A Shattered Heart

  I crumpled the note in my hand and tossed it into the trash can. It was a piece from the past that no longer belonged to me.

  With a surge of energy that didn't match the pounding in my head, I leaped to my feet and cleared my counter of the weeks' worth of junk mail and empty Starbucks cups. Everything was tossed on top of the note, burying it from sight.

  Still not satisfied, I pulled the trash bag out of the trash can and tied it up twice before carrying it out of my apartment. Barefoot, I navigated the asphalt, not even noticing the way it burned the bottoms of my feet. I just wanted to get rid of the bag and its contents. It had been a shitty twenty-four hours, and I was ready to put them behind me. If I'd learned anything over the last two years, it was that avoidance was the only way for survival. Mackenzie may have felt the need to keep the connection open in order to appease her sins, but I didn't. Mackenzie might be an asshole for leaving Zach when he needed her most, but I was no different. I'd allowed my love to be taken. I wasn't only an asshole, I was a selfish one at that. If I would have just held on to him a little tighter, he would be here. It was my fault he died.

  Four

  Over the next few months I buried the events of my visit to see Mackenzie and Brian's note deep inside me. Against my better judgment, I continued to see Dr. Carlton every week, but I refused to talk about that day. I sensed he would have liked to throttle me, but I was pretty sure that stepped over the whole doctor/patient relationship. Truthfully, I wouldn't have minded. I was picking for a fight, and I was pretty confident I could put bookish Carlton on his ass.

  Fighting my therapist probably wasn't the best idea, so I did the only thing I could—I threw myself into my kickboxing at the gym near my campus. Now that classes were over for the summer I planned to be at the gym any time I wasn't working. The parts of me that had once been soft and a little fluffy in my old life were now taut and strong. Every muscle in my body was tighter now. I was no longer the slightly chubby girl with more curves than angles. That body no longer existed. It was just another way for me to shed my past.

  "Damn, girl, are you trying to put my liver in my throat?" Travis, my sparring partner, asked after I put him on his ass for the third time.

  "Don't be a wuss," I said, using my towel to wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead. I glanced at the time on my phone. "Crap, I'm going to be late." I tossed the towel over my shoulders and watched Travis stagger to his feet.

  He was still grumbling and rubbing his side once he was on his feet. "Are you hyped up on steroids or something?" he asked, lifting his shirt to check the damage.

  I took a gulp of my water before answering. "Maybe if you didn't stay out partying half the night you wouldn't be so slow. I think my grandma moves quicker than you and she's had two hip replacement surgeries."

  Travis flicked his towel at me but missed by a mile. Though we'd been sparring for an hour I still had a storage of energy left. "Maybe if you had a life you wouldn't have to spend so much time in the gym," he countered. His words could have been viewed as harsh and even mean, but I didn't take offense. Travis and I'd been friends since I joined the gym a year ago. We'd hit it off when we both signed up for the same kickboxing class, despite our blatant differences.

  Travis was the classic example of "partying your way through college." He had no idea about my past and was smart enough not to dig. He'd initially tried to move our relationship past our tentative friend zone, but I squashed the idea instantly. I wasn't looking for a relationship. Ever. It would be unfair to enter into a relationship missing a vital organ. My heart was no longer capable of love, and I was okay with that.

  "Don't try to blame me for your wuss-ness," I told him, heading for the women's locker room. I had exactly an hour to get over to the YMCA in Winterpark to teach my new summer art class. The pay was crap and the location was less than ideal, but I took it to keep myself busy now that classes were out for the summer. Not to mention it looked good on my transcripts and got me one step closer to my goals.

  Two years ago paying for college had been a major stress. Mom and Dad made just enough to take me out of the running for grants but not enough to actually help with my student costs. Unsubsidized loans had been my only option, or so we thought. What we hadn't counted on was a semi truck slamming into our life. Now money was no longer an issue. I could travel around the world for years and not run out of money, but I didn't like to think about the blood money that sat in my account accruing interest. It paid my classes and allowed me to live on my own, that was the extent of thought I'd allowed myself to give it.

  Travis was waiting for me with his hair still wet from his shower when I left the women's locker room twenty minutes later. My own wet hair was pulled up into a loose messy bun on my head.

  "You're wearing that to work?" Travis asked, raising his eyebrows at my Avengers T-shirt paired with my favorite jeans.

