Best Kind of Broken

  Brush, brush, brush.

  Her free hand is pressed flat on the counter between us. Speckles of black and white paint stick to her fingers and the side of her wrist. I wonder if the pads of her fingers are just as messy.

  She was always great with a paintbrush. But when she’d get really into it, she’d ditch the brushes and just paint with her hands like a kindergartener.

  In high school, she was all wild blonde curls and messy fingers, smearing paint on canvases like a crazy person. But then she’d step back from a masterpiece, and it always blew my mind how such a mess of colors and hands could create something so beautiful.

  Brush, brush, br—

  Pixie’s toothbrush comes to a halt as she catches me staring at her hand.

  “Whah?” she says over her toothbrush.

  I stop brushing as well. “Yahr ah meh.”

  She looks confused. “Whah?”

  I spit into the sink and rinse my mouth. “You’re a mess.”

  The corners of her mouth slowly tip up, and I swear to God, even covered in toothpaste and drool, her smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  She says, “Ooh oot tah whyk meh mehey.”

  “I have no idea what you just said.”

  She spits into the sink and cleans her face as well. “I said”—she turns big green eyes to me and puts a hand on her hip—“you used to like me messy.”

  I scan her face, momentarily sucked into that warm happiness that is uniquely Pixie. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

  The bathroom shrinks in on us until the walls and the shower curtain and the toothpaste in the sink are all gone, and it’s just me and her and all the unspoken things between us.

  Her smile falters as she looks up at me with little-girl hope and grown-up fear.

  God.

  All I want to do is hold her.

  Her eyes begin to shimmer and that familiar panic creeps back in.

  I whip my eyes away and rinse off my toothbrush before hastily leaving the bathroom. I need to keep my distance from Pixie. For her sake. For mine.

  Once inside my bedroom, I fix my eyes on the gaping hole in the wall and stare at it until it’s all I see. I broke the wall. That damage belongs to me.

  The panic begins to recede.

  13

  Pixie

  I hate bowling.

  The shoes are uncomfortable, the balls are gross, and I never win. But when Matt called yesterday and suggested we meet in Tempe tonight to go bowling, he seemed so excited that I didn’t bother confessing my severe dislike for the activity. And honestly, after the way things ended last weekend, I’m just happy he wants to do anything with me at all. So bowling I shall go.

  I hang up my apron and check the time with a frown. I quickly grab two leftover brownies from the lunch rush and head upstairs. I have only an hour to get ready. My hair still needs to be straightened, and I still need to pick out some clothes for bowling and anything that might happen afterward.

  My stomach dips a little as I think about later.

  Am I going to sleep with Matt tonight? Am I going to sleep with him ever?

  Why is this so hard for me?

  At the top of the stairs, I come face-to-face with Levi as he’s exiting his room.

  Ever since the toothbrush incident—yes, that’s what I’m calling it—my heart’s been doing this sad lurching thing every time I see him, and right now it’s lurching like crazy.

  “Hi, Levi,” my overactive mouth says.

  He stares at me, mid-door-closing.

  Yeah. It’s weird. We don’t usually greet each other in the hallway. Or anywhere for that matter.

  “Uh… hi.” He closes the door and eyes me curiously.

  “Want one?” I hold out the plate of brownies like they’re a peace offering. Maybe they are. Maybe they’re my way of saying I’m sorry I have a boyfriend and condoms in my purse. And if that doesn’t scream dysfunctional, I don’t know what does.

  “That depends.” He eyes the brownie plate suspiciously. “Did you make them?”

  In junior high, I went through this baking period and was determined to make the most delicious brownies ever. Every Saturday, I would slave in Levi’s kitchen making brownies from scratch, and every Saturday they would end up tasting like bars of sour salt. I don’t know how he did it, but I know—I just know—Levi was responsible for my disgusting brownies. I’m pretty sure he switched the salt and sugar, but I could never figure out how he made them sour.

  I narrow my eyes. “No, I did not make them.”

