The Rules of Heartbreak: An Enemies-to-Lovers/Next-Door Neighbor Romance (The Heartbreak Series Book 1)

by Brittany Taylor

  I check my phone for the hundredth time since I sat down at my dining room table an hour ago. Although I know Sloan is in Minnesota this weekend for her brother-in-law’s promotion, I still find myself hoping for a message. It’s a naïve notion considering I was supposed to be on the trip with her. I’ve struggled thinking of her being there without me, picturing the off chance that she’d run into Cole. What would he say to her? What would she say to him?

  Is Sloan thinking of me, wishing I were there beside her?

  I drop my phone back on the table when I see that my inbox is empty. It lands against the hard wood with a dull thud, the sound echoing off the walls of my empty house, walls that are scarcely decorated. The only decoration left from Hailey is the clock above the TV. Hailey’s loss was a pain unlike anything I’d ever felt in my life. She was the rare kind of love you believe you’ll only ever find once in a lifetime. When Hailey first passed away, the thought of loving anyone else made me feel like I was crumbling from the inside out. I’ve used the past year, losing myself in meaningless one-night stands and busying myself with work—that is until work started to feel like work and Colton brought up me playing again.

  I reach out my hand and run my fingers along the edge of my guitar case. The stiff stitching on the leather grates against the pad of my index finger. I sit back in my chair and run my fingers through my hair, hesitant to open it. My guitar has been buried in the back of my closet, left untouched and unused. I only decided to bring it out today because I feel like ever since Sloan and I terminated our rules last week, I’ve been losing myself more than ever before.

  Music used to be my escape. It used to heal me from the inside out, bringing out the parts of me I loved the most. Any time I think about when I was the happiest in my life, it always involved my guitar.

  I take in a deep breath and flip open the silver clasps. The top of the black case pops up, cracking slightly. I slide my finger through the thin crack but stop when I hear a knock on my door. I head to answer it, leaving my guitar sitting on the table.

  When I swing the door open, I find my sister standing on the other side. Two brown paper bags are dangling from her clenched fists. She lifts them up to show me.

  “Thought you might be hungry, so I got us a couple burritos for lunch from our favorite place. You look like shit, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” I spin around and leave the door open for her to follow me. I head back to the dining room. “I’m surprised you knocked and didn’t just see yourself in like you usually do.”

  The door shuts, and the sound of Vada’s steps tapping against the floor follows me. “I’m trying to be a bit better about that.”

  “Oh.” I raise my eyebrows, shocked.

  “That’s what you wanted, right?” She sets the bags down on the dining room table. Her eyes shift to my guitar, but she doesn’t immediately bring it up. “Besides, since I’m going back to the newspaper full time, I won’t be coming over as much.”

  There’s a hint of sadness to her eyes, and once I catch it, I stand up and cross the room. I lean forward and wrap my hands around the top of the chair in front of me, stretching them out. I dip my head, willing Vada to look up at me. She’s sorting through the bag, arranging the items. She stops and finally lifts her eyes to mine.

  “It’s dumb,” she says, sitting in her chair.

  I remove my hands from the back of the chair and cross my arms over my chest. “What’s dumb?”

  She lifts one shoulder into a shrug as she unwraps her burrito. She folds the corners of the foil. “I know it sounds dumb, but I’m worried we’ll go back to the way we were before I started working at the bar. We didn’t talk or see each other as much as we do now.”

  “You’re right, that is dumb.” I join her at the table but don’t touch the burrito sitting in front of me. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “How do you know?” she asks me around a mouthful of food.

  I don’t move, allowing the silence to settle between us long enough for her to know how serious I am with my answer. “Because I need you.”

  She stops chewing and swallows, staring up at me with wide eyes. “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” I sigh, sitting back in my chair the same way I was before Vada knocked on my door. “We don’t have to go into it, but I just want you to know. I do need you, Vada.”

  She sniffs, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “I need you, too.”

  “Good.” I tap my finger on the table as both our eyes shift back to the guitar. This time Vada brings it up.

  “It’s been a while,” she says.

  “Yep.” I lean forward and rest my arms on the edge of the table.

  “What made you bring it out?” Even though she asked the question, I can see the answer written all over her face. She already knows. She’s just waiting for me to say it out loud.

  “I figured it was about time.”

  She reaches forward and plays with the open metal clasp. “I haven’t heard from her if that’s what you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t.” I deliver a straight lie to my sister. She catches it.

  “I know you were because if you weren’t, you wouldn’t look the way you do right now.” She purses her lips and crosses her arms, falling back into her chair. My sister can always tell when I’m lying. I’m surprised she couldn’t tell I was hiding my relationship with Sloan from her. Maybe she’s been too preoccupied with her own life to pick up on the signs.

  “I don’t look like anything.”

  “Yeah, you do,” she says, picking up her burrito again. “I’ve seen this look on you before.”

  “What am I supposed to do, Vada?” I ask her. I run my fingers through my hair. “She ended it, and honestly, I wouldn’t blame her if she never forgave me. I shouldn’t have lied to her. She didn’t deserve it.” I slowly nod my head up and down, allowing Sloan’s silence to eat away at me more than it already has. “I deserve this.”

