Unbroken (17 page)

I’m not normally the type of girl to cry over a guy. Hell, the only reason I cried over my breakup with Maddox was because it affected more people than just the two of us. The only times someone will see me cry is while watching a movie, or that episode of
One Tree Hill
where Jimmy Edwards shot himself and Keith was murdered. Other than that, my heart usually operates like that of the Tin Man. Most people would assume it doesn’t exist, but only the people who truly know me know how big it really is.

Today, however, it appears as though my heart has changed its ways, because tears are flowing from my eyes like Niagara Falls. Curled up on my bed, half my face buried in the pillow I have clutched to my chest, I can’t control the sobs coming from somewhere deep inside. That boy touched something in me I hadn’t known existed.

The thing is, though, I’m not just crying for me, for the heart that’s surely breaking into a million pieces.

I’m crying for him, too. Because I could see how much it pained him to pull away from me, to watch me break down, and subsequently walk away. Because something huge has happened—or is still happening—to him that has him believing he’s truly no good. Someone or something in his past has convinced him that he’s unlovable.

And that hurts the most.

Because he’s not.

I know that because I think I love him.

God only knows how long I’ve been lying here, trying to connect all the dots and figure out what exactly went wrong here. All I
do
know is that Brody’s not here. I heard the front door close a while ago and nothing after that. So he’s gone.

And something tells me he won’t be coming back any time soon.

That thought alone breaks my heart a little more.

I lean over my bed, reaching for my cell phone. I slide it unlocked and stare at the time.

It’s only 8:48. Tomorrow’s Saturday, which means neither of us have school or work and we won’t be able to avoid each other. What’s worse is, tomorrow’s my cousin Cynthia’s wedding, and we’re
all
going. Well, minus Brody now. I get to watch someone else validate their love while I accept the fact that mine can never be.

I don’t know how or when or why I started to fall for Brody.

I don’t know if it was the laughs over him trying and failing to pronounce Grecia’s name. Or maybe it was the solemn silence we shared after our second sibling movie night, during which we watched
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
and I watched him pinch the bridge of his nose. Or maybe it was the nights we spend in each other’s arms, telling stories and jokes to ward off each other’s pain. Or maybe it was the way I felt a change in my heart whenever I watched him interact with one of his siblings, or one of mine.

Maybe it was a million little things. Like when he comes home from work all greasy, sweaty, and dirty, and the first thing he does, without fail, is hug his siblings. Like how I came home from my daily run with Henry the other day, and I found him cooking and laughing with my mom like he’d known her for years. Like how he insists on giving Mila her bottle every night to put her to bed. Like how he never yells at his brother, no matter how frustrated he gets with him.

He’s so busy looking at all the cracks in the mirror that he doesn’t see the most important part. There’s still a mirror in the first place. He’s here. He’s whole. He’s breathing.

He’s a mess.

But he’s my mess.

I’m the chink in the armor for him. I’m his Achilles heel. I can see it. Where he holds up this facade for everyone else in his world, I see his weaknesses, see what will hurt him beyond repair. He showed me for a mere second, a flicker of pain, desperation, and yearning flashing across his face right before he walked away from me.

I’m going to do my best to never use that weakness against him.

It’s me.

I am his weakness.

And he is mine.

…

THREE IN THE MORNING.

That’s the time the screaming starts tonight.

I never noticed any of the other nights, because we went to bed together, hence he went straight to sleep without any interruptions. But tonight, given the circumstances, I didn’t expect him to come back here. And I didn’t expect him to climb in bed and go to sleep alone.

There’s no inner battle tonight, because I know what I need to do. I know he needs me. I toss my blankets aside and sit up, then walk out of my bedroom. I do what I normally do: I peek in each of the kids’ rooms to make sure he hasn’t woken any of them up.

I open the door to Bianca and Grecia’s room, then recoil a bit, surprised when I see Bianca sitting up as well.

“Hi,” I say cautiously, hoping I can figure a way to convince her not to tell our parents what I’m about to do.

She brings a hand up to her face and angrily swipes at the space beneath her eyes. She does this a couple more times before she stops and allows me to see what’s happening.

“Bee, are you—are you
crying
?” I ask.

“Yes! How aren’t you?! How can you listen to
that
and not hurt for him?” she half-shouts, half-whispers. “Just get out, Sabrina. Go tend to him so I can get some fucking sleep.”

She spits the remainder of her words like she’s annoyed or angry, but only I know the underlying reason she wants me to tend to him. His presence, his night terrors are bringing up the past for her. There was a time, not too long ago, where I would wake up in the middle of the night to use the restroom or go get a drink of water, and I’d find that she was sobbing unabashedly into her pillow. It took four months to get her to start sleeping through the night again.

Her question hits me though, right where it hurts.

Because I do cry for him. I do hurt for him. But I do it in my way, in my time. Beneath the steady beating of the shower water every morning, or into my pillow once he’s fallen asleep every night. I mourn for him, for the person he used to be before he hurt so severely. I ache for him, because I can’t imagine being so deeply scarred. I hurt for him because his scars go much deeper than the ones I see marring his lovely face and body.

But I’m not about to tell her that.

I watch as she throws herself backward onto her bed, wraps her pillow around her head, and turns onto her side. After a few moments, I retreat silently and close the door behind me.

I tiptoe to Brody’s room, opening the door and sneaking in. Just like the first night, he’s thrashing in the bed, tangled in the comforter, his screams high-pitched and agonized. Drawing in a deep breath, I gather my wits about me as I approach the bed. I kneel beside him, trying to figure out the perfect way to approach him tonight. Last time, I just went for it. This time, there’s something keeping me from doing precisely that.

