Best Kind of Broken Read online

  Mom looks at me and frowns. “Go put real clothes on before some pervert sees you in your sleepwear and gets bad ideas.”

  I make a face. “I’m wearing oversized pants and a disgusting shirt, Mom. No pervert is going to—”

  “Hush. Go change.”

  “She doesn’t need to change,” Ellen says sharply.

  “It’s fine,” I say to Ellen as I turn around to head back to my room. I don’t want to fight. It’s not worth it. And I don’t want Ellen to have to defend me. She’s already done enough of that throughout my life.

  A nervous twitch starts behind my left eye as I climb the stairs and hear Ellen snap at my mother about being kind to me.

  I was thirteen the first time Ellen tried to get me to move in with her. She’d witnessed my mother’s severe dislike for me throughout my childhood, and she’d tried to temper it for years—without success. Sandra Marshall was unhappy about her life and clung to her bitterness like it was a drug and she was an addict.

  My mom was the head cheerleader in high school while my father—some guy named Greg—was the star basketball player, and they were this adolescent power couple or whatever. Until my mom got pregnant. She was seventeen.

  I was young and beautiful and skinny, until you came along and ruined everything, she used to say to me. As if I were somehow responsible for my own conception.

  Good ol’ Greg couldn’t handle the idea of his thin little girlfriend gaining weight and being sick and emotional all the time, so he spent more time bedding the rest of the cheerleading squad than he did hanging out with my mom during her pregnancy. Which broke my mom’s heart.

  But she refused to dump him because she didn’t want to raise a baby on her own. Plus, she had plans to move to California with him, where they were both going to attend UCLA so she could become a news anchor. So she let her scumbag boyfriend cheat on her while she suffered through morning sickness and took on the body of a whale.

  And then I was born.

  Suddenly the baby thing got real, and life got hard. My mom and Greg were broke high school seniors who had no parental help, and Greg decided he didn’t feel like being a daddy anymore. He skipped town when I was four months old.

  My mother dropped out of high school, waved good-bye to her future as a news anchor, and got a job at a local diner, where she let her broken heart fester until it was black. With Greg out of the picture, the only person left to blame for her miserable life was the baby girl who had ruined her body and driven away the only man who would ever love her—that was her reasoning.

  So I never had a chance.

  Ellen, who was a few years older than my mother, jumped right in to help out with baby me. But Sandra Marshall was determined to be miserable. And with every year that passed without providing Sandra a way out of town or a handsome man to sweep her off her feet, she grew more intolerant of me.

  Ellen’s attempts at tempering Sandra’s behavior failed. So as a last resort, she offered up her home—a place just a few miles from the inn—and asked me to consider living with her indefinitely. My mother wasn’t horribly against the idea, but she was wicked cruel to Ellen for suggesting it. Because if Ellen took little Pixie away from Sandra, then whomever would Sandra have to blame for her unhappy existence?

  I declined Ellen’s offer under the guise of not wanting to move out to the middle of nowhere and live far away from my friends. But really, I just didn’t want Ellen to have to take more heat than necessary from my mom and deal with whatever temper tantrums she decided to throw throughout my remaining years.

  So I stayed in my mother’s house and settled for visiting Ellen as often as possible. She used to drive into Copper Springs and pick Charity and me up from school on Fridays so we could stay the weekend at Willow Inn.

  The summer we were fourteen, Charity and I got to stay at the inn for two weeks. It was two weeks of ice cream and movies and late-night fun with Ellen. That was the summer Ellen started calling me Pixie. I’m glad she never stopped.

  Sandra Marshall’s scolding voice rakes over my nerves as I hear her chatter away downstairs.

  Goddammit, my mother is here. I thought I was free, but now the very person I’ve been trying to get away from my whole life is downstairs yelling at Haley about eating carbs.

  34

  Levi

  I occupy myself with outdoor jobs all day before heading back inside, hoping to avoid Sandra Marshall.

  There are only three ways I can enter the inn. I can go through the front door—but Sandra might be in the lobby. I can go through the main back door—but Sandra might be in the library or by Ellen’s office. Or I can go through the kitchen’s back door.

