Best Kind of Broken Read online

“Maybe you could rock a half-beard for the rest of the summer.”

  “Wow.” Zack appears thoroughly amused as he looks back and forth between us. He nods. “This feels good. This feels right.”

  Marvin goat-yells again.

  “Whatever,” Pixie says. “I have a job to get back to. It was good seeing you, Zack.” She gives him a little wave before heading back inside.

  “Later.” Zack looks after her until she disappears, then turns back to me and smiles.

  I stare at him. “What?”

  He laughs. “I don’t know what your endgame is here, but you really need to get your shit together.”

  I sigh and step out of the way as Marvin tries to bite my foot. “I know, I know. Everyone wants me to write the damn essay.”

  “No, I mean with Sarah,” he says. “But yeah. The essay thing too.” He lets out a whistle. “Damn, dude. You have a lot of shit to get together.”

  Marvin looks up and yells again.

  “Tell me about it.”

  * * *

  After I finish working for the day, I head back inside and to the stairs. As I round the banister, I come face-to-face with Ellen and a stack of mail.

  “There you are.” She smiles and presses the envelopes against my chest. “More mail.”

  “Gee. Thanks.” I take the letters from her hands.

  “Anytime.” She moves past me.

  I walk upstairs, enter my room, and throw the letters onto my desk. One of the envelopes skids across the surface and hits my laptop, bringing the screen to life. My e-mail window glares back at me with a new message. Stepping closer, I see that it’s from my mom, and my chest immediately tightens.

  I haven’t spoken to either of my parents in months.

  After Charity died, Mom and Dad went a little crazy. Instead of coping with their daughter’s death, they took their sorrows out on each other. They fought constantly. They grieved endlessly. But not together. They didn’t know how to console each other, so instead they slipped deeper and deeper into their own personal pits of grief.

  They separated three months after the accident, and both of them left town.

  My dad took a job in Nevada, where he promptly buried himself in his work and took up smoking. He didn’t even bother to say good-bye before he left. I think the thought of making his move “official” with a send-off and a good-bye hug was just too much for him to bear.

  But he called me once, after he moved. We spent the entire phone call rehashing a recent NFL game and kept away from any real-life topics. I haven’t spoken with him since.

  My mom moved to New Hampshire, where she was far away from Charity’s memory and my facial features. After the funeral, she could barely look at me, the living son who so resembled her deceased daughter. And when she did chance a glance at me, her eyes would flash with pain before quickly darting elsewhere. Maybe she thought putting twenty-five hundred miles between my face and her eyes would make things hurt less.

  “I’ll call you and you can come visit,” she said to me the day she left Copper Springs. I lifted her heavy suitcase into the white minivan she used to drive Charity to piano lessons in and leaned down so she could hug me good-bye. She smelled like lemons. She always smelled like lemons.

  She squeezed me tighter than necessary and mumbled a bunch of things about taking care of myself, but she didn’t make eye contact. Not even when tears dripped down her soft cheeks.

  She drove away, and I watched the white minivan disappear down the street like it was any other Tuesday. Headed to school, to piano lessons, to football practice.

  Headed to New Hampshire.

  That was last winter. I’ve talked to my mom twice since then, and both conversations were strained and short, like we no longer know how to interact with each other.

  So her e-mailing me is a surprise. Not a pleasant surprise, exactly. Just an interesting one.

  With a quiet inhale, I sit down at my desk and open her e-mail. It’s addressed to me, but she copied my father as well.

  Fantastic.

  From: Linda Andrews

  To: Levi Andrews; Mark Andrews

  Subject: College

  Levi,

  I know things haven’t been perfect for our family lately, and I know your father and I aren’t helping any by keeping our distance from each other. But the two of us have been talking, and we’re both concerned about you.

  As you know, Dean Maxwell is good friends with your father, and he informed us that you haven’t made any attempt to be reinstated at school. What is going on, Levi? Why are you not enrolled?

  Your father and I realize that you’re an adult now and can make your own decisions, but we want you to be happy. We want great things for you. We want you to play football and finish college, and go on to the live the life that you’ve worked so hard to earn. And we want to help you in any way we can. Let’s come together as a family to get this resolved.

  We hope you’re doing well. And we love you so much. And miss you.

  Love,

  Mom and Dad

  Several emotions pass through me as I reread the e-mail. Anger. Bitterness. Annoyance. The stubborn part of me wants to ignore it altogether and not respond. But the prideful part of me won’t allow it. So I write them back.

  From: Levi Andrews

  To: Linda Andrews; Mark Andrews

  Subject: RE: College

  Mom and Dad,

  It’s nice to hear the two of you are on speaking terms, like grown adults who are still married should be, but I’m a little confused at why you’re both so “concerned” for me.

  I would think that the time for two parents to be worried about their child would be the first few months after that child lost his baby sister. But you guys didn’t seem at all interested in my state of mind or well-being after Charity died. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

  I realize you blame me for her death, and honestly I don’t fault you for that. But I was a wreck after the accident. I really needed you guys, and you just took off and went about “finding” yourselves and “starting fresh.” I didn’t have that luxury. I had to stay.