  “Then… sure.” He reaches for the smaller of the two brownies.

  I shake my head. “Jackass.”

  He shrugs. “It’s not my fault you make god-awful brownies.”

  “It’s completely your fault.”

  “Oh yeah?” he says with a hint of a smile. “Prove it.”

  I’m on the brink of a smile myself when our hallway powwow is interrupted.

  “Hey!”

  I turn to see Matt at the top of the stairs and, for a moment, nothing in the entire universe makes sense.

  I blink. “Wh—what are you doing here?”

  “I came to pick you up.” Matt smiles as he nears. “I wanted to surprise you so you wouldn’t have to drive by yourself.”

  I keep blinking. “How did you know where to find me?”

  And why the hell do people keep dropping in to pick me up? I know how to drive, dammit.

  “The girl at the front desk told me you were up here.” He leans in and kisses my cheek.

  Levi’s blue eyes shoot to mine, and I find myself irrationally angry with Haley.

  Matt’s staring at me. Why is he staring at me? Oh right.

  I swallow and start gesturing back and forth. “Levi, this is Matt… my, uh, boyfriend. Matt, this is Levi… my, uh…” Neighbor? Handyman? Toothbrush partner? “My Levi.”

  Someone shoot me. Please.

  Matt looks at me funny before holding out his hand to Levi. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

  Levi slowly moves his eyes from mine to Matt’s and it’s like watching two worlds collide as they shake hands.

  What is happening right now?

  I feel sick to my stomach. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. Matt can’t be here, in the same space with Levi, in the east wing of the inn.

  Matt turns to me and wrinkles his brow. “You look different. Did you do something to your hair?” He gently pulls at a loose curl.

  Levi’s eyes are back on me, piercing me through like sapphire spears.

  “No. This is just my hair,” I say, functioning on autopilot because my brain is in shock. “My real hair.”

  What is happening right now?

  “Oh.” He smiles again. “I like it. You ready?”

  “For what?”

  “To… go bowling?”

  Levi stifles a cough.

  “Oh,” I say, dragging my eyes back to Matt. “No. I’m not ready yet.”

  I’m not ready at all.

  Levi nods at Matt. “It was good to meet you, man.” He scoots past us and hastily exits down the stairs. He doesn’t look back at me.

  “Hey, you okay?” Matt tucks the loose curl behind my ear. I hate it when he does that. Maybe I like my hair all out of place and unorganized. My hair isn’t his goddamn desk.

  Oh my God, I’m losing it.

  I force out a smile. “I’m fine. Let me just get dressed and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  I don’t wait for him to agree. I just dart into my room and shut the door behind me, wondering why I’m on the verge of tears.

  * * *

  “But I don’t want to bowl!” The pudgy little girl in the lane next to Matt and me stomps her bowling shoe on the glossy floor as she speaks to her mother. “Bowling is boring and the balls are really heavy.”

  Amen, sister.

  The balls are ridiculously heavy. Fourteen pounds? What do I look like, He-Man?

  “Quit making that face, Amanda,” says
the girl’s mother as she sits with the small group of people they’re with. “It makes you look ugly.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Well, you should,” the mother says, raising her voice to be heard over the party music blaring from the overhead speakers. “You’re already fat. The last thing you need is an ugly face to match that body of yours. Don’t you want people to like you?”

  I stare at the woman in horror as everyone within earshot shifts uncomfortably and looks away. The little girl bows her head in shame and silently collects her ball before rolling it down the lane. She keeps her eyes lowered as she makes her way back to her seat and the next person up gathers their ball. The little girl stares at her small hands.

  I know that little girl. I was that little girl. Provided for, but unloved. Innocent, but resented. My mother was the queen of cruel words.

  The first time I realized my mom hated me—and yes, I know that sounds dramatic, but the woman truly does despise me—was when I was five years old.

