Broken (36 page)

“At school, over the phone, wherever.”

“Phone? Are you giving it back to me?”

“No, I am not. But I will bring the house phone to you if he calls.”

“Sounds good.”

Even though I doubt he’ll call. What’s happened between us isn’t something we can talk about through text or over the phone. And definitely not at school. The rumor mill has almost broken with all the shifting gears they’ve gone through trying to keep up with me and Alex. One whisper of Alex and Daniel and the mad man who combined them, and the school will go insane.

I’m surprised I haven’t lost my mind yet.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The next morning, the horrors of the weekend haven’t dimmed. I’ve compartmentalized them, so they are easier to deal with. The boxes are all jagged-edged, jostling and stabbing in my heart and mind. At least it’s not overwhelming me.

I stand in my closet, jeans and t-shirt on, debating what else to wear. My tendency is to grab Alex’s navy blue hoodie. A lingering whisper drifts through my soul to wear Daniel’s. Maybe I should wear them together—Alex’s father ruined them both. Ruined me, too. And I can’t tell Bree about what I overhead on Saturday. She would demand action, want his father turned in—anything other than me heartsick and frozen. She would be right, too. In a way, I kicked a hornet’s nest Saturday, and stingers are everywhere I turn.

The neighborhood stretches quiet and sleepy in front of me while I walk to school. Thin sunlight dribbles down. The cold empty feel of November settles like a blanket, West Michigan waiting for winter to barrel in and bury it. Even the line at Mugz-n-Chugz Walk-Up Window is quiet. Sure, there’s the usual stamping of feet and rubbing of arms to keep the blood flowing and get warm. But chatting? Dead. Flirting? Dead.

Kind of how I feel inside—when I’m not hurting.

Bree is waiting on her bench by the side door, Jason standing behind her, sheltering her from the wind. I know in my gut that I won’t see Alex today. Josh Mason turns the corner in his rusty Z-28, a damning omen appearing at the same time I think of Alex.

He rolls down his window, and flips me the middle finger.

One look at my breve and I think,
Caffeine is overrated.
I hurl the cup at his windshield and smile when the lid pops off and creamy coffee splatters the hood. A string of expletives fouler than his car’s exhaust pours out his window. I add insult to injury by shrugging and walking away.

“Wow,” Bree says when I join her at the bench. “Quite a show already this morning. Who rattled your cage?”

Dr. Franks,
I think.

“Long story,” I say, and stuff my hands in the kangaroo pocket of my sweashirt.

“Oh oh…” Her eyebrows arch. “Like the story you told me last week?”

“Worse.”

“Holy shit.” Her eyes widen, stress-testing her eyeliner.

“There was nothing holy about it.”

She arches an eyebrow, and I shake my head. A slight lift of her shoulder, and a droop of mine. A silent conversation of her asking if I want to talk and me refusing. I cast glances around the quad, looking for Alex, looking for the source of the many rumors that had flown around the campus.

“He’s not coming,” Jason says.

“What?”

“Alex.” Damn him for sounding sympathetic. Damn me for wanting him to. “I recognize that look, Em. He sent me a text, told me his dad insists on him being homeschooled after ‘the trouble here,’” Jason does air quotation marks, “and he won’t go back to Sadony Academy.”

Alex’s dad won’t let him come back to school because of me. The bottom drops out of my hopes. “Homeschooled?”

“Yeah. Alex’s pissed, too. Said he will get back to you. Then, this morning he asked me to ask you not to give up on him.”

I nod, feeling more hollow and alone than I did the day I met Alex.

That emptiness haunts me, tearing me up inside, ripping out pieces with every moment that passes with him. By the end of the week, I’ve withdrawn into the shell I lived in mourning Daniel. Though even that’s tainted for me now. How can I mourn him when parts of him live on in Alex?

The first day of Thanksgiving vacation, I cast a glare at the snow clouds thickening the sky and nestle deeper in my new fleece-lined hoodie, hood up and sleeves down. Chill from the metal seeps through my jacket as I lean on the fence. The cloudy afternoon devours both sun and shadow, casting the headstones and angels into a strange, true light. Memorial Gardens has a surreal quality, everything sharper and duller at the same time.