  I was racked with guilt and so messed up. I slowly failed all my classes at school and eventually got kicked off the football team at ASU. So yeah, my probationary status at school is a bummer, but it’s far less severe than my physiological status during your flee-the-city phases.

  So thanks for your concern, but you’ll understand if I don’t really feel like coming together as a “family” on this one. Clearly, I’ve handled far worse on my own. There’s no need to start helping me now.

  Love,

  Levi

  P.S. In case you were wondering, Pixie’s doing just great too.

  I click Send without a second thought and close my laptop.

  23

  Pixie

  It’s late, and most of the inn guests are already asleep.

  I wait until I hear the TV click on in Levi’s room before I start plugging everything I own into the wall.

  We argued today. We avoided each other. And aside from the weird look we exchanged in the hallway this morning and our little spat in front of Zack, everything is back to normal.

  Which means I owe Levi for the cold shower I had to take.

  I turn everything on and the lights go out. I hear the TV die in the next room and crawl onto my bed with a smile.

  “Pixie!” Levi’s irritated voice rings through the walls and I’m feeling happier than a mature person should.

  I hear stomping, and then he opens my bedroom door. Just opens it. Like he has the right to just waltz into my room. I could be naked in here; he doesn’t know.

  “You’re going out to the fuse box this time.” He steps inside, and now he’s standing just a few feet away, pointing his finger at me.

  I’m on the bed, trying to look casual, like lying in the dark playing games on my phone is perfectly normal. The only light in the room is coming from the glow of my phone and the half-moon outside, so we bo
th look blue and soft. And in the blue softness, I see he’s shirtless.

  I see Levi without a shirt on almost every morning, but I’ve never seen him half-naked in the dark, and something about it makes my body feel electric.

  “Not going to happen,” I say.

  He steps closer. “Well, I sure as hell am not marching outside to turn the power back on.”

  I shrug. “Fine with me. I don’t need electricity tonight. I can watch TV on my fully charged phone.” I wiggle said phone at him.

  He sighs. “You don’t understand. I was looking up the contact information for an alarm company I found so I can call and schedule the installation tomorrow. I need the Internet, Pix.”

  “Then use your phone.”

  “My phone is dead.”

  The boy never charges anything. He almost makes the whole fuse-blowing thing too easy.

  “Well, that’s too bad. I guess you’re going to have to turn the electricity back on after all.” I pretend to be very interested in my game.

  “Let me use your phone. Just for a minute.”

  “No.”

  “Come on. It’s for Ellen.” He implores me with a pouty face I’ve seen him use on his mom a dozen times.

  I scoff. “Please.”

  “Dammit, Pixie.” The pout is gone.

  “Maybe tomorrow you’ll remember to charge your own phone. Or hey, better yet, maybe you’ll let me have a hot shower.” I make a big production of pressing random buttons on my phone.

  He slumps his shoulders like he’s accepting defeat, then whips out his arm and tries to swipe the phone from my hands. Sneaky bastard.

  I pull my phone back and kick at him with my foot, but he grabs my ankle—because I’m not exactly a ninja with my kicking skills—and then we both freeze.

  Because now I’m leaning back on the bed with my legs spread apart, and he’s got one hand on my ankle and the other on the bed next to my hip where he was reaching for my phone, and his body is in between my legs, which are completely bare except for the tiny gym shorts I have on, and my right arm is raised over my head with my cell phone still out of his reach, but my back is arched and my shirt has come up so my stomach is completely exposed and I’m hot all over.

  Hot. Heat. Everywhere.

  I mean, really. We look like we’re in the middle of having sex, but with clothes on. My body knows this. His body knows this. And our bodies are really, really happy about this.

  He’s looking at me with nothing in his eyes except want. And I like it. No, I love it.

  This must show on my face because his hand—still wrapped around my ankle—moves up my leg an inch, and he watches my reaction.

  I try not to react because, hell, he can’t win. He can’t just be asshole Levi all day long and then climb into my bed at night and touch me wherever he pleases.

  Ugh. Yes he can.

  I part my lips and he slowly, slowly slides his warm hand up my calf and, holy hell, I could orgasm right here. I might, actually.

  My calf.

  My calf.

  He’s touching my calf and I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life.

  His hand shifts again, and the only thought in my head is, Go higher, go higher.

  Please, dear God, go higher.

  24

  Levi

  I could do it. She wants me to do it. She wants me to do whatever I want.

  And I want… so… much.

  I look at her bare stomach and stare at the skin below her belly button.

  I could kiss her there. I could keep my palm around her calf and bend it to her body and lie down between her legs and lick a trail along the very low waistline of her ridiculous shorts. I look up at her, see the desire in her eyes, and almost do it.

  But then I see the end of her scar peeking out from the bottom of her shirt and it’s like a train hits me, crashing into me and shredding up my insides with hot metal and shards of split iron until I feel nothing but pain.

  What the hell am I doing? This is Pixie.

  Pixie.

