Come Break My Heart Again by C.W. Farnsworth
Prologue
“Ican’t believe you’re not hungover,” Brooke groans, flipping her long blonde hair over one shoulder to emphasize her dismay at my lack of overindulgence last night.
“I was out with my parents,” I respond dryly. “Wasn’t exactly pounding shots the way you apparently were.”
“You only graduate from law school once, Eleanor.”
I use my left hand to push the rotating door that leads from the lobby of Brooke’s apartment building out onto the bustling street, waving off the doorman rushing over to assist us. She still doesn’t notice.
“Well aware,” I reply as we emerge into the May morning sunshine, slipping on a pair of oversized sunglasses to shade my eyes from the glare. Even if you could, I don’t know anyone who would willingly put themselves through that form of torture twice.
Brooke hails a cab, and we slide into the backseat. My leather tote bag vibrates. I grab my phone out, scanning the most recent messages. The latest one is from my father. Dinner at 5. Don’t be late.
Sentimental as always.
I start to tap out a response, and that’s when Brooke decides to be observant.
“HOLY SHIT!” The cabbie swerves a little, setting off a series of honks in the heavy Boylston Street traffic surrounding us. “William proposed?”
“Last night,” I state smugly, flashing the cabbie an apologetic look. My own eardrums are still ringing from Brooke’s shriek. “Took you long enough to notice.”
“Oh my God! Tell me everything! Did he cry? Was there champagne? How many carats is this?” She grabs my left hand and starts inspecting the massive diamond now decorating my ring finger.
“He rented out the private room at Pastiché. No crying. Yes to the champagne. There was a string quartet, too. I didn’t ask how many carats,” I rattle off.
“I’m still upset he’s an only child, but you two are perfect together. He’s perfect.”
“Yeah, I know,” I reply. William York is perfect. Or the closest possible thing to it, at least. He’s handsome, considerate, charming, and intelligent. I didn’t have to think before saying “yes” last night. But his proposal felt a bit… staged. In an upscale restaurant with champagne on hand and our parents already discussing what the theme for our first child’s birthday party will be. It wasn’t the passionate moment I always envisioned agreeing to spend my life with someone might be like. Some moments don’t live up to the hype, I guess.
“Your mom’s already wedding planning, I assume?”
“Of course,” I reply, smiling wryly. “Next June.”
My mother—both my parents, actually—love William. He’s exactly the type of guy they hoped I’d end up with. Expected I’d end up with. Yet I know part of their euphoria last night was due to the fact they both know there was a time where me ending up with a “William” looked extremely unlikely.
“I suppose Eliza’s got maid of honor dibs?”
I smile sheepishly. “I promised her. She asked me to be hers.”
“Yeah, yeah. I better be a bridesmaid.”
“You will be,” I assure Brooke, as we pull up outside the small café that’s our destination.
Avery and Maddie, the two other members of our quartet, are already waiting out front. We all met on the first day of orientation and struggled through the late nights and dry professors together. This is a farewell of sorts. The end of an era. Following graduation yesterday, I’m the only one remaining in Boston. Maddie and Avery both smile and wave when they spot us climbing out of the cab.
I hand the cabbie a hundred that I hope will compensate for any hearing damage Brooke might have inflicted.
“Good morning!” Maddie trills as we approach.
“Gah!” Brooke says. “How are you always so cheerful?”
“Someone had too much to drink last night,” Avery teases.
“Me drinking too much last night is so twenty minutes ago,” Brooke replies. “Check this out, ladies.”
She grabs my left hand and waves it in their faces.
“William proposed?!” Maddie squeals.
“You lucky bitch! What is that? Three carats?” This from Avery.
“Private room at Pastiché with champagne and a quartet,” Brooke adds. “Wedding is next June.”
“Way to steal my thunder,” I tell Brooke, sticking out my tongue at her.
“Whatever.” She waggles her manicured fingertips at me. “I just caught them up. Now we can all grill you for more details as soon as we get our mimosas.”
I roll my eyes. “Let’s grab our table. I’m starving. All I’ve had to eat today was a banana.”
Brooke and Maddie head for the white awning that hangs over the entrance to the café. My phone rings. I pause and pull it out to see an unfamiliar number lit up on the screen.
“I’ll be right in,” I tell Avery. “I’m still waiting to hear back on a few interviews. This might be one of the firms.”
She nods and follows Brooke and Maddie inside the café.
“Eleanor Clarke,” I answer crisply.
“Hello, Ms. Clarke. My name is Lily Sampson. I’m an attorney with Until Proven Guilty. We’re a nonprofit organization looking to assist felons who have been wrongly incarcerated—”
“I’m familiar with the name, Ms. Sampson,” I reply, already regretting answering. “But I’m afraid you have the wrong number. I didn’t apply for a position with your organization.”
“A position?” Lily replies, sounding surprised. “No, I’m calling you in relation to a case we’ve been working on. You’re mentioned in one of the interview transcripts, and I was hoping you might be able to assist me in tracking down some additional information to help our client.”
Definitely shouldn’t have answered. I watch Brooke, Avery, and Maddie head deeper into the café through the window and try to figure out how to end this politely. “I’m afraid you still have the incorrect person. I certainly haven’t been involved in any criminal activity.”
“I wasn’t insinuating you are, Ms. Clarke. But Mr. James—”
A low buzzing sound starts in my ears. “What?” I choke out. “Who is the case about?”
“Ryder James.” The buzzing grows louder.
“Ryder James?” I repeat. The syllables of his name feel heavy in my mouth. Probably has something to do with the fact it’s been seven years since I uttered it last.
“Yes, we believe we have a strong case Mr. James is, in fact innocent, and if there’s anything you can tell us that might help—”
“I’ve got to go,” I blurt out, and pull the phone away from my ear, ending the call.
Then I rush over to the trash can sitting alongside the curb and throw up noisily inside it.
