My Foolish Heart (27 page)

Seb waited for more—maybe a question about his past, where he'd been over the past few years—but nothing came. Until he figured out that Coach couldn't talk more, not with the trach vent in his neck.

The back of his throat burned. He swallowed fast, forced a smile. “Yeah. I'm teaching math at the school. And, you know . . . coaching. But . . .” He drew in a breath, wishing he wasn't looking down at Coach but was twelve years old again, seeing him stride out of the fog. “I'm not sure I know what I'm doing. I thought maybe I needed to focus on some flashy plays, get the team excited about the game. My team, however, is . . . well, they're more interested in listening to the glory days and running the fun plays than digging in with drills, conditioning.”

He scrubbed his hands together, unable to look any longer at his coach, hearing Bam's words in his head.
Do you seriously think you're the only one who's slept with Lucy Maguire?

They tunneled through him like acid. Sure, Lucy had made her choices, but he'd been her first.

The first to win her heart, the first man she'd loved, the first to betray her.

The first to tell her that men were after one thing.

She's broken.

“Coach, I'm so sorry. I messed up.” He drew in a breath and realized he was crying. As he wiped his cheeks, he stared out the window past Coach's bed. “I just wanted to be the kind of coach that you were. The kind of man you were.”

“Get my playbook,” Coach's voice wheezed out.

“Your playbook? But I know the plays, Coach. I remember them—”

“My playbook, Seb.” He recognized the tone, the don't-argue-with-me gaze.

“Where—?” But he knew where. Or at least where it had been when he'd been a senior, staying over at Coach's house all those nights when his father had stumbled home drunk—or not at all. Seb would return to Coach's house, usually find him up late, reading.

Coach always invited him in and listened. Or sometimes just handed him a blanket.

The playbook always sat on the floor, next to his recliner, under his Bible.

“I'm still proud of you.”

Seb took Coach's hand and wept.

15

Issy didn't need Caleb Knight, his dog, or his Thai food.

Not when she had the
My Foolish Heart
forum.

Not when she had BoyNextDoor. Except she hadn't heard from him in two days. Maybe he had run off with the girl of his dreams.

While she'd run out of the arms of a perfectly good man and back into her online world.

“Hello, Lovelorn, welcome back to the second hour of
My Foolish Heart
. We're going to wrap up the first hour's discussion about love letters with a note from Elizabeth Barrett Browning to Robert Browning:

“And now listen to me in turn. You have touched me more profoundly than I thought even you could have touched me—my heart was full when you came here today. Henceforward I am yours for everything. . . .”

Issy refrained from glancing at Caleb's window, her voice almost hitching on the last line. She didn't love Caleb. But he had filled her heart with hope. With him, she'd felt almost normal, not a hint of panic when he'd run his hand into her hair, kissed her so sweetly. She'd wanted to run her fingers through his goatee and—

No.

“Have you ever received a romantic letter? Could you love someone without ever meeting him? Let's take one last caller. The lines are open.”

Of course she wasn't in love with BoyNextDoor, either. But something about his friendship felt easy and fun. Even comforting, like she could share with him something of her heart.

She could fall in love with someone like BoyNextDoor. Someday.

“MissElizabeth, you're on the air.”

“I think letters are romantic. And like you pointed out last week, what if the person you fall for isn't attractive? You can love them if you know their heart—but how will you know it if you don't give them a chance?”

“Good point, MissE. But it brings up my next topic—when do you call it quits? How much do you invest in a relationship before you know that it won't work? Miss Foolish Heart normally recommends three dates. But if you see it's not going to work, how do you break up? Should you use a letter?”

In the background, Elliot had cued up “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do” by Neil Sedaka. Nice touch, Elliot.

“UnluckyInLove, you're on the air.”

The voice that came on the line sounded husky and dark and anything but lucky, as if she'd nursed her own broken heart. “Breaking up over e-mail is a cheap trick. It's easy and quick, but the best breakups help each other grow.”