  I can’t ruin her life and then sleep with her. That would be fucked up on so many levels. I’m not an angel, but I know the difference between right and wrong, and sex with the girl I maimed and nearly killed would be wrong.

  Probably smoking-ass hot.

  But wrong, wrong, wrong.

  I force my eyes to stay on the scar, the only thing powerful enough to put distance between us, and with a deep inhale, I close my eyes and lift away from Pixie’s bed. My body is in agony as I back away from her hot, open body.

  She stays in the sinful position for a beat, then pulls herself up until she’s sitting cross-legged. She takes a deep breath, and the light from her window shines blue on her chest as it rises with air.

  I clear my throat and overenunciate my words. “Can I please use your phone?”

  She slowly stands up and straightens her shirt before looking up at me. “No.”

  “Ugh.” I pull at my hair. “Why are you such a pain in the ass?”

  She makes a face. “Why don’t you ever let me take a hot shower?”

  I lean in. “If you want a hot shower, then shower at night.”

  “I can’t shower at night. If I shower at night, then I’ll have to dry my hair at night, and if I dry my hair at night, then I’ll have to straighten my hair at night, and then I’ll have to sleep on my straightened hair, and when I sleep on my straightened hair, it gets all poofy.”

  I blink at her.

  “I don’t like it when my hair gets poofy!” She thrusts her hands out like I’m supposed to know poofy hair is a nighttime-shower-related problem. “Why don’t you shower at night?”

  “Because I like pissing you off!” I raise my voice.

  She raises her voice to match mine. “Why?”

  “Because fighting doesn’t hurt!”

  It’s the most honest thing either one of us has said to each other in nearly a year and it just hangs there, in the silence, like a gaping black hole.

  Her lips part, and I see the fight drain from her expression.

  No.

  No, no.

  Fight, dammit.

  Lavender-scented body heat starts circling around me, tucking me into something lost and safe, making me feel wanted and worthy and all the other things I shouldn’t feel.

  She’s all big eyes and fragile bones, with her pretty mouth tilted up as she scans my face and softly asks, “Does it hurt you to be around me?”

  It hurts and it heals.

  It aches and it comforts.

  I swallow and quietly say, “Does it hurt you to be around me?”

  Neither of us responds as we gaze at each other in the moonlight.

  I step back from the sweet, warm haze Pixie just wrapped around me with her goddamn goodness and shake my head. Not saying anything, just shaking my head like an idiot, I leave her room.

  25

  Pixie

  This morning the electricity has been magically turned back on, and I don’t care about my cold shower as water runs over my shoulders. I stare at the simple white wall in front of me, thinking about last night.

  The anger. The hurt. The cruel wanting we can’t entertain against the backdrop of the thing we don’t talk about.

  Just thinking.

  I rinse the conditioner from my hair and turn off the shower.

  When Charity died, it was like the friendship Levi and I had died too. Our bond just sort of disappeared.

  At her funeral, every instinct in my soul wanted to run after him and find comfort in the arms of the boy who was my hero, but I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face the shame I’d feel in his presence.

  I had been reckless with Charity. I’d been reckless with me. And because of my poor judgment, Levi had lost his sister.

  I didn’t know how to face him, so I never did.

  And now here I am, living next door to him and trying to ignore pretty much everything that comes up between us.

  My scar. The
ghost of Charity’s memory.

  The magnetic heat that just magically appears whenever we’re near each other…

  Yeah. Lots of ignoring going on.

  I wrap a towel around my body and step into the hallway just as Levi steps out of his room. Our eyes meet, and at first it’s really uncomfortable.

  Like, Oh crap. I was hoping to avoid you until the end of time.

  And then it’s normal.

  Like, Hello, old friend whom I grew up with and trust with my life.

  And then it’s dangerous.

  Like, Can I help you out of your towel and slip you into something more comfortable? Like my bed, perhaps?

  The tension in the hallway is hot and foreboding as his gaze strays from my face to every other part of my tiny-toweled body. And I’m checking him out in all his white-T-shirt-worn-jeans hotness, and my thoughts are going no place pure.

  I feel the heat in my cheeks as I stare at the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest and molds to his muscles and, just when my body’s getting too hot for a towel, his eyes snap to mine.

  It’s uncomfortable again. He goes back into his room and shuts the door behind him.

  I stand confused for a second, barefoot and damp in the hallway, trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with us. It’s like we can’t get our chemistry right. It’s either rude and mean, or sad and heavy, or hot and naughty.

  Where’s the happy medium?

  26

  Levi

  God damn.

  Pixie needs to start wearing a muumuu wherever she goes. I can’t do this seeing-her-half-naked-all-the-time shit. With her long legs and flushed skin and her warm, wet body…

  God damn.

  I shake my head like that’s going to clear up all the guilt and lust I have warring inside me and exit my bedroom for the second time this morning. I have work to do. I have stuff to fix.

  Douche bag Daren is loitering at the bottom of the stairs, making my morning just fucking perfect as I head to the front desk.

  “ ’Sup, Andrews?” he says.

  ’Sup?