  “I do agree that you shouldn’t have lied, but we all make mistakes, Dallas. You shouldn’t have to pay for them forever, just like you shouldn’t have to live the rest of your life in grief. Hailey wouldn’t have wanted this for you, and you know it. She would have wanted you to find love again.”

  I clench my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms. My sister is right. Hailey never would have wanted me to live my life consumed by grief, but sometimes we get caught in the riptide of it all. We struggle to kick to the surface for air, suffocating on our own pain. We just never know how long it will take to break through the surface, if we ever get there.

  I clear my throat. “Do you forgive Sloan for not telling you about us?”

  The night Sloan and I broke off our arrangement, I immediately went home. The pain was evident in the way I swerved in and out of traffic that night, my tires squeaking against the wet asphalt. The weather was way too dangerous for me to be driving my motorcycle, but I felt like I had no choice. It was my quickest and only means of putting as much distance as possible between me and Sloan.

  Not long after I made it home and changed into dry clothes, Vada was at my doorstep. She quickly forgave me for not telling her about my relationship with Sloan. I was surprised, considering Sloan is her best friend. Apparently, Vada’s concern for me overpowered her desire to be angry with me.

  I admired her for it.

  “I was pretty upset at first,” Vada admits, answering my question. “Sloan is the closest friend I have, next to you and Colton. If you even want to count yourselves in that category.”

  “You can count me in there,” I tell her. “Can you count Colton?”

  “I don’t know.” She rolls her eyes. “My point is that yes, I’ve already forgiven her. Because whether she told me or didn’t tell me is irrelevant. This isn’t about me. This is about you and her. Sloan is the best friend I’ve ever had. I’m not petty enough to throw my friendship away just because she didn’t tell me. She had her reasons, and I can’t fault her for them.”


  I offer Vada a small smile. It’s a small consolation for how I’m feeling on the inside. “That makes me feel better.”

  It’s the truth.

  “Are you going to play?” My sister nods toward my guitar case.

  I sigh and massage my forehead with my fingertips. “I was considering it.” I lower my hand and rest it in my lap. Every part of me aches. It’s strange since I run every morning. I’m in the best shape of my life, but I know my aches aren’t caused by muscle and bone. Mine are caused by heartbreak.

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Vada says.

  I stare at the black case. Her answer is every word I’ve told myself for the past year. The truth is I want my music back. I just have to figure out how I’m going to do it.

  “I don’t have to,” I tell her. “But I want to.”

  Vada grins and stands. She grabs the uneaten burrito sitting in front of me and places it in my refrigerator then swipes her keys from the table. “I have to get back to the newspaper. I have an article submission to read over from one of our reporters.”

  “On a Saturday?” I ask her, looking up at her in confusion.

  “Yeah.” She nods. “I’m finally going back to full time. There are no weekends when it comes to the news, Dallas.”

  “Right. Just like the bar.”

  “Exactly.” She points to me then starts to make her way to the front door.

  She opens it and stands in the threshold. I look past her shoulder and across the street. Sloan’s house still looks empty, and her car isn’t parked in the driveway like it usually is. I miss her. I miss the way it feels to have her chin resting on my chest. I miss how it feels to have my face buried into her neck and my dick inside her. I miss how accident prone she is and how she continues with her life as if it doesn’t affect her. That’s the kind of woman she is. That’s the kind of woman I’ve fallen in love with.

  Vada holds on to the doorknob, ready to pull the door shut. “It’s okay to love again, Dallas.” Her eyes meet mine, and my chest tightens with her next words. She swallows down the tears threatening to spill over. “Hailey would have liked Sloan. Don’t you think?”

  Vada gives me one reassuring smile before shutting the door behind her.

  Once I’m standing in the entrance to my house by myself, it feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the room. I run my hand down my face, letting my sister’s words sink in. My chest aches and my head pounds as I try to figure out a way to move on. How do I start my life over when I haven’t been living one for the past year? Or at least I wasn’t until I met Sloan.

  I stand in front of the case and slide one finger in the small open crack. I lift it open and slide my hand across the strings. The sunlight pouring in through my windows reflects off the glossy light-toned wood. The pads of my fingers grate against the strings, allowing them to release a quiet shrill squeaking sound until I stop them at the top of the neck. I inhale a deep breath, remembering every song I’ve played with this guitar, all the places I've been and the shows I’ve played.

  I wrap my hand around the neck and remove it from the case. I’m about to wrap the strap around my shoulder, but I stop. A small piece of paper sits in the bottom of the case. Its white color is a stark contrast to the red velvet lining.

  I place my guitar on the table and slowly reach for the paper. My mind races thinking of all the possibilities. I’ve never kept papers inside my case before, much less buried them underneath my guitar.

  No, this paper was placed here by someone else.

  My heart pounds inside my chest, and I hold my breath. When I pick up the paper, I open it with shaky hands, reading the handwritten words on the inside.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Leaving the cool air of Minnesota and stepping out into the sizzling Texas heat is a shock to my system. It’s hard to believe you can be in two drastically different places in a matter of the same day. This morning I woke up to the cool northern sun shining down on me in my brother’s guest room. Tonight I’ll go to bed with the warm white moon filtering through my bedroom windows.