  "I'm teaching a bunch of kids art. I'm pretty sure they're not going to care about my Captain America T-shirt. They'll be too busy wondering how they ended up in summer camp instead of at home playing on their electronic mind-sucks."

  "Ain't that the truth. My youngest brother starts high school in the fall and he has one plan for his summer—video games and sleeping in. My mom has some delusional idea that she'll get him interested in outdoor activities, but he'd much rather hole up in his cave of a room all summer."

  "Exactly."

  "So, why are you doing it?"

  I shrugged as he held the door open for me. "It's a job. And art is sort of my thing," I admitted.

  He raised an eyebrow. I didn't blame his skepticism. I knew I didn't fit in the typical artist mold. I wasn't eccentric or cool. I didn't sit around in obscure coffeehouses contemplating the destruction of modern art or walk around with paint-splattered clothes with paint brushes stowed behind my ear or in my pockets. "I figured you were going to school to be a physical fitness guru or some shit like that," he said, swinging his gym bag over his shoulder.

  I shuddered. "No, thank you. Touching people isn't my thing."

  "Could have fooled me," he said, rubbing his side for emphasis.

  "Oh, hitting people is a different story," I laughed. "I better jet," I added, taking another peek at my phone. "I'll see you on Wednesday?"

  "Unless my spleen has ruptured by then," he joked, tossing his bag into the bed of his mud-splattered pickup truck.

  I snorted as I opened the door of my Honda that looked small next to his redneck truck. Travis was one hundred percent southern boy. I was pretty sure his dad must have soaked his sperm in Jim Beam before conceiving Travis. Travis could have been the poster boy for every country song ever written. Weekends of drinking beer and mudding were his ideas of a great weekend. He talked me into going mudding with him and his friends one time. One time was all I needed—to know they were nuts. Driving through potholes the size of craters filled with mud with the windows open was not my idea of a good time.

  I waved at Travis as I backed out of my parking spot and pulled out of the parking lot. Five minutes later I merged onto the highway, heading east and trying to ignore the part of my heart that picked up tempo the closer I got to my old stomping ground. Traffic was light. Go figure. It was still a little early for the typical afternoon backup on the highway. Poor planning on my part. I ended up getting to the Winterpark area with ten minutes to spare. I tried not to think about how achingly familiar the roads were. I knew this area well. I'd been back in Florida for a year, but I'd managed to avoid the majority of these roads up until now. Each week I drove to Mom and Dad's for an obligatory dinner, but I stuck to the same path that gave me the least amount of heartache each time.

  Driving to the Y was a different story. It wasn't a straight shot like my parents' house. It was in the heart of all the streets I knew so well. Streets we'd played on. Roads we'd used to walk to and from school. It was a map to all my memories.

  To calm my nerves, I swung through the Starbucks drive-thru for a shot of caffeine before I hea
ded to the YMCA for my first teaching class. My palms were damp with nervous sweat as I handed over my bank card to the cashier. Nerves. I needed to get over it. I needed this job if I wanted to continue down my career path. Teaching and nurturing a love for art had been my plan for as long as I could remember. My year abroad had set me back a year, but I was now ready to tackle that goal. With my first year of college under my belt I felt I was one step closer to realizing that dream. It was the only part of my old life I'd allowed myself to keep.

  Five minutes later my nerves and memories were intact and back where they belonged. I pulled into the parking lot of the Y and looked up at the building, pleased I was able to keep the memories at bay. I took a long sip of my caramel iced latte, stalling for a minute before climbing from the car. Juggling my bag, large box of art supplies I'd brought along, and my iced coffee left me with no free hands but gave me a sense of purpose as I looked at the building. I could do this. I closed my car door with my hip and headed for the front of the building before I could change my mind. I tried to recall the memory of how excited I'd been when I was offered this summer job. After being turned down for almost every other art job I'd applied for, I'd been thrilled to be hired somewhere, even if it did bring me uncomfortably close to my old life.

  The box in my arms teetered dangerously when I tried to stop a line of condensation from my latte from dropping into the open bag dangling off my wrist. Lacking a free hand, I was forced to watch the drop as it hovered mockingly over my phone before plopping onto it. A few choice words tumbled through my mind. I'd already lost one phone to a puddle during a typical Florida thunderstorm a month ago. Even the rice trick everyone bragged about couldn't save it from the soaking it had gotten.

