Free Instructions for a Broken Heart by Kim Culbertson Page B

record, I’m officially against you throwing drinks in people’s faces.”
    “I broke the rule.”
    “Little bit, yeah.”
    He stayed there next to her, leaned his body against the edge of bridge. Jessa liked the way the stone curved with her body, as if the designers of the bridge knew how many people would lay against it, stare out at the water, wonder where it had all gone wrong.
    “The light is different here.” She glanced sideways at her teacher.
    “Not hard to see how Michelangelo got his palette.” His eyes searched the water, and the hills glazed with twilight.
    “I’m sorry about all that. I actually thought it might make me feel better.” Jessa wiped at her eyes. Seriously, how much more would she cry about it? Ridiculous. She tried to laugh, but it came out a hiccup. “No more drinks. I promise. Are you guys going to send me home?”
    “What? No. Of course not. You need to apologize, but no, we’re not going to send you home.” His hands found the pockets of his jacket. “Besides, it’s not exactly the best landscape for a broken heart.”
    The city spread out around Brunelleschi’s burgundy dome standing majestically over the brick-colored rooftops. Jessa turned at the clop-clop-clop of a horse and carriage along the cobbled streets near the bridge. A man and woman clung to each other, eyes wide with each other. Mr. Campbell wiggled his eyebrows up and down at her. She burst out laughing. “Seriously, right?” he said. “You don’t stand a chance here. It’s like we’re extras on a set for a musical called Love Me! ”
    She watched a bird glide out over the water. “Well, I’m happy to play Rosalind, the scorned lover.”
    “Are you?” His smile vanished.
    Jessa sighed. “Sure. I mean, it’s a more interesting part right?”
    “Maybe in theory.” He pressed his palms into the stone, his fingers arching up with the strain.
    “Do you miss her?” she asked.
    He let his breath out, sending it over the shifting water. “Very much.”
    “Maybe you should throw a drink at her.”
    “Not my style.”
    She leaned into the stone, welcoming the solid feel of it against her. “That’s what Carissa thought would help me. But it didn’t. Not really.”
    He nodded. “Didn’t think so.”
    “So what should I do? Why doesn’t this get easier? Each day, I think I’ll wake up and hate him. I’ll be so mad at him that I just won’t care.”
    “It hasn’t even been a week, Jess. You need time to grieve.”
    “But why? He’s a jerk. He cheated on me. I should just be done. Over him.”
    “He’s not a paint color. You don’t just swipe on Sunset Red over the Meadow Green you’ve had for a year and be done with it.” The wind caught Mr. Campbell’s hair, fluttered it, and his hand instinctively smoothed it down. “A friend of mine gave me a quote from John Updike about death, but she meant it more for the death of a relationship. Updike said death is a ‘ceasing of your own brand of magic.’ What’s painful is that what you had together, all your inside jokes and favorite restaurants and that movie you both loved but everyone else hated—that’s gone, and there’s no replacement for it, you never replicate it, never get to have it ever again…” His voice trailed off. He shuffled his feet a little, cleared his throat.
    Something dark and shadowed filled Jessa’s belly, made her light, feel like she would float away. Grief. Because there had been a special brand of magic with Sean, their own brand. She wanted to ask Mr. Campbell why he and Katie broke up. Did she cheat? Jessa studied his veiled expression. Had he cried into the night like she had with only the shadows for company? Maybe it didn’t even matter why they broke up, maybe that wasn’t the point. Because you can’t have what’s already gone. You can only grieve for it, walk around with a huge hole in your gut knowing you will never be the same again.
    Standing there on the bridge, his body warm next to her,