  She was speaking on the phone to someone, I have no idea who, and I heard her say, “I hate being a mother. Sarah is so clumsy and messy and I swear she’s retarded. She’s scared of everything and cries all the time and she’s annoying as hell. And she’s not even pretty, so I can’t even look forward to a beautiful teenage daughter. She’ll probably be fat too.”

  I was five when I heard this. Five.

  I was so startled and confused by the words coming out of my mother’s mouth that I don’t think the true maliciousness behind them registered. I walked into the room where she had the phone to her ear and stared at her questioningly.

  She rolled her eyes at me and spoke to her listener. “And now she’s eavesdropping on me like a little bitch. God, parenting is like a prison sentence.”

  It was so surreal to feel hated by the person I loved most in the world. And that was just the first of many hurtful words that would fall from that woman’s lips. She didn’t physically abuse me—at least not often—but sometimes words can be more damaging than wounds.

  So when I met Levi’s family, and his mother, Linda, loved me like her own and showered me with kind words and affection, I spent as many days and nights as I could in the comfort of the Andrews home. Linda and Mark Andrews were always trying to protect me from my miserable mother and give me what she wouldn’t. They showed me love and family and compassion and all the other things I was starving for.

  My heart twists as I think back on all that happiness, that warmth.

  God, I miss them.

  “Striiike!”

  I blink over to Matt, who has his arms raised in victory as he stares down the lane. He spins around with a giant grin. “Did you see that?”

  I smile and clap and pretend I saw the whole thing. “Whoo-hoo!”

  “Your turn,” he says.

  Oh goodie.

  I begrudgingly rise and lift my fifty-pound ball from the dispenser with an exaggerated grunt. I step up to the shiny lane—my feet sliding a bit on the polished floor so I have to catch myself like I’m baby Bambi—and halfheartedly throw the ball toward the white pins.

  I knock over two. Thrilling.

  I retrieve my ball for round two and knock over another three pins.

  “Way to go, babe!” Matt says. “That’s your best frame yet.”

  I pinch out a smile as we switch places and he prepares for his turn.

  I hate this game.

  As I take my seat, I glance at the neighboring lane and see the mother fussing with a barrette in the little girl’s—Amanda’s—hair. My mother always hated my hair. The curls drove her crazy. A disgusting rat’s nest, she’d call it.

  By the time I was in seventh grade, the rat’s nest had grown to the middle of my back and I freaking loved it. It was wild and difficult to style, but it was my trademark, my identity. Pixie with the long blonde curls. Pixie with the happy hair. It made me feel girly and pretty.

  My mom was always trying to get me to pin it back or twist it up into something that looked halfway respectable, but it was almost impossible to tame my unruly ringlets, so rarely ever did I cooperate.

  One weekend I refused to pull my hair back and my mom threw a massive fit, but I didn’t care. It was my hair and I was going to wear it down. Nothing could stop me.

  Except a pair of scissors.

  Sandra Marshall grabbed a thick fistful of my proud curls and swiftly cut them clean off. I watched in horror as the front left side of my identity fell to the floor in a sad heap of golden spirals. Then I cried.

  There was nothing I could do to rectify the damage except cut the rest of my hair just as short to match.

  “Maybe walking around like an ugly boy will give you some perspective on properly caring for your hair,” she’d said.

  I was thirteen and I thought I looked like a boy. I was thirteen and believed I was ugly.

  I spent that weekend at Levi’s house, crying to his mom about how kids at school were going to tease me and how no boys would ever like me. Linda did her best to style my hair in the most feminine way possible, but it was a lost cause.

  Monday morning came around and I cried all the way to school. Junior high is hell on girls—especially in a small town—so with my head hung in shame, I braved the front doors and steeled myself for the endless teasing and whispering that was sure to ensue.

  But it never came.

  It seemed everyone in school was too preoccupied with a certain eighth grader’s hair to care about mine. I traveled through the halls, listening to giggles and following wide eyes to the source of the school’s entertainment.

  Levi.

