“It’s not a book of ill repute,” Celi said. “It’s a . . .” Her voice faded as she turned the page, flipped to some other brokenhearted recollection.
“I had no idea you guys got around so much,” I said.
“Crushing on boys is not the same as getting around,” Mari said. “Some of those boys were just . . . It was, like, one dance in junior high.”
“Still,” I said. “No wonder you never wanted me to see it. It would’ve ruined my virgin eyes.”
Lourdes gasped. “You’re still a—”
“It’s a book of old ghosts.” Celi had stopped on a page of Johnny’s stuff. “Look at this crap! Wedding invitations? Baby names? We weren’t even . . . God, I thought he was my entire future.” She was in her own world, fighting with the memories all over again.
Shame and sadness burned my cheeks, and I looked out the window and waited for it to pass.
“It’s all heartbreak,” Celi whispered. “Why did we keep this?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Mari ashed her cigarette into a half-empty Coke can. “And it did help me get over Ham Camari.”
“You dated a guy named Ham?” I asked, grateful for the redirect. “You didn’t list him in the book.”
“I used a fake name,” Mari said. “Harry Smith. It only lasted a month.”
“Thank the Lord.” Celi finally closed the book on Johnny and smiled. She was probably grateful for the redirect too. “If you married him, your name would be Mari Camari.”
“Oh. My. God!” Mari doubled over. “I never thought of that!”
“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “It’s so obvious!”
“His name was Ham!” she said. “I kind of stopped right there, you know?”
“Hello, Simon and Schuster?” I made my best Mari impersonation, which was pretty impressive, truth be told. “I’m calling about that five-billion-dollar book I sold you? This is Mari Camari. Yes, I’m serious. Mari Camari. Camari. C-A—no, it’s not a joke.”
“At least he didn’t have Wesley Laytonitis,” she said.
“Mari!” Celi squealed at the same time Lourdes gave Celi the evil eye.
“You weren’t supposed to tell anyone,” Lourdes said to Celi. “I didn’t even put him in the book.”
“What’s Wesley Laytonitis?” I asked.
“You tell her,” Lourdes said to Mari. “Since you know all about it now, thanks to Mouth over there.”
“Like I could keep that to myself.” Celi laughed.
“The whole story?” Mari asked Lourdes.
“You have to tell it now, don’t you?” Lourdes said.
Mari dropped the end of her cigarette into the soda and scooted down onto the floor. She was, like, giddy. Very un-Mari. Goose bumps rolled down my skin when she looked at me. “Wesley said he was in love with Lourdes, right? Like from day one. And they went out for six months.”
“Seven,” Lourdes said.
“Hey, you wanna tell it?”
Lourdes shook her head. “You go ahead.”
“Six or seven months. Anyway, one night, she decides he’s the one, and they’re gonna do it.”
“Lower your voice!” Lourdes was bright red. I’d never seen her so embarrassed.
“Sorry,” Mari said. Not that she lowered her voice or anything. “They were supposed to . . . you know. Only right when things were getting hot and heavy, he . . .” She grabbed her stomach to stifle another laugh. “Dude started barking.”
“Like . . . yelling at her?” I asked.
“Barking,” Mari said. “Straight-up barking like Pancake. A-rooo! Woof woof woof!”
Lourdes giggled and winged a pillow at us. “You guys are terrible.”
“Anyway,” Mari said, “she made up some excuse not to go through with it, thinking maybe he was nervous and next time it wouldn’t be an issue. Only it was an issue.”
“Four more times,” Celi said.
“Five,” Lourdes said. “Including once at his parents’ house, when they were downstairs watching TV. And even that didn’t help.”
“Guess he liked it doggy style,” Celi said.
Mari bent over with another giggle fit, and when she straightened up again, her face was streaked with tears.
“I’m sorry, what was that, Mari Camari?” Lourdes asked. “Did you say something, Mari Camari?”
Mari swatted her with a pillow.
“See what your future holds, Juju?” Lourdes asked. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you about . . . boys.” She flashed a look at Celi, then back to me, and I knew she’d almost said Vargas boys. Mari had come around to Emilio, grown to actually like him, hard as it was for her to admit. And after the initial shock, even Lourdes seemed okay; she’d been chatting him up ever since, asking about the bike, how he learned to fix it, how he knew exactly what to do.
But Celi was still struggling with it. She’d graduated from outright cold-shouldering to meaningless small talk whenever he was around, but she still made excuses to leave the room when he came over, to go to bed early or walk to the river to avoid his presence. I knew she wasn’t over Johnny, and maybe the idea of Emilio and me would never sit well with her. But she was trying. And I loved her for it.
