Fractured Love

  Landon turns the TV on, and we quickly realize we don’t have a lot of options. Just the Weather Channel and “The Late Show.” Maybe something’s wrong with our TV.

  We settle on “The Late Show,” and I lean back against the bed. Then I grab one of the spare pillows and pass it to Landon. “So you don’t hit your head on the rail.”

  He takes it, but he’s smirking. “I’m not going to fall asleep.”

  “Are you kidding me? You look exhausted.”

  “I look great.”

  “For a thirty-year-old,” I tease. I press the button on my bed’s rail, causing the bed to lurch, moving slowly and noisily into a more reclined position. When I let go of the button, the bed has crunched itself so our legs are slightly elevated, our butts are kind of in a hole, and our shoulders are reclined.

  Landon laughs. “You’re right. Comfortable.”

  Tears spring to my eyes as I laugh. Landon notices and frowns at my leg. “Do you need more medicine?” he asks, sounding concerned.

  “I don’t think so. I’m just really overtired.” I lean my head back and shut my eyes. “I don’t think I can sleep either. Maybe this whole plan was just a ploy to have you help me sleep.”

  His voice comes softly. “I’d do that.”

  “I really hate this,” I say in a broken-sounding voice. I curl my good leg up toward me. “I’m already tired of having a broken ankle.”

  I hear and feel him exhale. Then I feel his finger on my cheek, beneath one of my damp eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  A few more tears drip down my cheek, and Landon wipes them. In my entire life, I’ve never been so still as I am underneath his fingertips. The more tears fall, the more he brushes them away. Shock burrows like a cool weight in my belly.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asks in a low voice.

  I sniff, even as I think I may pass out from joy. “Don’t judge me. I’m not usually a baby.”

  I hear the smile in his voice, even as his fingers stroke my cheek. “I’d never judge you, Evie.”

  I feel his hand leave my face, feel him move, and then his arm is trying to get around my shoulders. I lean up, and he scoots closer, so we’re sitting right by each other—so close, I can feel him exhale.

  “Tell me something,” I whisper, as I look around the dark room, then at our legs under the covers.

  “Something good?”

  I shake my head. “Just something true.”

  I feel his rib cage press against mine as he inhales, feel his shoulders sink as he exhales—right beside me, so close I think I can even feel his heartbeat. For a long time, he just breathes, and I can feel it in the ether: something devastating, rolling quietly out in front of us.

  “After I was left here,” he says softly, “DHS ran ads in the newspaper. Every Sunday, for an entire year. The year of 1992. The Citizen-Times gave out free copies on Sundays sometimes…”

  I hear him swallow.

  “Asking if someone had…lost a two-year-old.” His voice goes hoarse on the word lost. “There was this fucking number.” I can feel him draw a deep breath. “If they called, they had to describe…me. Hair, eye color. Birthmarks.” He rubs his eyes with the hand that’s not around my shoulders, his hand covering his face. “I’ve got a birth mark on my shoulder blade,” he says into his palm. I feel him shake his head. “No one who called knew.”

  He’s quiet for a moment, his pain bleeding out into the ether. Up against me, his body feels so still. Then he takes a giant, deep breath, and I can feel him struggle as he rasps, “I saw this little kid today…when I was waiting on you. Little red-headed kid. Ev…he had his arms around his mother’s legs. She was sitting with her hand wrapped in a towel. He was standing right beside her.”

  Another deep, laborious breath, and when he lowers his hand, I can see his eyes are damp.

  His lips press together, and for a second, he just blinks ahead.

  I feel my own tears sting my eyes. “She couldn’t stay, Landon. Something was the matter with her. There’s no other reason.”

  “I asked for her.” He inhales again. “I asked for her for a few months. That’s what my papers say. I wouldn’t know. I can’t remember.”

  “I’m so sorry, Landon.” I draw closer to him as I whisper, “That must be the worst thing in the world.”

  “I have this fucking dream…” He puts his forehead in his hand. “It’s this long, white hall, and people are walking by. But they won’t look down.”

