

 
; I pointed over his shoulder to where Becca was waving with a loopy smile on her face.

  "Wait—is that? Caleb Sawyer and Dominic Fletcher?" Brandon frowned, gripping his beer bottle a little tighter. "You're here with them? When the hell did that happen?"

  "I actually work at the shop now. Becca's dating one of the Horsemen too and I guess it's all kinda relative there, you know?"

  "Yeah. Sure. So, you're working there now. Cool. Hey—"

  "Yo, Brandon, you comin' or what?"

  He turned his head and now I had a clear view of the guys who were yelling and waving him over. They were the exact same burly, preppy, dumb football players Brandon had hung with in high school.

  Now, I'd known Becca since kindergarten, and we'd seen each other almost every day since I'd been back in town, but I couldn't bite back the twinge of disappointment seeing that, at least on the surface, not much had changed since the last time I saw him, as hypocritical as it was.

  "Yeah, just give me a second, okay?" Brandon called over his shoulder. When he turned back to me, he rubbed a hand nervously over the back of his neck. "So, uh, I was wondering if you wanted to maybe, I don't know, get together sometime. I could take you for coffee or dinner or something so we can catch up...shit, it's just so good to see you. I must sound like a real asshole right now."

  I laughed lightly with a smile and just shrugged. "No, you don't. It's really good to see you, too."

  "So..." he flashed me that boyish, dimpled, shy grin that had always sent a warm rush directly to my abdomen.

  "I would tell you to call me, but I have a new number since we last saw each other."

  "Well," he grinned widely. "We should take care of that, huh?"

  In spite of the fact that we were standing right next to a grimy bathroom and standing on the sticky floor of a dive bar neither of us would've come within a mile of four years ago and despite the fact that I hadn't spent all that much time wondering what would've happened if we'd tried to stay together, I found myself smiling back at him.

  He looked exactly the way I remembered—dark hair mussed up messily with gel, a little bit of stubble, and lean, strong muscles peeking out from his shirt. It wasn't like we'd split because our relationship crumbled—it was more like we'd had a realistic understanding of what long distance would do to us.