  His hair was longer back then and he had dyed it purple—neon purple—and spiked it up all over his head. The school’s star football player dying his hair a silly color wasn’t jaw-dropping or mind-blowing, but it was outrageous enough to keep any attention off of me.

  Levi and I didn’t speak that day, but once, as we passed in the hall, he gave me a crooked smile and that’s when I knew.

  I was his completely.

  Bowling pins crash against the floor and the loud noise ricochets in my ears as Matt jumps in triumph over his eight-pin knockout.

  I glance over at Amanda, whose head is still down as she and her group finish their game and leave the bowling alley.

  I hope she has an Andrews family in her life, or at least a Levi.

  Especially a Levi.

  “Earth to Sarah.” Matt waves his hand in front of my face.

  I look up at him. “My turn again?”

  “Yep. Go get ’em, tiger.”

  Rawr.

  Matt and I bowl for a while longer and we’re having a perfectly pleasant time—and by “we” I mean Matt—when he throws a giant-ass wrench into the evening.

  “So,” he says after throwing his fifth strike. “What are you doing Fourth of July weekend?”

  I stand from my plastic seat and walk to the ball dispenser. “I haven’t really thought about it. Why?”

  He doesn’t sit back down, but instead watches as I pick up my sixty-five-pound ball and insert my fingers into the dark holes of other people’s dead skin cells.

  Have I mentioned I hate this game?

  “I was thinking about flying back home to San Diego for the weekend. And I want you to come along and meet my family.”

  I look up. “Wow. Random.”

  He laughs. “Not really. We’ve been together for a while and I think it’s time to show you off. I’ve told my parents all about you, and they can’t wait to meet you in person.”

  He told his parents all about me?

  My mother doesn’t even know Matt exists. Hell, Ellen barely knows. Should I have been prepping my family members for a Matt meet and greet? Shit. I really suck at the girlfriend thing.

  I swallow. “I don’t know…”

  Am I ready to meet his family? Am I ready to go on a weekend trip with him? Wouldn’t a weekend trip mean sex? My fingers start to sweat into the ball holes.


  “Come on.” He smiles. “I really want you to meet my family.”

  I scrunch my nose. “But… why?”

  “Because you’re important to me.” His smile stays in place, but his voice lowers in sincerity. “And because I love you.”

  I almost drop my eighty-pound ball as I stare at him. We’ve never said the “L” word to each other.

  Obnoxious party music and the loud echoes of falling pins fill the silence between us as he waits for me to respond.

  Up until this moment, I wasn’t sure if Matt and I would have a future or not. But standing here, in these ridiculously slippery shoes, with my fingers wedged in the sweaty holes of a ninety-five-pound sphere of nasty, I’m completely sure.

  14

  Levi

  It’s late and the kitchen lights are dimmed as I lock the back door. Just as I’m turning to head for the east wing, the dining room door swings open and a pissed-off Pixie flies past me, knocking into my shoulder as she huffs to the sink.

  “Whoa.” I turn around. “Who pissed you off?”

  “Matt,” she says through clenched teeth as she washes her hands. She yanks some vegetables from the fridge, grabs a sharp knife, and starts hacking away at mushrooms.

  “Matt?” All my guard dog instincts immediately go on alert. “Why? What did he do?”

  I’ll kill him. If he hurt her, I will kill him.

  “He told me he loved me!” She thrusts her arms out, the sharp knife in her hand glinting under the kitchen lights.

  I lift a brow and wait because, surely, that’s not the reason for the broken expression on her face. But she doesn’t elaborate.

  I pause. “So…?”

  “So…” She laughs without humor as she goes back to hacking. “Just when I think I’m making progress in my life and might be able to get back to normal, or finally have sex with someone other than drunk Benji, or just move on from this deep, sad place I’m in all the time, Matt goes and tells me he loves me and totally screws everything up!” She starts chopping more aggressively.

  Pixie hasn’t had sex with anyone other than Benji? I’m outrageously pleased by this information.