Broken (6 page)

Chapter Seven

The first thing I notice is Wednesday morning dawns cold and clear despite the weight of storms crowding the air. It’s Fall in Michigan, after all, crappy autumn weather happens here.

The second thing I notice is the weight of storms pressing on broken bones in my hand.

“Oh my God,” accelerates downhill to much worse words.

“I thought you’d be hurting,” Mom says from the shadows of the door. She has the decency not to look like she spent all night worrying about me, even though I’m sure she did.

“Entirely,” I agree and push to sitting with my left hand pressed to the snarl of blankets shackling my legs.

“Want help with anything?”

“I think I can manage.” I kick my blankets off, and turn so my feet hit the floor. “But I appreciate the offer.”

“I’ll be downstairs, then, getting you a one-handed breakfast.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Warm air gushes from the hall, sliding by the closing door. If I were smart, I would’ve accepted the help—T-shirts and jeans aren’t easy one-handed, my bra almost impossible. Stubborn and smart constantly battle for control of me, according to my dad. After levering myself from the bed, I hitch the wedgie of my boxers out of places they shouldn’t have crept over night. Then, my closet rocks around me while I struggle into my favorite faded jeans and a stretchy, long-sleeved pink shirt.

A stripe of burgundy catches my eye, then tugs at the new bandage wrapping my heart. The fleece is soft beneath my fingers when I run them over Daniel’s hoodie where it rests on my shelf.

I thought I’d never sleep without the warmth I’d felt in it the night Daniel slid it over my bare shoulders. Last night, I hurt and I wanted it, but Mom helped me into my pajamas and into bed. She would have heaved a sigh if I’d asked her to help me put on my dead boyfriend’s sweatshirt. Probably would’ve considered getting me counseling, too. Instead, we choose baggy boxers and an equally baggy shirt. Then, she sat by my bed, reading aloud from my library book about the product of a man’s hubris coming back to haunt him.

Dark things to fall asleep to, but I did. I blame the painkillers.

Bypassing the reminder of Daniel, I grab a pink camouflage zip-up hoodie to coordinate with my pink shirt. I have to start putting distance between me and his memory, or I’ll never get past his death. And I want to get past it, I just don’t know how. Regardless, wrestling into today’s clothes leaves me ready for a painkiller and a nap.

Downstairs, Dad’s bellied up to the breakfast bar, the white cap of his salt-n-pepper hair peeking above the Local section of the newspaper where his nose is buried, and a cup of coffee close by. “Good morning, Emma.”

The modifier doesn’t make sense with the pain grinding in my hand. “Morning.”

“Want a ride to school?” Turn the page. Sip his coffee. “I have a meeting at the office and need to be in early.”

“Thanks. But, no.” It’s a record day—I’ve turned down both my parents before 6:45am. “Walking earns me a coffee.”

A corner of paper folds down between us, and he gives me an oddly proud smile. “It’s all about the coffee, eh?”

“Runs in the family, doesn’t it?”

A flick of Dad’s finger sends the corner upright, and slices his fingertip at the same time. “Dammit,” he mutters. Another page flips. He’s into the Local Sports section now, crimson soaking the edge in a growing crescent moon. Then his shoulders rise underneath his midnight blue suit coat. “Suit yourself, Em.”

Mom stands by the door, brown hair frizzing from a loose bun. A glass of juice sits on the counter next to my morning dose of pain meds. She holds a bulging tortilla shell in one hand, my backpack in another. “Breakfast burrito,” she says while I choke down the horse pill and chase it with juice. “Eggs, sausage, cheese and tater coins.”

In another life, Mom had dreams of running a restaurant. But then I came along and my parents got married. Guilt is ugly, a harpy tearing at my guts every time I picture Mom behind a diner counter spinning a spatula. I take the burrito and she slides my backpack straps on for me, making sure not to whack my immobilizer. Then she kisses the top of my head and whispers, “Be careful today.”

Normally I’d say ‘every day’ in retort.