“So you're saying that breaking up isn't about blaming, but about helping each other become better people?”

“I'm saying people need closure, and it isn't fair to shut someone down over e-mail, is all.” Her voice ended with a crack. “They deserve a reason.” She hung up.

“Um, thank you for the call, Unlucky. Miss Foolish Heart agrees with you. A mature relationship talks through why it isn't working and respects the other party.” She hoped her voice didn't betray her on that last line. Caleb had knocked on the door twice today. She hated herself for staying upstairs, locked in her office, but she couldn't embarrass herself any further. He deserved an explanation, although a smart man without a foolish heart would have already figured it out.

“What about timing? Is there ever a time to break up because you're not ready? Or do you hold on until you are?”

In the caller queue, PrideAndPassion appeared. Hopefully not with more pleading for Issy to attend her wedding.

“GotMyHeart, nice to see you back. How are you doing today?”

“I'm good. I wanted to respond to your letter conversation. I met my boyfriend online in a chat room. We're going to meet in a couple weeks, and . . . well, I'm not sure if it's the right timing. But I don't want to break up with him. It's just that I'm in school and I want to finish before I start anything serious. What should I do?”

“Miss Foolish Heart always recommends sticking to the plan. Tell him you're not ready to meet and that if he wants you, he'll wait for you. Good luck, Heart.

“It's true that in our new age, many relationships start online. And without having to look the person in the eye, it's easier to share intimate thoughts, so it's something to beware of. Miss Foolish Heart suggests keeping your conversations casual and light and saving the intimate sharing until you are face-to-face.”

Except, of course, when you're unable to meet face-to-face. Oh, Elliot should just pull the plug on her right now.

They had thirty seconds to commercial and only PrideAndPassion left in the queue. Well, she could cut her off if she started making a scene. “Thanks for the call.” Issy took a breath and found her cheerful voice. “PrideAndPassion, you're on the air.”

Sobbing, and a hiccup of breath.

“Pride?”

“Miss Foolish Heart, I think I made a terrible mistake.”

Issy kept her voice calm. “What's the problem?”

“I think I should call off the wedding. I don't know if he's the right one.”

See, this was why she made her callers remain anonymous, so when they announced they were getting married, then backed out, they didn't all end up in the tabloids.

“Pride, what happened?”

“Nothing. I mean—everything is great. Except . . . what if it's not?”

“You're not making sense.”

“What if, one day, he decides that he doesn't love me? Or that I'm too neurotic? Or he meets someone else? How do I know that this is going to be my Happily Ever After?”

Issy's own words filled her mind.
Is he a ten? Does he have the big three? Are you caught in the love fog?
But for the first time, the platitudes she offered seemed more like military rules than wisdom. “The truth is, I don't know, Pride. It could be perfect one second, and the next, something could happen. You could have an illness, or yes, he could decide he doesn't love you.”
Or a truck could run a red light and destroy your life.
“There are no guarantees.”

Silence. Then, “That's what I thought. I . . . I can't live like that, being afraid it's all going to crumble.”

Issy heard something in her voice, something she couldn't place. “Pride, is that why you broke up with your last five boyfriends? Because you were afraid? ”

“They weren't tens, Miss Foolish Heart. And you always said, if he's not a ten when you're dating, he's going to be even less when you bring him home.”

She had said that, but it was based more on a guess than reality. And frankly, were there ever any tens? Issy knew better than anyone that you had to look beyond the facade to the person behind the mask. Even then, there were no guarantees that the person you loved wouldn't jump up and go running out of your arms. Still, a gal had to protect her heart. “I did say that, Pride. If you aren't ready, then . . .”

“The wedding is off. I have no choice. I'm going to have to wait until I find the perfect ten. Thank you, Miss Foolish Heart. You saved me again.”

Pride hung up.

