Best Kind of Broken Page 23

  I turn to see Linda Andrews squeezing her way through the crowd to come sit with us. Mark is right behind her. They call me Pixie now, just like pretty much everyone else in my life. I love it.

  “Hi, guys.” I smile and give them both long hugs. I love how Linda Andrews smells. And I love that she and Mark moved back to Copper Springs two months ago. I get to see them every other weekend when Levi and I go back home.

  Their marriage still needs a lot of work, according to them, but they’re living under the same roof and participating in Levi’s—and my—life as much as possible. So that’s progress.

  “I see you got roped into goat duty,” Mark says, scratching Marvin behind the ears. Mark complains about Marvin, but I think he secretly likes him.

  “You and Levi are coming home for Thanksgiving, right, dear?” Linda asks with bright eyes. She loves holidays, and she’s been desperate to get a family holiday thrown together since she and Mark moved back to Arizona.

  I smile. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “And you too, Ellen and Jenna,” she says, looking across the bench at the two of them. “The more the merrier.”

  Jenna yanks her purse out of Marvin’s reach and grits her teeth. “I wish I could, but I’ll be busy slaughtering a goat.”

  Ellen turns to Linda. “I’d love to come.”

  Mark stands up and starts cheering as the players run out to the field. The rest of us follow suit and holler along with him.

  The game begins and we sit down, all on the edge of our seats. I find Levi’s number and follow him with my eyes. Dean Maxwell readmitted him to ASU shortly after receiving Levi’s essay, which worked out perfectly since I started the art program at ASU this fall.

  For the past few months, Levi’s been training like crazy for football and I’ve been spending more time painting, in color. And of course we’ve been pretty much inseparable—which is exactly how it always should have been.

  He’s my best friend, and I’m his.

  Levi sends a perfect throw down the field, and I cheer. I love watching him play. And I love cheering him on. And I love the way he always searches the crowd for me and smiles when he finds me. Like right now.

  I watch his eyes scan the fans… up and down stadium seats… searching…

  He finds me and a large grin stretches out his face. He always looks so relieved to see me in the stands, watching him. I don’t know what he’s worried about. I’m not going anywhere.

  Because I’m his.

  And he has me.

  Levi’s eyes rove over the rest of our clan, and his face lights up. On the far end is Mark, smiling at his son with pride. Then Linda, who always gets teary eyed when she watches Levi play. Then me, with my sun devil face paint and giant jersey that says ANDREWS in big bold letters. At my feet is Marvin, who is once again chewing on my shoe. I tug my foot away and Marvin goat-cries—loudly—but the crowd drowns out the sound. Next to me is Ellen, who has her arm linked through mine. And last is Jenna, with her high-heeled boots and her rock-star makeup, always keeping me in line and believing in our friendship.

  I see the joy in Levi’s eyes as he looks up at us and I share the feeling.

  This is life. This is what we have. We can mourn over the broken pieces or we can cling to what’s left.

  And we’re clinging like hell.

  About the Author

  Chelsea Fine lives in Phoenix, Arizona, where she spends most of her time writing stories, painting murals, and avoiding housework at all costs. She’s ridiculously bad at doing dishes and claims to be allergic to laundry. Her obsessions include: superheroes, coffee, sleeping in, and crazy socks. She lives with her husband and two children, who graciously tolerate her inability to resist teenage drama on TV and her complete lack of skill in the kitchen.

  Learn more at:

  ChelseaFineBooks.com

  Twitter, @ChelseaFine

  Facebook.com/ChelseaFineBooks

  Turn the page for a preview of the next book in Chelsea Fine’s new-adult series,

  Perfect Kind of Trouble.

  1

  Kayla

  On the other side of the casket, a middle-aged woman wearing a navy-blue dress glares at me.

  The man in the wooden box has been dead for only three days, and this woman already has me pegged as the slutty mistress he kept on the side. I’m probably an ex-stripper with a coke problem as well, based on the way she’s sizing me up.