  I drag my suitcase up my driveway and to my front door, propping it up long enough for me to fish my keys out of my purse. I fight the urge to glance over my shoulder to see if Dallas is home or working on his motorcycle in the driveway.

  My short-lived trip to Minnesota turned out better than I expected it to. Liam didn’t press me for more information after our walk along the beach of Lake Superior, and by the time we’d gotten back to the party, most of the guests had already left. Mark didn’t ask us where we had gone. The expression on his face when he saw me walk through the door told me he already knew the answer to where Liam and I had been.

  Although I enjoyed my time with my brother and his husband, it didn’t resolve the emptiness I still feel inside. I still missed Dallas and everything that came with him, like working at the bar and singing up on stage.

  The only comfort I’ve been able to find is knowing the school year is about to begin. I hope once the school calls to tell me my classroom is ready for me to start setting up, I’ll be able to throw all my energy into it. Teaching six-year-olds how to read is the perfect distraction I need.

  There are still another few weeks before I am expecting the school to reach out to me. Until then, I’m hoping I’ll find another task to fill my time now that I no longer work at Dallas’.

  I was more than prepared to lose myself in work when I got back home, but plans changed when I finally heard from Vada. As soon as the plane landed, I turned my phone back on to find a text from her. It was fairly short compared to her other texts, but I didn’t complain. Her reaching out to me at all was enough for me. In her text, she simply asked if we could meet up at the end of the week so we could talk. I didn’t care that it had taken her over a week to reach out to me. I desperately need my best friend, and the next six days can’t pass fast enough.

  Uncertainty still lingers as to whether she wants to continue our friendship or not.

  When I finally unlock my front door, I take a chance and look over my shoulder. Dallas’ truck is sitting in the driveway, and his motorcycle is parked beside it. He’s home.

  I swallow the thick lump forming in my throat at the sight. I start to wonder what he’s doing in his house or if he’s thinking of me at all.

  I quickly pull my suitcase inside and shut the door behind me. I rest my back against the door and tip my chin up. I’m looking at the ceiling when I close my eyes and take a deep breath in.

  Once my heart and mind have returned to a sense of calm, I head up to my room to unpack and take a shower.

  I stay in the shower longer than I intended to when I first came home. I let the water cascade down my back. The steaming water washes away the aches from sitting on a plane all day, and when I get out of the shower, I change into my favorite leggings and top. After I’m dressed, I sit on the couch, ready for a night full of movies. But once I sit back and cross my legs under me, I stare at my coffee table. The box I found in the attic is still sitting in the center, completely untouched. The strip of brown tape is still fastened down the middle, holding the flaps together.

  I unravel my legs and scoot to the edge of the couch. With shaky fingers, I inhale a sharp breath and pull the box toward me. I can’t explain it, but a feeling has been buried inside me ever since the day I found the box up in the attic. This box means something.

  Digging my fingernail underneath the edge of the tape, I start to pull at it. It comes off easily, the entire strip lifting off at once.

  I lift the first flap, then the second. To get a better view of what’s inside, I lean forward and pick up the box, placing it in my lap.

  I’m surprised when I look inside to find only two things sitting in the bottom of it: a covered photo album and a tape recorder set on top of it. I pull both items free of the box and set them on my lap. I drop the empty box on the floor and run my fingers over the cover of the binder. Confusion…it’s the only wor
d I can use to describe the feeling of finding a tape recorder. The object is a small rectangle, a tiny cassette tape shut inside.

  First, I decide to open the binder. Almost immediately after seeing the first photo, I gasp, tears already building behind my tired eyes. It’s a picture of me from the day I was born. It was taken at the hospital. I recognize it because it’s the same picture my father used to keep in our house in Minnesota.

  How on earth does my mother have this picture of me?

  I flip to the next page to find another picture of myself. This time it’s a recent picture of me, one I recognize from my college graduation. I continue flipping through the pages, frantically turning them, one after the next. Some are posed, some are candid.

  I quickly flip through, confused as to why my mother has an entire album full of photos of me when I never even knew she was still alive. I pick up the tape recorder beside me and hover my thumb over the play button. I hold my breath and press it.

  There are a few seconds of silence followed by a small cough. Then I hear her voice.

  “Hey, Sloan.” She clears her throat. “If you’re listening to this tape, I know my lawyer followed through with giving you my house and you’ve found the box I left for you in the attic.”

  A tear slips down my cheek. Not because I’m surprised by what my mother has left behind, but because I’m emotional because I’ve never heard her voice before. The more I listen to her, the more I notice how similar our voices sound. It’s as if all the wind has been knocked out of me, tears flowing down my cheeks.

  I keep listening. “I know this is all very confusing. For years, I’ve never been able to tell my story, and now that I only have a little time left, or so the doctors say, I wanted to give myself the chance to explain. You deserve that at least. I considered writing you a letter, but doing it this way makes it feel as if I’m talking to you in person.”

  I cover my mouth, my stomach twisting into knots. I keep the album open in my lap to the first page, with the photo of me in the hospital.