  At him, I think he means. People are walking by him, but they won’t look down. They won’t acknowledge him.

  He lets a rough breath out, then gently moves his arm out from behind me. Landon puts his face in both his hands.

  I wrap my arms around him from the side and feel him inhale deeply.

  “I’m so sorry…”

  I can feel him holding in his tears, can feel the tension gather in his body. Instead of sobbing, though, he just breathes…and breathes, a little heavier with every passing second, till he brings his hands up to his mouth, and I realize belatedly: he’s kind of hyperventilating.

  The trick for that is breathing into a paper bag—it forces you to inhale your own carbon dioxide—but I don’t think there’s one of those around.

  When his breaths get shallower and louder, more frantic, I glance down at the nurse call button. Then I turn more toward him, pull his hands off his mouth, cup my own hands around his mouth, and lean in close, so I can breathe into the dome of my fingers.

  I see his eyes shut as my warm breath fills my hands and then his lungs. It’s not airtight, but I guess it’s something, because after a few breaths, I can feel his torso moving less. I shut my eyes and keep breathing into his mouth. His hands come up and cover mine.

  It’s working.

  I can feel the tension start to leave his arms and shoulders. Unexpectedly, his head dips down, so our foreheads are touching. His hands leave mine and come down on my shoulders, holding onto me.

  I keep on breathing.

  Never have I felt so full of power. Not the forceful, gaudy kind, but real and pure—a kind of love. I’m heady with it. Underneath my hands, I feel his face. I’m touching Landon.

  When he pulls me closer, I don’t think at all. When his lips touch mine, I’m still focused on breathing. Then his mouth rubs gently over mine, and I shiver. His tongue explores the corner of my lips. I open for him, and his mouth and mine collide.

  Gravity releases me, and I AM KISSING LANDON.

  Landon’s hands around my head. Landon’s mouth so hard and hot. Landon’s tongue and my tongue. A shudder ripples through him, and through me, too. I freeze, only my hands moving; they touch his shoulders. His mouth moves again on mine.

  Nothing, not the closeness of our hugging nor the feel of his face underneath my hands, nothing has prepared me for his greedy mouth. My pulse races as I try to take what I need, too. I give back what I get and open deeper for him. Then I have to pull away—to breathe.

  Landon’s hand around my head pulls me back close. His mouth consumes mine. One kiss…two…then three. Time slides by until he breaks our rhythm. I can feel him panting. He laughs. He comes in again, and then, before his mouth can find mine in the dark, his head leans down. His hands come to his face.

  “Oh my God.” It’s moaned.

  And then he’s off the bed.

  I’m reeling, my mouth throbbing from our violent kisses. I can barely see him in the dark. I think he’s over by the window.

  “Fuck.”

  The word is harsh and cold—a slap. His shoulders rise and fall a few times. “Fuck.”

  “Don’t say that.” My voice quivers.

  “Evie—fucking shit.” He whirls on me. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course.”

  I feel breathless as I watch him pace around the window. I can hear him murmuring—I think it’s curses.

  He comes closer, hands in his hair, chest pumping. “Evie. Fuck, I can’t believe I did that. I’m sorry. I was— Chri
st, I’m fucking stupid.” He drops down into the chair beside my bed and covers his face with his hands.

  “Hey—it’s okay. Landon…” I reach for him, catching one wrist. I take his hand in both of mine, and he looks up into my eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “Don’t be sorry,” I tell him. “Look—you’re better.”

  He laughs darkly. “I’m not better.”

  “You’re not breathing hard.”

  “Believe me, I’m breathing hard.” He says it like he’s trying to prove something, but I’m right: he isn’t. “What I— That wasn’t okay. I can’t be doing shit like that.”

  “Kissing?” I manage. My body still feels like a sparkler at the Fourth of July. My head may never stop spinning.

  “Yes. Christ.” He gets up and starts to pace the room. “This is how I fuck things up! I can’t afford to fuck things up.” He sounds desperate. Almost scared.

  It stings at first, but then I stop and really think about him. Landon has no one. Our house…it’s really peaceful, and he has his own space. My parents care about him. Of course he would be panicked at the thought of losing that.