I don’t want to lie. Punching my locker wasn’t careful. Neither was letting Alex Franks take my hand in the crowded hallway. That moment bleeds into this, ink into white; I see the smile that lit Alex’s hood and my hand tingles with an echo of the electricity that had flowed in his touch. He’d intentionally touched more than my knuckles. The pale broken heart on my hand thrums with secrets Alex left there with a brush of his finger. Why did he have to touch it? His eyes flash in my mind. Why did he have to touch
me
?

Glittering frost coats the world, sharpens grass and leaves to fragile glass-like weapons. Near a maple tree, I exhale an eggs-and-sausage scented breath to watch the sparkle coating melt away and slick off a gold leaf.

I know how you feel.

Bright sunshine cuts down, pretty and deceptive. The lawn ornaments, witches and skeletons littering Seventh Street make the neighborhood look like store full of cheap novelty Halloween decorations. Soon, leaves will darken and wither, temperatures will plummet. Bitter cold will follow, ushering the howl of winter winds down the streets, suffocating the world in white.

I shuffle into the Walk-Up line at Mugz-n-Chugz, one more uncaffeinated zombie needing a jolt to come to life. I give my immobilizer a baleful glare, even if it is hidden by the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie. There’s no way I’m putting on make-up one-handed.

Looking like a Picasso painting is low on my list of priorities.

Scott Morgan, the beefy defensive tackle for Shelley High’s football team stands at the window. He plumbs the depths of his pocket then dumps a handful of change and one dollar bill to pay for his grandé, half-caff, fat-free skinny vanilla latté. Such a frou-frou drink for “Morgan the Mangler.” I choke back my giggle. He cracks his knuckles, then claims the cup from the fleshy hand in the window.

Tiny’s window opens, bouncing a flash of sun into my eyes. White spots crowd my vision, and a headache blossoms like a flower of sharp petals on fast forward. By the time I blink the white blots from my eyes, I feel a presence over my shoulder. Another person in line for their morning fix. Tiny clears his throat, drawing my attention.

A greasy film covers his skin and hair, and his uniform shirt looks like he slept in it before coming back to work. My sight zeroes in on a huge zit on his cheek. I want to pull my eyes away. I know I should. It’s like a train wreck on his face.

Repulsed comes to mind.

“Hi, Emma.” A dopey smile rumples his plump face, temporarily burying the zit.

“Um…” I squash the urge to recoil. “Hey, Tiny.”

“The usual?”

His gaze tumbles down the neckline of my t-shirt and I want to smack him for it.

“Yes please.”

“Make that two,” comes a familiar tenor from close behind me. “And I’m paying.”

A tiny spark dances through my loose hair and I know Alex Franks stands within touching range. His presence brings his father to mind, and his violent, vice-like response to hearing Alex’s name. An unconscious wince draws in my shoulders. I turn to face him, expecting to see the relaxed smiling expression of yesterday afternoon. It’s vanished.

He wears faded jeans and a midnight blue hoodie, hood up and sleeves all the way down, under his leather jacket. The shocked, bemused expression of yesterday morning widens his eyes, his fingers drop from where they must’ve brushed the hair puddled in my hood. The corners of his mouth lift in an enigmatic expression.

He looks like he can’t believe I’m really
me
.

So I’ll remind him.

“You were right about my hand,” I say, and brandish my immobilizer. “Broken in a few places, actually.”

He blinks and whatever spell seeing my face put him under breaks. The sunlight reaches into his cowl, lighting his face and the mischievous tilt to his lips.

“So, I suppose I’ll be on locker duty, as well as buying your breves?”

“No one asked you to do either, y’know. Daniel always bought my coffee.” The moment I blurt it out, I want to call it back. I gasp, and cover my mouth with my hand. His eyebrows pinch closer together, the light dies in his slight smile. “Sorry,” I whisper and spin around with my face flaming.

“Who’s Daniel?”

The quizzical tone in his voice is enough to drive a chill over me. He put it in present tense, as if Daniel’s still alive and he should know him. I shrink deeper into the comforting fleece of my sweatshirt. A momentary ache for the cocoon of mourning I existed in before rushes through me, sloshing in the hollow of my chest. I was sad, but safe. Everyone knew. Talking to Alex opens my heart up for numerous, “Oh, I didn’t know” wounds.

“Was,” I say. Tiny’s wide girth blocks the light from the depths inside Mugz-n-Chugz. “Tiny’s coming. You don’t have to pay for my coffee.”