  Kitchen it is.

  I wipe my shoes on the mat outside and let myself in.

  “Hey, handsome.” Mable smiles warmly at me. “I made honey croissants. Want some?”

  “Always.” I take a croissant from her and bring it to my mouth. Pixie’s over by the sink, her hair pulled back from her face so her cheeks and nose look extra small. Her yellow apron is covered in flour and what looks like chocolate, and I notice she’s wearing nicer clothes than usual.

  Our eyes meet.

  She looks away.

  Sandra enters the kitchen and frowns at Mable. “Croissants are not good for a woman your age. Are you trying to die?”

  Mable arches a brow. “Are you?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Mother.” Pixie rolls her eyes as she starts kneading dough on the counter. “Quit insulting everyone.”

  Sandra isn’t listening to her daughter, though. She’s looking at me.

  Here we go.

  I’d been working at Willow Inn for only three weeks the first time Sandra Marshall came to visit her sister. I hadn’t seen Sandra since Charity’s funeral, and I didn’t expect her to speak to me at all.

  But she did.

  “You work here now,” she stated with disgust as I hung a painting on the lobby wall.

  I turned around with a hammer in my hand, not sure if she wanted me to respond.

  “My sister says you live here, as well,” she added. “Do your parents approve of this arrangement? Oh wait. That’s right. They’ve moved away.” She clucked her tongue. “You just destroyed your whole family, didn’t you? First your sister, then your parents.”

  I clenched my fist around the hammer.

  “Can’t say that I blame them.” She looked me up and down with a pitiful sigh. “You look just like her.” She shook her head. “Your poor mother. I bet she curses the day you were born.” And then Sandra Marshall turned and left, walking out of the inn like she hadn’t just ripped out my heart and verbalized every fear I had hidden inside.

  I stood, hammer in hand, staring after her for long, hot minutes, waiting for my heart to stop pounding in fury. But I couldn’t shake the pain in my chest. Because she was right. I was the reason Charity was dead.

  And now we meet again, this time in the kitchen. Sandra’s evil eyes narrow in on me, and I’m the same guilty boy I was six months ago.

  She purses her lips. “Judging by the muck and stench you’re covered in, I guess you still work here.”

  I smile tightly. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “No, you’re not,” she sneers.

  “Leave Levi alone.” Pixie glares at her mother.

  “I most certainly will not leave him alone. He almost killed you last year!” Sandra turns to me. “And you scarred her too. No man’s ever going to appreciate her naked now. Does that make you happy?”

  Mable gasps, all color draining from her face.

  I feel like Sandra just punched me in the stomach.

  “Mom!” Pixie looks humiliated.

  “Well, it’s the truth, Sarah!” she says. “You’re only half-pretty to begin with, but with that giant scar through your skin—and across your chest, no less—it’s just… well, repulsive.”

  All feeling drains from my fingertips as I stand frozen by the counter. I can’t breathe. I’m torn betwe
en wanting to kill myself and wanting to kill Sandra Marshall.

  I might do both.

  “You hush your mouth, Sandy,” Mable says. “That’s no way to speak to your beautiful baby girl.”

  Pixie looks like she’s going to cry, and my decision is made. I’m going to kill her mother first, then myself.

  Sandra rolls her eyes. “Oh now, Sarah, don’t get emotional.”

  “You need to leave, Sandra,” I say. And I call her Sandra because formalities are way the fuck over.

  She whips her eyes to me. “I’m not going to take orders from the janitor.”

  “Then the janitor will be escorting you out,” I say.

  “Mom, can you just go?” Pixie’s voice sounds small, and I hate the defeat I hear in it.

  Sandra looks appalled. “And leave you here with this”—she looks me up and down like I’m a criminal—“filthy, despicable, sister-killing boy?”

  And that’s the end of any strength I had. Sandra played the Charity card, and all the oxygen has officially left my lungs.

  “You are a horrid woman,” Pixie says, straightening her shoulders. “You are truly awful, and I hate that we share DNA.” She points to the dining room door. “Leave.”