Wind moans in the trees behind the mausoleum, and whistles in the fence links. How many times had I come here over the summer, missing Daniel, wishing he had a grave for me to mourn beside? Now I stand here, and all I can think of is Alex.

The gate creaks when I push it open, the crushed stone path leading my feet through the cemetery. I wander past headstones, urns overturned for the winter. An ache pulling at my core, guiding me deeper into Memorial Gardens. I tug at the braid cinching my hair back, and let it fall around my shoulders. When I look up, I see exactly where my ache and longing have brought me. The mausoleum where Daniel and I used to sit and drink his father’s whiskey.

I climb the marble railing on the far side, and place a hand against the cool stone building. My eyes slip closed, and I tip my head back, smelling the air. Damp grass, the raw earth of a new grave, and the sweet smell of whiskey.

Daniel?

I walk to the corner and see a long pair of legs propped against the railing. Instinctual flutters dance in my chest, before my mind catches up with the clues that it’s not him. The pricey sneakers, the sanded jeans. I round the corner in slow paces, revealing more of the source of my heartache each time. Leather jacket, cuffs peeking out, one hand holding a pint bottle of whiskey. The last step shows me all of Alex Franks.

And I can’t muster up the surprise I should feel.

He is in some very essential ways, Daniel.

“Hey,” he says, and tips his eyes up. The red rim of tears highlights the green in his mismatched hazel irises. “Want a drink?”

“Alex,” is all I can manage. Heartache catches in my chest.

“Hey.” He flaps a hand, waving me down to the cold stone beside him.

I sink to the mausoleum porch, a shallow column of air between us. “You already said that.”

“I know.” He slides until our shoulders touch, then leans his head on mine. The top shelf bourbon smells sweet and strong on his breath. “Are we ever going to be okay, Emergizer?”

God, that name. It’s like a punch in the chest.

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t either.” He places his hand upside down, offering it to me. Will I be touching Alex, or Daniel? Closing my eyes, I place my hand in his, the electric charge zipping over my skin. “Things are so messed up,” he says. “I’m messed up inside, and it’s killing me.”

“Me, too,” I whisper.

“I know you heard what my father said.” He tips up the bottle of whiskey, and takes a swig. “I read the papers. It’s real.”

I can’t say anything. My throat is whistle-tight, tears burn the backs of my eyes.

“And you know what’s worse? I love you, Emergizer. I really do.”

“Please don’t use that name,” I whisper. “Daniel used it all the time.”

“It’s just so natural,” he says, voice thick with alcohol. “It’s in my head. Automatic.”

“Then how do you know you love me?” I can’t believe I say it—that thought has burrowed so deep in me I didn’t think it would be anything but a secret. “What if it’s just Daniel’s heart telling you to?

“It’s
in
me.” He bangs his chest, amber liquor sloshing with the motion. Then he tips the bottle and takes a deep pull.

“Give me that,” I tell him. And I know he’ll obey me—Daniel would’ve. Alex hands me the whiskey without complaint. “And the cap.”

“Don’t have it,” he slurs. “Didn’t plan on needing it again.”

“That much alcohol can’t be good for you…with all the surgery you’ve had.” I rock up to my knees and dump the rest into the grass.

“That’s alcohol abuse,” he pouts. Such a cute expression.

“Tough.”

“Emma,” he takes my hand, tugs it till I look at him. The lines of his face have softened, he looks more like a young lovesick boy than a guy who’s suffered so much heartache and pain. “I said I love you. Can’t you say it back?”

God, help me, I do.

I loosen my fingers in his tight grip. The truth presses on me so hard, it feels like it’s grown claws.

“I do.” I stifle a sob and ease my fingers from his. “I love you. And I don’t know if I’m loving you, or the you you’ve become with so much of Daniel.” Free of his grip, I stand and kick the railing. “This is so screwed up! It has to be Daniel’s influence. And how can I live with that? Every time I brush one of your scars, it’s silent evidence of Daniel’s murder.”

Alex recoils like my words are a slap in the face.
Truth hurts,
I think miserably. I scrub furiously at the tears on my cheeks. He lets his fall.

“I’m alive,” he says, voice empty of emotion, “at the cost of his life.”