  “Landon—come back over here.” I beckon him, and he returns to stand beside my bed. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “I won’t tell. Ever. I would never tell if you—if I shouldn’t.”

  He nods, looking at his feet.

  “I won’t tell.”

  “It can’t happen again,” he murmurs. He looks up at me with those gray eyes, and I nod slowly. “Okay. It won’t.”

  He nods.

  “Do you need anything?” he asks, not fully meeting my eyes.

  “No. I’m fine,” I lie.

  He nods toward the couch. “I’m going over there.”

  “Okay.”

  For the rest of the night, I can hear him toss and turn atop the vinyl.

  Eight

  Evie

  Landon’s lying on his side, his back to me, when my mom returns from surgery. Her colleague, Dr. Aims, has made it to the hospital to cover for her, meaning Mom won’t have to leave my room again. One of the ENT nurses, a younger woman named Bea, has offered to drive Landon home if he wants.

  “Do you think he’s asleep?” Mom asks me in a murmur.

  I shake my head.

  A few minutes later, Landon is at my bedside, looking down on me in the dark, his face somber, his eyes unreadable, saying he’ll see me tomorrow—which, of course, is actually today. He leaves with Beatrice, and my mom takes the couch.

  Sometime in the later morning, while we’re waiting for the medical supply company to arrive with a pair of crutches for me, Mom looks up from her magazine and says, “How close do you feel you and Landon are?”

  My stomach bottoms out. I break into a cold sweat. “I don’t know. We’re friends I guess.”

  She looks thoughtful. “Has Dad ever told you about Landon’s past?”

  “Umm…I don’t think so.” I keep my mouth shut about what Landon himself told me. I want to hear my parents’ version of events.

  “You know,” she says, “I was impressed with his behavior here. The way he stuck by you. Because…Evie, when he was very young, Landon was actually left here—in the ER.”

  I widen my eyes, and Mom nods. “A woman was with him. She was probably his mother. She didn’t leave a name, apparently. For her emergency contact, she listed James Landon, aged two. And then it seems she just took off.”

  I listen to my mother’s story, which matches Landon’s.

  “I was aware of it, of course. We all were. It’s part of what prompted us to start our fostering. I never could forget his little face,” she tells me. “He was a precious child. One of the nurses in the ER took him home with her the second night. She was certified as a foster parent. I didn’t keep track of his name,” my mom continues. “I didn’t realize it was him until we got his updated paperwork, after he landed in our house. I didn’t want to mention it to you because it wasn’t relevant—and, you know, it’s really not my story to share. But I decided you should know…it must have taken a lot for him to sit out in that very same room.”

  I mull that over while I get discharged, and Mom wheels me out to the car.

  Thirty minutes later, Dad and Emmaline spill out the garage door to greet us. Dad carries me to the couch, which has been decked out in my bedding. All my pillows are in comfy-looking positions, and there’s a wicker tray set in the armchair, which has been pulled right beside the couch.

  “I know it’s not your room, but you can’t do two flights of stairs right now,” my dad says as we try to prop my ankle up.

  “If the light from all these windows bothers you in the mornings, we can see about a switch with Landon. He’s been so helpful,” Mom says.

  I try my best to settle both my nerves and my ankle as my family fusses over me and a delivery person drops off balloons from Makayla. Sometime later, Em is playing Xbox while my parents cook my favorite meal—shrimp fettuccine and asparagus—when I look up and notice Landon in the doorway.

  He wiggles his thick eyebrows. “Couch potato.”

  I smirk at his rumpled, plaid lounge pants, his undershirt, and his wild hair. “You’re one to talk.”

  “Some girl kept me up late.”

  My cheeks burn and my pulse quickens, but my little sister doesn’t notice the sub-context—if there even is one.

  I’m taking up most of the couch, and Em’s in the armchair right beside me. I watch Landon as he walks around the pool table behind us, looks out a window at the woods, then comes around and takes a seat in the small space beside my propped-up foot.

  He looks down at it.