  “But we haven’t even had dinner.”

  “You didn’t come for dinner. You came to be a bitch and remind me how very worthless I am. And you know what? Mission accomplished.” Pixie throws the rolling pin down. “I’m ugly. I’m scarred. I’m worthless. Whatever.” Her eyes harden. “I might be all of those things, but you know what I’ll never be?” She pauses. “You.”

  She’s more confident than I’ve ever seen her before, and I’m so proud.

  “And you,” Pixie continues, “are the ugliest thing in this room.”

  So fucking proud.

  Sandra runs cool eyes over her daughter, looking her down in condescension, and mutters, “I knew I should have had an abortion.” Then she turns and walks out of the kitchen.

  I start to follow after her, but Pixie’s voice stops me.

  “Leaves, no.”

  Leaves. She called me Leaves.

  My heart is pounding, my palms are sweating, and my soul is screaming to run after Sandra and hurt her for all the hurt she’s done to Pixie.

  But Leaves…

  Leaves stops me in my tracks.

  I look at Pixie and she shakes her head. “I just want her gone, okay? Just let her go.” She looks exhausted.

  I nod once and watch as Pixie takes off her apron, hangs it on the hook, and exits the kitchen. I stand there for a long time, trying to figure out what to do with all the rage inside me. I’m so angry. Angry that Sandra put so many emotional scars on Pixie and angry that I went and put a physical one on her too.

  When I finally move from the kitchen, I travel up the east wing stairs only to find Pixie seated at the top, like maybe she was trying to run away from everything but got discouraged and just sat down where she was.

  I slowly climb the stairs and stop a few steps from her. “Your mom’s a piece of work.”

  She nods. “My mom’s a bitch.”

  “Yep.” It’s awkward for a moment, and I’m not sure if I should go to my room or stay where I am. But something about leaving Pixie feels… wrong, so I shove my hands in my pockets and stand still for a moment. “I’ve never seen you stand up to her like that before.”

  She sweeps a loose hair back from her face. “Yeah, well. I don’t live with her anymore, so it’s not like I’ll have repercussions for days and days.”

  I nod. I look to the side.

  She looks at her shoes.

  “I’m proud of you.” The words fall out of my mouth.

  Pixie looks up and gives me a small smile, which just encourages my mouth to keep moving.

  “You were pretty kick-ass back there,” I say.

  Her smile grows, and something inside me warms.

  “Nineteen years too late, I guess,” she says.

  “No,” I say quietly. “Never too late to be brave.”

  She rubs her hands over her face, and I have this overwhelming urge to sit down beside her and wrap an arm around her. I used to do things like that all the time. It used to be so natural for me. For us.

  She glances at me and wrinkles her brow. “What my mom said, about my scar—”

  I start shaking my head, panic and fear racing through my veins. “She was right.”

  Pixie looks like I just slapped her. “About it making my body repulsive?”

  “What? No! God, no!” I want to kill Sandra all over again. “No. She was right when she said it was my fault. I’m the reason you almost died—”

  “No, you’re not.” She looks confused.

  “And I’m the reason Charity died.”

  “What?” She blinks. “Levi… what? Are you insane? A truck driver named Joe Willis who feel asleep at the wheel is the reason Charity died. The accident wasn’t your fault.” She looks baffled and raises her voice a notch. “And if anyone else is to blame for that night, it’s me. I’m the one who decided we should drive home drunk.”

  “But I messed with fate, Pix. I basically forced the two of you to pull over, and then I drove you straight to death—”

  “You were trying to protect us!”

  “Yeah?” I’m yelling now. “And how’d that work out? Did I protect Charity? Did I protect YOU?!” My voice echoes up and down the east wing and my eyes start to burn.

  It’s so silent I can hear the beating of my heart and the very shallow breath Pixie just took. Her face is stunned.

  My chest aches. My chest aches so much.

  I head to my room and slam the door behind me.

  35

  Pixie

  I feel like a ton of bricks just hit me.