“Yes.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “It hurts my heart and confuses the hell out of me.”

He’s unsteady on his feet when he rises, and instinct guides me to grab his jacket to keep him upright. Alex reaches a hand out, running his fingers through my hair before offering me his hand again. “Com’ere…”

I shake my head. His lips turn down, he won’t withdraw his hand. I give into the pull between us, allowing it to push me into his arms. Alex tangles a hand in my hair, wrapping an arm around me.

“Can’t love be enough?”

“When it’s this broken?”

There’s no right answer. He doesn’t have one, neither do I. It feels so perfect when he presses his mouth to mine instead. The tingle surges from my lips to my heart, melting my core, surging in my veins. He groans when I loosen my hold, and squeezes me tighter. “No. Don’t let me go yet.”

“We need to get home,” I coax. “They’re forecasting a snowstorm for tonight.”

“Uh-uh.” He shakes his head, keeping one arm around me. “Tell me we can make this work. Please. It’s Thanksgiving—I don’t want to sit alone with my heart breaking.”

“Neither do I.” My voice cracks, echoing the pain in my chest.

“Can I walk you home?”

“Yeah.” I try for a smile and fail. “Then I’m calling you a taxi because you’re not driving home drunk.”

He clings to my hand, as if he’s drowning and I’m the only thing between him and death.
How can we have anything, when my heart breaks over and over?

“Are your parents home?” he asks. “I’d like to wish them a happy Thanksgiving.”

“Actually they are at my dad’s company’s Thanksgiving party.” The first flakes begin to dance in the sky. Pretty, and light, and entirely opposite of how I feel.

“You’re alone tonight?”

“I’ll be fine, Alex.” I pull my fingers from his when we reach my porch. “I didn’t want to go with them. And your dad, I’m sure, doesn’t want you with me.”

He can’t argue. Alex doesn’t say anything, other than calling for a taxi. The sofa arm holds him up when he droops to it. His gaze rests on me, the waking dream expression in his eyes. When I pace along the sofa, he grabs my sleeve and reels me in.

I should fight him. I should maintain distance. Everything I’d shoved into a mental box to deal with later has sprung free, and the only thing that makes the thoughts stop is Alex’s arms around me. I nuzzle my face into his neck. His skin tingles with energy, his muscles relaxed with whiskey in his veins.

When the cabbie honks the horn, he starts like he was sleeping with me in his arms, and reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket. I step back, still close enough to feel his breath on my lips and taste a hint of the whiskey. Alex pulls out an old velvet-covered jewelry box. Everything in me tenses.

“I know we’re in no place to be making promises, but I know what I feel.” The joints complain, then the box yawns open to display a pearl ring nestled in the black velvet inside. “My heart only beats for you.”

I stand frozen, mind and heart warring.

“Please,” he says, sounding so sober and serious. “It was my mother’s.”

My hair slides forward when I nod, and let him slip the ring onto my left hand. Lost so long in the shadows of loss, only to be shoved headlong into unnatural horror and heartache, I can’t turn him away. He’s a kindred soul. Broken, remade, and my perfect match.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The oven timer dings, signaling my Thanksgiving dinner-for-one is done. I grab a towel, fold it in half and plop Mom’s special turkey pot-pie on it. The single-serve casserole dish heaped with a pie crust, turkey and vegetables in gravy, topped with piped garlic mashed potatoes. A homey, humble dish, and with all the stress lately, it’s all I want.

I cradle the hot dish in the towel and carry it through the quiet house. Mom apologized a hundred times for leaving me home alone—I reminded her one hundred and one times that it was my choice.

I hardly know who I am anymore. I’m in no mood for a flashy party filled with loud people. Last year, Daniel and I had eaten dinner with his family. What are they doing this year? I can’t imagine a holiday meal with ashes in an urn one room away. And Alex? How can he eat a meal with the monster who murdered to make his son live again? What kind of a holiday can he have knowing Daniel will never have another because of him?

For a few minutes I stand and watch the snow falling, heavy and wet, casting the world into melancholy tones of icy blue. The newscasters had been breaking into my holiday programming to report closings and delays. And the white stuff keeps falling.