  But this isn’t my first rodeo—or my first funeral—and deadly looks like the one Navy Nancy has angled at me are nothing new. Unfortunately.

  I slowly slide my black sunglasses on and tip my head down, concentrating on the casket in front of me as the preacher/priest/certified-online minister drones on about peace and eternity.

  It’s a nice casket. Polished cherrywood with decorative iron handles and rounded edges. I should care more than I do about the deceased man within. But all I can think about is how that damn casket probably cost more than any car I’ve ever been in, and how the dead guy inside is probably tucked against velvet walls lined with Egyptian cotton.

  And now I’m angry. Great.

  I promised myself I wouldn’t be angry today. Bitter? Sure. That was a given. But angry? No. It wasn’t worth my time.

  I raise my eyes and look around behind my dark shades. More people showed up than I had expected. Most of them look like normal, respectable people. I wonder if they knew James Turner at all. Not likely. Small-town folks generally show up at funerals regardless of their relationship with the deceased. It’s a respect thing, I guess.

  “James was a good man,” the minister says, “who lived a solid life and passed away peacefully in his sleep. He has gone on to a better place…”

  Peacefully in his sleep. No pain. No suffering.

  Screw him.

  Apparently, I’ve thrown my decision not to be angry out the window. Not that there are any windows out here, in the green grass of the cemetery under the open sky. I glance up at the heavy gray clouds above. It’s supposed to rain tonight.

  They’ll bury James and cover his casket with dirt, and then rain will fall and seal him into the earth. What an ideal passing. So pleasant.

  Again, screw him.

  A woman beside the minister begins to sing “Amazing Grace” as the pallbearers lower him into the grave. A teenage kid across the way openly gawks at me, his eyes gliding up and down my body like I’m standing here naked.

  Dear God. It’s not like I’m dressed inappropriately. I’m wearing a knee-length, long-sleeved, turtlenecked gray dress, for God’s sake—in July. I’m ridiculously covered, not that Navy Nancy and Gawking Gary care.

  I turn my face away and play with the black bracelet on my right wrist, turning it over a few times as I pretend to be interested in something at the back of the crowd.

  A huddle of women dab at their eyes with honest-to-God handkerchiefs. A young family stands quietly, with their somber faces on and their hands clasped together. And an older couple mouths the words to “Amazing Grace” as the singer starts on the third verse.

  Who even knows the third verse of “Amazing Grace”?

  Small-town people. That’s who.

  God. I need to get out of this place.

  One last obligation tomorrow and then I’m gone.

  In the far back of the congregation—let’s call it that because we are, after all, singing “Amazing Grace”—a guy moves out from under one of the large oak trees in the area, and he looks vaguely familiar.

  He’s wearing a deep-purple shirt—a button-down with the sleeves rolled up—and dark jeans to match his dark sunglasses and dark hair. He doesn’t seem to be here with anyone else. Which is odd, mostly because he’s attractive. Very attractive. And very attractive guys seldom travel without an entourage of fangirls.

  The singer wraps up the fourth verse of “Amazingly-Depressing-Grace,” and a very long silence follows before the minister clears his throat. He glances at me and I try to throw
on an expression that says “Wrap it up, preacher man.”

  He subtly nods, says a few last words, and concludes the funeral.

  The end.

  Awesome.

  People disperse, most of them fleeing to their cars—okay, fine, they’re not fleeing, but they’re certainly not loitering—while the rest pass by the lowered casket and throw a handful of dirt or a flower on top.

  I step to the side, sunglasses strictly in place, and watch Navy Nancy toss a yellow rose into the grave. She glares at me again with her hawklike eyes.

  Wow. She really must think I’m some sort of James Turner hussy.

  I almost want to smile at her, but that wouldn’t be fair. She seems legitimately upset by James’s death, so I’ll let her hate me today. I’ll let her indulge in her grief and think horrendous things about me. It probably makes her feel better.