  “How does it look?” I ask him. “Can you see in through the little toe-hole?”

  “Just the painted toenails. How’s it feeling?” It’s the first time since he came into the room that he’s looked into my eyes. My face stings with unwanted heat, which I ignore as I say, “Not the greatest.”

  He nods. “I have some memories of that pain. I’m glad they’re vague.”

  “How old did you say you were?”

  “Seven.”

  Emmaline glances away from her game, looking wide-eyed and impressed. “Seven, like me?”

  Landon nods. “Believe it or not, I was seven once, like you.”

  “What did you break?” she asks excitedly.

  Landon holds up his left arm. “Fractured distal radius.”

  Em frowns. “What’s a distal rainius?”

  “The wrist.” I look from her to Landon. He nods.

  “How’d you break it?” Em asks.

  “Slipped on a Lego on a hardwood floor.”

  “Oh no, Legos are youchie.”

  “It was very youchie,” he says.

  “He still has a scar,” I tell Em.

  “Oh no, they had to do surgery on it?” Emmaline walks over to peer down at it. “Daddy says wrists don’t get a lot of surgery. Not as much as flimsy ankles.”

  I laugh at my sister’s excellent memory. Dad is always ranting about “flimsy” ankles.

  Landon shrugs. His face looks slightly odd for just a second, but it passes, and our collective energy is redirected to Em’s game.

  Dinner’s ready soon. My family brings it to the den with me, and we eat watching Wheel of Fortune.

  Landon’s sitting by my foot again, so I can’t help but watch him. He’s a neat eater. He never seems to look at me during dinner, but I guess he must be watching me, because when I run out of water, he gets me a refill. I cling to his every comment as he guesses two phrases correctly, wowing both my parents, before he takes his dishes and mine to the kitchen.

  My mom’s brows raise in obvious approval. Minutes later, he’s back, with his hands in his pants pockets.

  “Food was great. Thank you.” He nods at my parents. “Sleep well, Evie. And Emmaline.”

  “You too,” my dad calls from behind his newspaper. “You’re a good ’un, Landon.”

  Emmaline hops up and down in her seat. “By
yeeeee, brother!”

  Mom stands up from the desk chair where she’s seated. “Goodnight, Landon. I’ll leave your school excuse for today on the counter in the morning.”

  I see him hold his hand up in a wave as he walks down the hall, back toward the kitchen and the stairs down to his room.

  That night, after everyone’s in bed, I sit there on the couch, my back against one of the arms, my eyes on the woods through the window, and I think back on the last day. All I can think about is Landon’s mouth on mine. When I remember, I feel…restless. I want to do something, but I don’t even know what. I’m not sure how much I like the feeling.

  Landon

  She doesn’t go to school the next two days, and I’m relieved. It means I don’t have to see her outside dinner, which I keep brief. After school the first day, I avoid the family room, so I don’t have to see her in her silky, blue pajamas, with her hair down and her pink and green girl pillows all around her. I bring her homework to her after school the second day, and Evie tries to ask about my day. I’m brief with her; evasive.

  That night, I lie in my bed, not sleeping. I think about the night I told her all that shit. The night at the hospital. I wish I hadn’t talked about it. I wish I hadn’t gone to sleep at all, and had that fucking dream, which woke her up and clued her in. I wish I had been more discreet, and hadn’t talked about the dream or the newspaper ad once I got in bed with her. I should have known the bed thing was a bad idea. I should have known that if I talked about that shit, it wouldn’t go well. I should have known not to touch her, especially her face when she was crying. Her skin was so soft, and I could smell her shampoo. I should have known, when I reached the last car on the dumbass train and lost my shit, to get out of the bed before she started touching me.

  But, despite my GPA, I’m not very smart.

  Later that night, I prove this to myself by walking quietly upstairs, through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the darkened family room. I stop in the doorway, my gaze slowly swinging to the couch. Of course, I see her shadowed form. Her foot is propped up on a bunch of pillows, her body covered with a pink fleece blanket. The armchair is pulled up right beside the couch, with Evie’s crutches propped against it.