For once, it seemed that the Holy Trinity and I had finally come to agree on something: I needed to live my own life, take my own chances, make my own mistakes, just like they had.
And maybe, after all that, they wouldn’t be mistakes.
My sisters and I eventually drifted into a comfortable silence, each of us thinking about the history in that book, maybe, or everything we’d been through as a family, all the heartbreaks that were still to come. I thought about Zoe and Christina on their way to the Dunes, their last road trip, the places they’d see together. I’d sent them both letters wishing them safe travels. Maybe they’d send me a postcard. Maybe they’d call when they got back, or when they got settled in at college. Maybe they wouldn’t, and they’d end up in the book. It was uncertain, like life.
I was starting to be okay with that.
“Girls.” Mari clapped her hands once, startling us out of our haze with her usual melodramatic flare. “One more oath.” She stood and rummaged through Celi’s closet. “To make it official.”
“Not this again,” Lourdes said.
“Mari, you need to chill. I’m serious,” Celi said. “You’ll give yourself a heart attack with all that drama.”
I raised my hand. “If you bring out a knife, I’m out.”
“No knives.” Mari rejoined us on the floor. She’d found a tiny little tea light in a ceramic Easter-egg shell and she set her lighter to it. “Jude Catherine Hernandez, it’s time we initiate you properly.”
Now, at the edge of this great wide gash in the earth, I hug the book to my chest and whisper the new vow my sisters gave me.
I, Jude Hernandez, vow to always and forever, under all circumstances, within or outside of my control . . .
“You need to figure out the rest yourself,” Mari said. And that’s when she handed me the book.
So this is me, sitting on a rock surrounded by billions of years of everything and nothing all at once, figuring it out myself.
The fire crackles with anticipation.
It seems fitting that the book that held the long and winding record of Hernandez heartbreak would meet its end here, and I take one last look at the cover, trace my fingers over the title. The Book of Broken Hearts.
I tip it into the fire.
It bubbles and curls and smokes, and I watch it burn, say my final good-byes to the past.
Eventually the small fire burns down to embers, and I douse the last of it with water and dirt. The oath, the pictures, the flowers, the words, the stories of broken hearts, the old ghosts . . . nothing but smoke and ash, and I take a satisfying breath, exhale it out over the canyon.
I look to the rim where we had our coffee at sunrise, where Emilio has been patiently waiting on the bike. He smiles when he sees me. Stubble, dimples, scar.
My heart lights up from the inside out.
He cocks his head to the side, dangles my silver Puerto Rican flag key chain like a dare, and I answer with a raised eyebrow, a grin.
Yes, I’m ready.
He’s already packed up camp. We’ve been on the road two weeks; he’s gotten it down to a science. We still have a ways to go, and when we finally return home, I know Papi will be different. He’s at the stage where each day costs him a little more.
Yeah, I promised him I’d take this trip, but not because it really was his final wish. I did it because he was right—it was in my heart. And even if it ends right now, if Emilio turns us back toward Colorado and the road home, I’ll still know it was the most amazing experience of my life. I looked upon ancient rocks and cave paintings, rode a mule to the bottom of the canyon and back up again, watched California condors with a six-foot wingspan float on the currents over the gorge. I rafted on the Colorado River and slept in a cave with baby bats and counted more stars that I had numbers for, including Orion, our self-appointed travel guardian, who follows us on every road, into every forest and ancient riverbed.
And I’ve done it side by side with Emilio Vargas, the boy I’d been warned against my entire life.
I smile now as I remember that first day at Duchess, how much has changed, how much I’m leaving in the fading smoke as I walk back toward the motorcycle.
Without a word, Emilio holds out his hand, and I take it, no doubts this time. I swing my leg up and over the seat, strap on my helmet, and slip my arms around his waist.
He turns the key.
He jumps on the kickstart.
Valentina roars to life.
We zoom back onto the road in a sapphire blur of blue and white and chrome, the wind at our backs, the morning sun warm on our faces, and then the moment is gone.
I have no idea what the next moment will bring.
But it’s a new day. I’m rockin’ a brand-new pair of super-cute jeans. And I love the wind in my hair.
I’m ready for the unknown.
No regrets, princesa.
Acknowledgments
True confessions: the earliest seeds of this story were planted in my subconscious way back in the eighties by the movie Grease 2. I spent most of middle school crushing on Michael Carrington, and I learned all the words to “Cool Rider” and “(Love Will) Turn Back the Hands of Time,” and I totally ran around singing and pretending I was Stephanie Zinone (only with slightly less awesome hair).