I reach out and graze his face with my fingertips. When he doesn’t stop screaming, doesn’t stop moving, I try again, a different touch now. He doesn’t respond to this one either.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Whatever is keeping him in the throes of this nightmare must be worse than last time, because I can’t reach him.

Now I’m afraid. Afraid of leaving him this way, of waking him up and dealing with what happened earlier. But I know I can’t leave him like this, regardless of how I feel about the fact he left me alone when I needed him.

The worst part is, I can’t call his name. I get frantic and panicky and start speaking in Spanish in situations like this one, and me yelling in a totally different language would wake him up for sure.

Right along with the rest of the inhabitants of this house.

I wrack my brain for a way to pull him out, for a way to help him when he’s clearly incapable of helping himself. He’s twice my size and short of slapping him or tossing him out of the bed—which is
absolutely
my last resort—there’s not much I can do for him. However, that’s a defeat I refuse to accept.

I run my hands through my hair frustratedly as I try to wake him up as gently as possible. What he’s feeling and going through is violent and ugly, and more violence might only make him retreat further. That’s the last thing either of us need. Him, because it may make his night terrors worse. Me, because I’ll never forgive myself if that happens. And the both of us simultaneously because if I don’t get him woken up within the next few moments, he’ll continue screaming, and he’ll wake up my parents, and they’ll find me in his room.

Yeah, no.

Try another approach, Sabrina.

I climb on top of him, and his body tenses below me. I lean forward and grab him by the shoulders. I take a deep breath as I tug him upward, and then I shake him vigorously. His head snaps back and his eyelids flutter open. Mouth open wide, he gapes at me in unadulterated shock. He gasps and chokes on air as he struggles to accept it into his lungs, his brows tightly knitted together.

I grab his hands and lean back, using my weight to pull him into a sitting position while I remain in my place atop his thighs. Once he’s upright, I grab hold of his half-naked body and wrap him in the tightest hug I can muster. His posture rigid, he stills completely beneath my touch and then he relaxes. I realize then how well we fit together. I only had a moment or two to see it earlier, how we melded into each other like two halves of the same whole, but I feel it now. And I love it.

Gasping again, he reaches around me and returns the hug. He grabs onto a tuft of my hair and pulls my head toward his shoulder. I wonder if he’s doing this because he feels like he needs to comfort me through this, but I decide not to even bother asking. He’s doing this for a reason. I rest my head against his shoulder and breathe a sigh of relief. We hold each other like this for a long time, tension rolling off both of us in waves.

It’s not until I feel him shake and clutch me even tighter that I realize he’s holding me this way for himself. Not for me.

The silence of his cries echoes throughout the dark room, and as he holds me tight, trying to heal himself, I feel him give me a piece of his heart.

Without warning, he pushes me to the side, and we both fall in a mess of limbs, hair, clothes, and comforter, still entwined with each other. He curls into a ball and I into a smaller one, so I can fit into the space he’s left open for me. My head’s against his chest as he continues to cry, and I find my hands coming up to rub across his back.

He pants into my hair a second before he clears his throat to speak. “Thank you.”

Like I did this for his thanks. I did this because he needed me, not because I wanted or needed anything in return. I don’t want his thanks.

“Don’t even,” I say. “If you need me, I’ll come running. No matter what.”

He hears the words unspoken from my lips, which is indicated by the sharp intake of breath.

No matter how much you hurt me.

No matter how much this distance is killing me.

No matter how pissed I am that you walked away from me.

He reaches behind him and grabs one of my hands. He puts them between us and I look down just in time to watch him twine our fingers together. He squeezes tight, a message. I tilt my head upward and gaze into his eyes.

It’s only now that I see how magnificent his eyes are. Usually, I’d say they’re this intense, steel gray. But now, in the glow of the moonlight piercing through the blinds, they look almost pale blue. I stare for a long time in wonderment, confused as to how I didn’t notice their brilliance before this moment.

He runs his hand over my hair, smoothing it down tenderly. He inhales sharply. “I’m sorry.”

Two words is all I get.

Well, four, really, if I count his ‘thank you’ from moments ago.

The thing is, I don’t want or need either of them. I don’t want his thank you, and I
damn
sure don’t want his sorry.

‘I’m sorry’ is the most pathetic phrase in the English language. Someone who says they’re sorry is looking to be absolved of their guilt. Someone who says they’re sorry hardly ever means it. Shit, people say they’re sorry so much, it’s merely a formality by now. A sorry person will do it again and again and again and continue to say how sorry they are.

“Brody, do me a huge favor. Never say you’re ‘sorry’ to me again.”

His brows furrow and he blinks in confusion, but I must be giving him an evil expression because he nods. His thumb grazes over the back of my hand in small, steady circles. He gazes down at me.

“I apologize. It was never my intention to hurt you.”

But you did. You did it then, and you’re doing it now.

That’s what I want to say. And as much as I want to, I don’t.

“I know,” is what I say instead.

We’re both silent, and I watch as his lips form into an ‘o’ like he’s about to say something, then he shakes his head. He looks like he’s fighting a battle inside himself and I’d give anything to know what causes that battle.

“What is it?” I ask.

He purses his lips, then gazes at me.

“Do you have any idea what it's like to live in a nightmare? To never be able to wake up, even after you've realized everything around you is nothing but a horrible, horrible dream?”