  Levi doesn’t just mourn the loss of Charity; he blames himself. The idiot actually blames himself. Just like me.

  God, we’re a mess.

  I don’t have any words for the emptiness inside me, and my feet feel like cement blocks, holding me in place as I stare at the floor. Turns out Levi has some monsters of his own, and I don’t know how to be his hero.

  36

  Levi

  The dam broke. The dam of tucked-away guilt Pixie and I had so carefully constructed over the past year split down the middle once Charity’s name was mentioned, and now the inn is flooded with denial.

  I can’t look Pixie in the eyes. I don’t want to know she’s there or see my pain reflected in her gaze. I don’t want to feel emotionally transparent in her presence or helplessly heavy in her sadness. So for the next few days, I act completely cordial in her company.

  Any and all conversations we have are business related and robotic, and my eyes never go beyond the surface when they meet hers.

  Stoic, that’s what I am. Because anything else would force me to acknowledge the fact that Pixie feels guilty for Charity just like I do and that she might be broken inside just like I am.

  So I hold the lobby door open when Pix and I reach it at the same time, and I say hello when I pass her in the hall, and I do these things with empty eyes and a hollow heart.

  I don’t feel a thing. It’s safer that way.

  The clicking of high-heeled shoes meets my ears as I spray glass cleaner onto a soft rag. Ellen is soon standing beside me, watching as I climb up the crappy inn ladder to reach a dirty window above me.

  “So,” she says in a matter-of-fact way as she holds a coffee mug between her hands. “Things between you and Pixie seem pretty tense. More tense than usual. Could that be because of all the shouting I heard the other night?”

  Leave it to Ellen to wait until I’m on a wobbly ladder, with no escape, to strike up an uncomfortable conversation.

  “We need to add ‘ladder’ to your New Crap the Inn Desperately Needs list,” I say, keeping my eyes on the window I’m washing. Cleaning isn’t really my job, but Eva is too short to reach these high windows, even on the top step of the ladder—not that I’d let her risk her life o
n this thing anyway.

  Ignoring my attempt at changing the subject, Ellen sternly says, “What was all that yelling about protecting Pixie?”

  I stop and look down at her, my body going completely still. “I fucked with fate.”

  “What?” She makes a face.

  Setting the rag down, I run a hand through my hair and let out a long exhale. “I fucked with fate and I lost Charity.”

  She studies me for a long moment. “Have you ever thought that maybe you fucked with fate and saved Pixie?”

  Silence.

  She wrinkles her brow in a look of heartache. “Maybe Charity and Pixie were both going to die in that car when Charity was driving drunk,” she says. “Have you ever thought that maybe you intervening that night saved Pixie’s life?”

  I stare at her, speechless, because no. I hadn’t ever thought of that.

  A beat passes, where neither of us speaks. Then Ellen casually takes a sip of coffee, glances at the window, and says, “You missed a spot.”

  37

  Pixie

  I didn’t just wear a bikini; I wore a neon-pink statement. And I wore it proudly.

  If the good people of Copper Springs wanted to see me, they were going to see the whole damn disaster.

  It’s like parting the Red Sea as I walk down the lakeshore. People I’ve known my whole life are there, smiling and saying hi, and every single one of them is staring at my scar and moving out of my way like I’m some kind of leper.

  In a way I guess I am. I’m diseased with the reality of Charity’s death. So let them gawk. It’s hideous, I know. But for the first time ever, I’m glad it’s hideous. Because it’s grabbing their attention and forcing them to remember.

  “You know I think you’re a badass, right?” Jenna pushes her sunglasses up her nose as we look for a clear spot on the beach.

  “I know.” My hot-pink bikini shows off more skin than I’ve ever shown in public before, and it kind of makes me feel powerful.

  If I learned anything from Charity, it was to feel beautiful. To walk with confidence and gratefulness for who I am and what I embody. She always tried to undo the damage my mother inflicted by constantly building me up with positive words and compliments. Charity was so deliberate about letting me know how valuable I was to her. How beautiful I was, inside and out. Did I do the same for her? Was I as good a friend to Charity as she was to me?