  The purple shirt guy—can I please point out that he and I and Navy Nancy are the only patrons in the graveyard not wearing black? People are such traditionalists—walks up to the grave and drops a handful of red dirt on the casket.

  The red stands out against the near-black dirt beneath it and I wonder what its purpose is. Then I wonder about the guy in purple. Who he is, why he’s here.

  I watch as he strides to the parking lot and climbs into a sleek, black sports car, and all my wondering comes to an abrupt halt. I no longer find him attractive.

  When everyone has left the area except the funeral home people and the cemetery people—it’s nice how they stick around—I carefully walk up to the casket. The heels of my black pumps slowly sink into the soft grass as I stare down at the last I’ll ever see of James Turner.

  I inhale deeply, toss a soft white petal on top of the black-and-red dirt, and say, “Rest in peace, Dad.”

  2

  Daren

  Some people don’t name their vehicles. Most people, probably. But there’s something about a black Porsche that just makes you want to call it… Monique.

  I climb inside and look through the windshield at the dark clouds. Looks like Monique might need another bath tomorrow. I tap the steering wheel and glance back at the cemetery. Damn.

  Funerals are depressing as hell.

  I don’t even know why I came. I’m pretty sure the old man hated me with a passion, so I doubt he’d be honored by my presence at his funeral. And really, I hardly knew the guy.

  When I was younger, I used to mow Mr. Turner’s lawn and tend to his yard for fifteen dollars a week. Sometimes he’d yell at me to take more care with his precious rosebushes. Other times, he’d just sit on that goddamn chair on his front porch and watch me without saying a word. But that was the extent of our relationship.

  A gray dress walks away from the casket, hips swinging, blonde hair swishing. I see the old man’s stuck-up daughter made an appearance. I almost didn’t recognize Kayla Turner behind those black sunglasses and that ice-cold wall of bitch she’s erected over the years. But then I saw that heart-shaped birthmark on the inside of her wrist—the one she was trying to hide with that fat bracelet of hers—and there was no mistaking that she was the very same girl who used to visit in the summer and sneer at me as I mowed her grumpy dad’s lawn.

  And damn if she didn’t grow up to be a knockout. There wasn’t a breathing soul in that cemetery that didn’t openly gape at her. I thought Jake Sanders was going to choke on his own drool, the way he was drinking her in.

  I shake my head and carefully back out of my parking spot and pull away from the cemetery. Monique purrs as I pick up speed, and the moment I hit the main road, I exhale.

  Thank God the funeral is over.

  I drive with the top down, trying to soak up as much badass as I possibly can because I know days like these are numbered.

  I pass the turnoff for Westscape Estates and a sour taste slips down my throat. My ex-neighborhood. The place I lived when life was good.

  Well, not good exactly. But easier.

  I focus on the road until I reach the edge of town. Only then do I realize Monique is low on gas. Crap. I pull into the nearest gas station, a run-down fill-up station that’s been around since the Dark Ages and looks closed except for the blinking neon sign that reads O EN, and count the money in my pocket.

  With a groan, I get out and start to fill her up. My phone beeps and I glance down to see yet another missed call from Eddie Codwell. Eddie’s the closest thing this town has to a professional lawyer, and lately he’s been the bane of my existence. He’s left me eight voice mails in the last week, none of which I’ve bothered listening to because I’m sure it has something to do with my dad.

  But what am I going to do, ignore him forever?

  With the gas pump in the fuel tank, I step away from the car and listen to Eddie’s most recent message.

  Hello, Daren. I’m not sure if you’ve received my previous messages, but I’ve been trying to reach you regarding James Turner. As you know, he’s passed away and there is a reading of his will scheduled for tomorrow at 11:00 a.m. at my office. His last wishes specifically request that you be present for the reading. Hopefully, I’ll see you there.

  The message ends, and for a moment I just stare at my phone.

  Why the hell would the old man want me at the reading of his will? The guy was dirt-poor and thought I was a screw-up. Unless…

  I smile to myself.