“Yes, I do.” He steps beside me, burying me in his shadow. “I offered. And…I’m sorry about your friend.”

“He was my
boy
friend.” I step behind Alex rather than let his closeness rake on my nerves and jolt my heart. “And please don’t apologize for something you had nothing to do with.” A shake of my head frees strands of blonde to drift in front of my eyes. “I hate it when people say they’re sorry.”

“Well.” Alex draws himself up to his full at least 6’2” height and pulls his wallet from his pocket. He hoists the fabric shrouding the sides of his face higher. “Didn’t realize I was going to push
that
button. People say they’re sorry because they feel like they should say something to convey they feel bad.”

“I know why people say it. It’s just a touchy subject with me.” I cast a look across the street and see Bree sitting on a bench, watching us like we’re the newest play to hit the stage.

The window never fails to hurl shards of sunlight like a blazing weapon when Tiny opens it. His plump face sags when he sees me behind Alex like some submissive girlfriend. I step forward, plaster on a smile and say, “thanks,” when I take my cup. Before he releases it, he covers my left hand and cup with his other sweaty palm. A small shudder races my spine, darts inward and curls my stomach. And Alex doesn’t miss my reaction.

“S-so, Em,” Tiny stammers, “You always rush off before I get a chance to ask you—”

“Tiny,” I squeak out through my tightening throat. “Don’t do this…”

“But I want you to go out with me this weekend,” he whines.

Alex steps forward, slips an arm around my shoulders casual as can be, and leans toward the window. His voice has a husky, dark tone when he says, “Emma has plans this weekend.”

The slimy grip releases from my hand, leaving me feeling weak with relief. Tiny heaves a sigh strong enough to ruffle my hair with its passing.

“I always figured,” Tiny says, pouting like a kid who dropped their ice cream, “it would be another pretty boy…”

Instinct is to argue. I’m not dating Alex. We hardly know each other. But if a little male posturing by Alex Franks finally stops the awkward moments with Tiny, I’ll play along. A one act, one-time performance. Alex’s muscles tense, electricity exuding from them like kinetic energy in coiled springs when I lean against his side. Then, the tension dissolves, and he settles into his fake role of suitor and slides his arm from my shoulders down to my waist.

Alex pays for our breves, and the dejected Tiny closes his window.

I step away from Alex’s side, tearing open a rift between us.

“Thanks for the rescue,” I say and sip my coffee as I walk toward the street, and Bree who is visibly buzzing with questions.

“Anytime.” He says, despite the strange hint of loss crossing his face. “Always happy to use my infamy for your…” he flashes me a grin, “I mean my benefit.”

“It wasn’t your reputation.” I match his smile with a puckish one. “Tiny called you pretty.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Alex makes a dramatic, horrified face and winks with his left eye, which highlights the unique quality of his two-tone hazel irises. A true smile flirts across my lips, but a rising sense of something strange keeps it from spreading. Then, a shout from the quad across the street tugs Alex’s attention away before I can figure out what bugs me about his eyes. Alex waves, then turns back to me and excuses himself, promising to see me at lunch.

Yeah. Right. Lunch, that time when he asked me to save him a seat then sat with Ally Rhodes. I lift a shoulder, work up a half-grin, and say, “We’ll see. Forgive me if I don’t get my hopes up.”

Shrugging off the irritated feelings I know I shouldn’t have, I aim for the school and my best friend waiting to rake me over the coals with burning hot questions like, “Do you like him? Does he like you?”

One step into the street invites the crappy Z-28 and its driver to barrel down on me. I jump back onto the curb with a yelp and a spat curse. Josh Mason, wearing a black leather jacket, leans out his window, hoots a laugh then shouts, “I win, Em! You’re in your place on the street corner!”

Anger boils in me hotter than my breve. Josh cackles and his car crawls away from me. Alex, halfway into the quad, spins and glares daggers at the redhead. Even at this distance, I can see his fist clench, and the top pops off his coffee cup. Froth runs over his hand like white blood. Alex ignores it.

“And your insults are rustier than your car!” Not my best comeback. I blame the meds. I add physical insult to the verbal injury with a middle finger salute.