My Foolish Heart Read Free

celebrate with us.”
    Issy gave a slight chuckle over the air. High and short, it was a ripple of sound that resembled fear. Perfect. “I . . . Thank you for the kind offer, Pride, but—”
    â€œYou don’t understand. This is going to be a huge wedding. I know we’re not supposed to reveal our names on the air, but I am so grateful for your help that you need to know—my father is Gerard O’Grady.”
    â€œThe governor of California?” Former actor–turned–billionaire–turned–politician?
    â€œYes.” A giggle followed her voice. “We’re already planning the wedding—it’ll be at our estate in Napa Valley. I want you there, in the front row, with my parents. You’ve just helped me so much.”
    â€œOh, uh, Pride—”
    â€œLauren. I’m Lauren O’Grady.”
    â€œOkay, Lauren. I’m so sorry, but I can’t come.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Why not? Because every time Issy ventured a block from her house, the world closed in and cut off her breathing? Because she couldn’t erase from her brain the smell of her mother’s burning flesh, her screams, the feel of hot blood on her hands? Because every time she even thought about getting into a car, she saw dots, broke out in a sweat?
    Most of all, because she was still years away from breaking free of the panic attacks that held her hostage.
    â€œOur station’s policy is—”
    â€œI’m sure my father could get your station to agree. Please, please don’t say no. Just think about it. I’ll send you an invitation.”
    And then she clicked off.
    Seconds of dead air passed before Issy found the right voice. “Remember to visit the forum at the My Foolish Heart website. This is Miss Foolish Heart saying, your perfect love might be right next door.” She disconnected just as Karen Carpenter’s “Close to You” signaled the close of her show.
    Yeah, sure. Once upon a time, she’d actually believed her tagline.
    Once upon a time, she’d actually believed in Happily Ever After.
    The next show came on— The Bean , a late-night sports show out of Chicago that scooped up the scores from the games around the nation. She had no control over what shows surrounded hers and was just glad that she had the right to control some of the ad content.
    Stopping by the bathroom, she closed the window, grabbed a towel, and threw it on the subway tile floor, stepping on it with her bare foot. She paused by her parents’ bedroom—it hadn’t seen fresh air for two years, but she still opened the door, let her eyes graze the four-poster double bed, the Queen Anne bureau and dresser, the window that overlooked the garden.
    For once, she left the door cracked, then descended the stairs. Front door locked, yes; the parlor windows shut.
    Light sparked again across the night, brachials of white that spliced the blackness. It flickered long enough to illuminate the tiny library across the street and the recycle bin on its side, rolling as the wind kicked it down the sidewalk. A half block away, and down the hill toward town, the hanging stoplight suspended above the highway swayed. The storm had turned the intersection into a four-way stop, the red light blinking, bloody upon the glassy pavement.
    She pulled a knit afghan off the sofa and wrapped it around herself, letting the fraying edges drag down the wooden floor to the kitchen. Here, she switched on the light. It bathed the kitchen—the spray of white hydrangeas in a milk glass vase on the round white-and-black table, the black marble countertops, the black-and-white checked floor. Part retro, part contemporary—her mother’s eclectic taste.
    Thunder shook the house again, lifting the fine hairs on the back of her neck. How she hated storms.
    She snaked a hand out from the blanket, turned on the burner under the teakettle. She’d left the last