  The baseball cards. My baseball cards.

  My dad gave me a box of collectible cards when I was eleven, which I made the mistake of taking with me to Old Man Turner’s house one day, and the cranky bastard took them from me because, according to him, I was “too spoiled to appreciate them.” He promised I’d get them back after he died.

  I sigh. Well, at least he’s coming through on that one.

  A clanging noise has me turning back around to see a tow truck backed up to Monique and hauling her onto its bed.

  “Hey!” I shout at the overweight truck driver who’s got a toothpick in his mouth and a handlebar mustache. “What are you doing?”

  The driver barely glances at me. “Taking her in. Repo.”

  “Repo?” I start to panic. “At the gas station?”

  He grunts. “This town don’t have many streets, or black Porsches zooming around, so it was easy enough to spot you and follow you here. Sorry, kid.”

  I shake my head. “No, no. There must be some mistake. A year’s worth of payments were made on that car. I still have until next month.”

  He hands me a crumpled statement stained with greasy fingerprints and an unidentifiable smudge of brown. “Not according to the bank.”

  I quickly scan the paper. “Shit.” I was sure those payments were good through August. “Listen. We can work this out,” I say, trying to stay calm. “What do I need to do to get you to unhook my innocent car from your tow beast?”

  He looks bored. “You got four months of payments on you?”

  “Uh, no. But I have…” I pull out the contents of my pocket. “Forty-two dollars, a broken watch, and some red dirt.”

  “Sorry.” He starts to lift Monique off the ground, and I swear it’s like watching someone kidnap a loved one.

  “Wait—wait!” I hold my hands out. “I can get it. I can get you the money. I just need a little time.”

  “Talk to the bank.”

  “No, you see. I can’t talk to the bank because the bank hates me—”

  “I wonder why.”

  “But I can get the money! Just put my baby back down and you and I can go get a beer and talk this whole thing out.” I smile.

  He scoffs. “You pretty boys are all the same. Used to getting what you want with Daddy’s money and pitching fits when someone takes away your precious toys.” He shakes his head and starts to climb back into his truck. “Later.”

  “But that’s my ride! How am I supposed to get home?”

  He starts the truck and flicks the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “You should’ve thought of all that before you stopped making payments.�
� And then he pulls out of the gas station with sweet Monique as his captive, and I watch the last piece of my other life disappear.

  “Sir?” A scrawny gas attendant exits the station, wiping his hands on a filthy rag.

  “What.” I hardly look at him, I’m so pissed and frustrated at everything that’s gone wrong in my existence.

  “You gotta pay for that,” he says.

  Now I do look at him. “For what?”

  “For the gas.”

  “The ga—” I see the gas pump dangling from where Monique was ripped away from it and want to growl. “Oh, come on, man!” I implore him. “My car was basically just hijacked. I wasn’t paying attention to how much gas I was using.”

  He shrugs. “Don’t matter. Gas is gas. That’ll be eighty-seven dollars.”

  I clench my jaw. “I don’t have eighty-seven dollars.”

  “Well, I can’t let you leave until you pay.”

  I scrub a hand down my face, trying to contain the many curse words that want to vault from my mouth. “Do you have a manager or anyone I can talk to about settling this minor issue?”

  He nods toward the station. “My sister.”

  Through the window I see a young woman with curly red hair and glasses at the register, and a small smile starts to tug at my lips.

  “Perfect.” I head for the door.

  A string of gaudy bells chime as I push my way inside, and the sister looks up from a crossword puzzle. Her eyes find me, rove me over, and immediately soften.

  “Why, hello there,” she says in a voice I know is lower than her natural one. “Can I help you?”

  I give her my very best puppy dog/helpless boy grin and sigh dramatically. “I certainly hope so.”

  She leans forward with a smitten smile, and I know I’ve already charmed my way out of an eighty-seven-dollar gas bill.

  Sometimes it pays to be me.

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