Come Break My Heart Again Read online

  Blurb

  From a distance, every surface appears perfect.

  The exterior of Eleanor Clarke’s life looks just as pristine up close. The scars and scratches are all hidden. They were all inflicted in the same place: an overgrown field of wildflowers in an affluent suburb.

  The scenic spot is where her older sister died, leaving Elle to shoulder the crushing expectations of being a Clarke alone.

  It’s where she spent forbidden moments with Ryder James, the last person she should have turned to for an escape.

  And it’s where her world fell apart during senior year of high school.

  Seven years later, everything’s been carefully glued back together. She’s got the prestigious job, the perfect guy, the polished life.

  Until one phone call cracks it all back open.

  Does it hurt more or less when the same person breaks your heart again?

  COME BREAK MY HEART AGAIN

  Copyright © 2021 by C.W. Farnsworth

  Print ISBN: 9798544773948

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you wish to share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Cover Design © Bailey Cover Boutique

  Editing by Alison Maxwell (Red Leaf Proofing)

  Follow your heart.

  For me, that meant writing this book.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by C.W. Farnsworth

  Prologue

  “I can’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 sta
rving. 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.

  Chapter One

  Seven Years Earlier

  My final first day of high school, I wake up to a staring match with a squirrel. It’s a regular occurrence.

  The stare-off, not the final first day.

  The bushy face and beady eyes are a reliable sight, perching on the broad oak branch outside my window every morning at six on the dot. I named him Chester—if it is in fact a him, I’m not really sure how to tell a squirrel’s sex—simply because it seemed like a fitting name for a rodent.

  I don’t mind the sight of Chester crunching on an acorn, but the final first day of high school is not an event I’m looking forward to. Not for the usual reasons a high schooler might be dreading the start of senior year. In fact, I don’t think anyone in Fernwood, Massachusetts would expect I might be anything less than enthused about returning to Fernwood High School for a final year. I don’t struggle in school. I’m not bullied.

  I’m Eleanor Clarke.

  My life is perfect.

  At least, it appears that way.

  But there are plenty of cracks in the perfection which are carefully hidden. My relationship with my parents, for one. My sister’s death, for another.

  “Eleanor!” There’s a rapid, efficient knocking on my bedroom door.

  “Yes?” I respond, sitting up in bed and yawning.

  “You’re awake?”

  No, I’m sleep talking, I think. But sass isn’t an approved part of being a perfect Clarke. “Yes,” I reply instead.

  “Good. Breakfast is ready. Wear the yellow sundress.”

  I sigh, quietly enough my mother can’t hear. One would think I’m seven, not seventeen. “Okay.”

  I slip out from underneath the crisp cotton sheets, stretching. Chester scampers away, startled by the movement. I head into my adjoining bathroom, heaving out a sigh as I study the line of products I put on every day. What I would give to show up at school with a face free from make-up and uncurled hair.

  It takes me twenty minutes to run through my full routine, and then I cross my room to enter the walk-in closet that flanks my bedroom on the opposite side. The yellow sundress is hanging at the end of the closest rack, clearly planted by my mother. The color and classic silhouette are something a young child might wear, but the material clings to my curves in a way that makes it clear I’m almost a woman.

  A yogurt parfait and hardboiled egg are waiting for me when I enter the formal dining room, same as every other morning.

  “Good morning, Dad,” I tell this morning’s edition of the Boston Globe before I take a bite of egg.

  The newsprint lowers to reveal my father. “Good morning, Eleanor.” He takes a bite of oatmeal, then a sip of coffee. It’s not even seven, but he’s already dressed in his omnipresent black suit, right down to the monogrammed cufflinks and ironed pocket square. I used to wonder what he’d do if a glob of oatmeal or splash of creamer landed on the pristine material.

  It’s never happened.

  Doubt it ever will.

  Michael Clarke controls every situation he’s a part of.

  My mother breezes into the dining room, nodding approvingly when she takes in my appearance. She’s carrying a bowl containing exactly six pieces of cantaloupe, which she proceeds to eat between glances at the planner that determines how she spends each moment of every day.

  I finish my breakfast in silence. “I’m heading to school,” I announce as soon as I’ve swallowed the final clump of yogurt-coated granola.

  “Drive safe,” my mother tells me.

  A sweet sentiment that carries extra weight in the Clarke household. When your elder daughter dies in a car accident, it becomes your worst fear. It’s a warning, too. Don’t do anything reckless. You saw how that turned out for your sister.

  Little do my parents know, I’ve done my fair share of stupid stuff.

  I was just more covert about it than my sister.

  “Don’t forget about the call with Dean Willis this afternoon,” is my father’s farewell. Because why just rely on grades and test scores to get into college when you have money and connections?

  “I won’t,” I promise, grabbing my backpack from the entryway and heading out the front door. My convertible is parked in the driveway, red paint glinting in the sunshine. A convertible is not the most practical vehicle for living in New England. But I’m far from a car connoisseur. When I went with my parents to pick out the obligatory sixteenth birthday present in Fernwood, I just pointed to the prettiest one. I named the cherry-colored car Betty.

  Fernwood is a small town, about a half hour outside of central Boston. It provides all the allure of small-town living: sprawling lots, fresh air, and plenty of square footage, while also allowing for a reasonable commute to the high-powered downtown offices where most of its adult residents work.

  My family’s three-story Colonial is located in Fernwood’s most exclusive cul-de-sac, and I drive through the obnoxious stone facade that marks the entrance to my neighborhood. Most of Fernwood is a suburban utopia. There’s a small downtown section with a few restaurants, a movie theater, a general store, and a couple gift shops. Just the essentials not worthy of a trip all the way into the city.

  I park outside Brewed Awakenings, the local coffee shop. In a bid to avoid more quiet time with my parents, I left the house far earlier than I needed to. Plus, my mother is convinced caffeine is bad for the nerves and stains your teeth. Having someone tsk while you sip coffee kind of ruins the experience. Since sneaking coffee is the closest I get to rebelling these days, I try to do it as often as I can. The only reason I haven’t gotten caught yet is because my mother hosts all her board meetings at the teahouse across the street. Drinking herbal, of course.

  The scent of roasting beans greets me as I step inside the coffee shop, glancing around to see if there’s anyone I know. Most of Fernwood’s residents w
ould probably be categorized as snobs by any outside observer.

  I’m not an outside observer; I’m a Clarke. Part of the gold standard every other family in town aspires to. Not even tragedy kept us from being idolized. It wasn’t Oh, I guess the Clarkes are as fallible as the rest of us. No, it was That poor family. But look how well they’re handling it! Appearances can be deceiving.

  I’m met with smiles instead of scrutinizing expressions as I head toward the front counter to greet who I often consider to be my favorite person in Fernwood.

  “Morning, Joe.”

  “Elle! Wasn’t sure if I’d see you this morning,” the owner of the shop says. “Figured they would need you over at the school to oversee something,” he teases.

  “Not on the first day,” I reply. “Got the whole year for that.” If it’s a club or committee at Fernwood High, I’m probably a part of it.

  “Don’t forget to have some fun, you hear me?” Joe wags a gnarled finger at me. He must be nearing eighty now, but his physical appearance is the only indication of it. He’s got the energy and zest for life many half his age are lacking.

  That I’m lacking.

  “I won’t,” I lie. “Football season is starting soon!” I slip into the role of head cheerleader effortlessly.