Issy went to commercial, still hearing Pride's words.
I can't live like that, being afraid it's all going to crumble.
She stared at the forum, at the activity. Not all of them agreed with her, and indeed she didn't entirely love her response to Pride.

In the phone queue, BoyNextDoor appeared, and warmth coursed through her. She didn't care what Miss Foolish Heart advised—she liked her online friendship with BoyNextDoor and planned to hold on to it.

If she couldn't have Caleb, then BoyNextDoor might be enough.

Her studio phone rang and she picked it up.

“What are you doing?”

Elliot, and she could picture him pacing.

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you just tell Lauren O'Grady to break up with her fiancé? Are you nuts? Maybe I should give out your home number to the governor when he calls.”

“Elliot, you heard her. She wasn't sure.”

“
Life
isn't sure! It doesn't mean you stop living it!”

She drew in a breath. Opened her mouth. Nothing emerged.

Elliot's tone softened. “Sorry. It's just . . . we can't have people saying that Miss Foolish Heart sabotages relationships.”

But she did, didn't she?

She fought the quiver in her voice as she went back on the air. “BoyNextDoor, so glad you could show up. Give us an update on the Girl.”

“She's not talking to me.” He sounded . . . annoyed? Angry? “And there's nothing I can do about it.”

“Are you breaking up?” She didn't know what to make of the swirl of heat in her chest. Happiness? Panic?

“I don't know. She won't tell me what I did wrong. Or let me fix it.”

“What happened?”

“I did everything you told me to—I asked her out, we had a couple nice dinners, and then . . . it isn't fair. I did everything you told me to and she still shut me down.”

She recognized this tone—had heard her father use it too many times after a loss.

“Maybe she needs time to figure out what she lost, Boy. Women are like that—we get lost in the emotions and need time to see clearly.”

She glanced at Caleb's window.

“I don't know. Maybe she's not into me. I might be trying too hard.”

She wanted to reach through the line and take his hand.
I won't hurt you, BoyNextDoor. I won't shut you down.
But that could be because he was long-distance. Safe.

“It's possible that she is just afraid.” She didn't know where that came from, but it felt right—the first right thing she'd said all night. She took a breath, wanted to give him more. “I had a date last night. It was nearly perfect—simple, you know? Take-out Thai food that we ate on his porch. We talked and even shared a kiss. But sometimes what seems perfect has hidden flaws. Even dangerous ones. She might be trying to protect you from something.”

His voice had changed, taken on a kind of tremor. “Uh . . . protect me from what?”

“Herself?”

Silence on his end, and she realized that she'd probably revealed too much. Never had she told the audience about herself, and now she knew why. But like Rachelle said, they couldn't see her. BoyNextDoor wouldn't possibly dream that Miss Foolish Heart was Isadora Presley, trapped in her north woods home.

* * *

Isadora Presley was Miss Foolish Heart.

Caleb froze, unable to move, to speak.
I had a date last night. It was nearly perfect. . . . Take-out Thai food that we ate on his porch.

He ran through her tidbits of advice, his body turning to ice. What was this, some sort of game to her? How long had she known he was her caller? She was making a fool out of him with all those things she told him to do—and he did them. Like some sort of . . . puppet.

Or one of her father's plays.

Why? Was he an experiment? Or maybe an advertisement for her show? He'd heard the replay show on Sunday, the few ads about how Miss Foolish Heart could even help the boy next door find his true love.

She'd used him.

No. She'd
lied
to him.

And he'd told her his secrets. She knew about his leg. No wonder Seb Brewster had watched his practices—probably waiting for him to fail. In fact, the whole town probably knew.

They'd been playing him the whole time—all of them. Pitying him. No wonder Ryan didn't want to play for him, why the kid showed him no respect.

He wouldn't respect a coach who could fall on his face any second either. Or a coach who lied.

Worse, after practice, Caleb had actually purchased flowers, appeared at her door, knocked. And knocked. Then, desperate, he'd called the
My Foolish Heart
hotline asking for help on how to win her back.