Since then lots of non-imaginary people have worked hard—without musical accompaniment—to help me bring this book to life.
Love and endless gratitude to my husband, Alex, who introduced me to all the best things: Spaghetti Westerns, empanadas, Malbec, coffee under the predawn stars, road trips. “You see, in this world there’s two kinds of people, my friend . . .” Thanks for being my B.G.O. and for taking such good care of me.
Jen Klonsky, even though you’ve never experienced the cinematic wonder that is Grease 2, you’re still an honorary Pink Lady and an Editor of Awesome, and working with you on Jude and Emilio’s story has been one of the greatest joys of my career (not to mention, like, totally fun). Those FNL references will always be for you!
Ted Malawer, frankly, I’d be lost in this crazy business without you. Six years, several books, and billions of neurotic e-mails (um, mine, not yours!) after our first call, you continue to inspire me, and I’m grateful for your encouragement, patience, and sense of humor every step of the way.
To Patrick Price, who graciously welcomed our new partnership and this book with enthusiasm and dedication, and to the entire crew at Simon Pulse, including Craig Adams, Mara Anastas, Bethany Buck, Jim Conlin, Paul Crichton, Katherine Devendorf, Nicole Ellul, Jessica Handelman, Victor Iannone, Russell Gordon, Dan Potash, Mary Marotta, Christina Pecorale, Lucille Rettino, Dawn Ryan, Emma Sector, Michael Strother, Sara Saidlower, Carolyn Swerdloff, and countless others: You guys are Team Fabulous. Seriously. You need matching leather jackets, and if it were up to me, you’d get Sugar Sweet Sunshine cupcakes every day.
High fives to my fellow writers and readers who offered editorial feedback, moral support, wine, cookies, or some or all of the above, including Zoe Strickland, Amy Mair, Courtney Koschel, Jessi Kirby, Heidi R. Kling, Rhonda Stapleton, Aprilynne Pike, Bronwen Durocher, and the 2009 Debutantes. Your contributions enhanced both this story and my well-being, which is no small feat.
Hugs to my friends and family, especially Dad, who took me out on the Harley way before I thought it was cool, and who patiently read through all the Jude and Emilio kissing scenes just to fact-check my highly questionable biker babe authenticity; Mom, who ensures that the world knows the instant my books hit the shelves; Moma, who taught me how to make the best ensalada rusa ever (second to hers, of course); and Popa, my favorite viejito, who always laughs when I say completely inappropriate stuff en español.
A super shout-out to readers, book bloggers, librarians, teachers, booksellers, and all the other bookworms of the world, without whom I’d be talking to myself. Well, more than usual. You guys rock!
Finally, a very special thanks to Emmalie Conner and Cheryl Parrish of the Colorado Alzheimer’s Association, who generously donated their time and expertise to review my manuscript. Though this story is a work of fiction, I endeavored to portray a family’s experience of early onset Alzheimer’s authentically, and any errors are my own.
Currently, more than five million Americans are living with Alzheimer’s disease. To the families here and abroad who’ve been touched by Alzheimer’s, you are forever in my heart.
SARAH OCKLER is the bestselling author of Bittersweet, Twenty Boy Summer (a YALSA Teens’ Top Ten nominee and an Indie Next List pick), and Fixing Delilah. She is a champion cupcake eater, coffee drinker, night person, and bookworm. When she’s not writing or reading at home in Colorado, Sarah enjoys taking pictures, hugging trees, and road-tripping through the country with her husband, Alex. Visit her website at SARAHOCKLER.COM, and find her on Twitter and Facebook.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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First Simon Pulse hardcover edition May 2013
Copyright © 2013 by Sarah Ockler
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Jacket photograph copyright © 2013
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Author Photograph by R. Alex Morabito
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&
nbsp; Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ockler, Sarah.
The Book of Broken Hearts / by Sarah Ockler.—First Simon Pulse hardcover edition.
p. cm.
Summary: Jude has learned a lot from her older sisters, but the most important thing is this: The Vargas brothers are notorious heartbreakers. But as Jude begins to fall for Emilio Vargas, she begins to wonder if her sisters were wrong.
ISBN 978-1-4424-3038-9
[1. Love—Fiction. 2. Family life—Fiction. 3. Argentine Americans—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.O168Bo 2013
[Fic]—dc23
2012033041
ISBN 978-1-4424-3040-2 (eBook)
Contents
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Acknowledgments
About Sarah Ockler
Sarah Ockler, The Book of Broken Hearts
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