  By the time I reached the front door of the Y, I was regretting my decision to pack so many supplies. The box was heavy in my arms and sweat was steadily dripping down my back. I was in the process of trying to figure out how I was going to open the front door with my arms full and not spill the drink I was currently annoyed with, when an arm reached past me and pulled the door open.

  "Thanks," I said to my rescuer, though I couldn't see him over the large box in my arms.

  "Not a problem, Kat," the voice answered with familiarity.

  Dread pulled at the strings in my stomach as I lowered the box. This was the biggest problem with working so close to my parents' house. I was bound to run into people I knew. After all, the Y was less than two miles from my childhood home.

  The box slipped from my fingers and crashed to the floor as I took in the person behind the voice. Mother of crap. It was official. God hated me. "Brian," I gulped as my supplies rolled across the floor in every direction. I debated turning and leaving them.

  "Kat," he said almost mockingly as he knelt down on the floor to retrieve a blue marker by his foot. "I see you recovered from your night at Fred's."

  I flushed at the memory. "Why were you even there? You're too young to drink. What would D—?" My tirade stopped as I gasped at what I'd almost said. I expected Brian to look crushed at my words. Grief-stricken. I expected his face to be awash with anguish at my almost reminder of Dan. His look was anything but those, though. If anything, he looked amused as he gathered the rest of my supplies.

  He confirmed my suspicion by laughing. "I don't think Danny Boy could have said much. I remember him coming home lit that time you guys went to Josh Michael's party for his eighteenth birthday, and he was younger than I am now." His voice was filled with warmth at the memory.

  I eyed him with disbelief, trying to process everything at once. His words couldn't be true. Was it possible that he was older than Dan would ever be? I did the quick math in my head and realized he was right. Brian was nineteen now, almost twenty. He turned nineteen the day Dan should have turned twenty. Dan would never turn twenty. He was forever frozen in time at eighteen, just months shy of his nineteenth birthday. His younger brother was now older than him. The thought was a quick, sharp jab to the gut. Time was marching on. God really was a cruel bastard.

  "You okay?" Brian asked, startling me out of my thoughts as he reached a hand out to me. I recoiled. His eyes narrowed and he dropped his hand.

  I could have apologized. I could have told him that the last person who'd held my hand was his brother. He'd understand. After all, he loved Dan as much as I had.

  "You never called me," he chastised, lifting my box effortlessly off the ground. I couldn't help noting the changes in his physique as he stood. He'd filled out in the last two years. He now looked like a football player, not all bulky like defense, but he was solid with plenty of muscle. A pang to the heart. There was a time when he and Dan could have possibly passed as twins. They'd had the same build and height, but maturity and physical activity had taken Brian's looks on a different path. It was too bad I'd always loved the leaner build on Dan. It wasn't like Brian was ugly. I was sure he got his fair share of girls, but it was hard to see past the changes.

  I shrugged my bag onto my shoulder and tossed my Starbucks in the trash can, though it was practically full. "I'm not much of a phone talker."

  He juggled my box, ignoring my attempt to take it back. "So I've heard," he said, quirking an eyebrow.

  I bristled at his words. I hated that everyone talked about me. Assholes. I wished he'd give me my box and go do what he came here to do. My guess was lift weights.

  "You're teaching the Fun With Art class, right?" he said, heading down a hallway.

  "How do you know that?" I asked as he pushed a door open.

  "I'm here a lot," he said, grinning at me and placing my box on a long table against one of the walls.

  "You are?" I asked. Of course he was. I knew I should have taken a job closer to campus. Flipping burgers would have been better than this.

  He leaned against the table, giving the impression he wasn't in a hurry to leave. "Yeah, I'm coaching a summer football league and pitching in anywhere else they need me."

  I nodded. This didn't surprise me. Brian had always been helpful. Where Dan had been the entertainment, Brian could be counted on to lend a helping hand. He and I spent many nights doing the dishes after dinners at their house while Dan sat on the counter, tapping out songs on the tile with spoons. The memory was bittersweet and nearly gutted me.

  "Your brother would be proud of you," I said with sadness. The words hurt more than I thought they would. I'd avoided talking about Dan for so long any mention of him brought all the pain crushing back in.

  Brian smiled at me gently. "He'd definitely be impressed with my guns," he teased, flexing a muscle.

  A gasp escaped through my lips. I'd expected him to recoil at my words like I would have. My eyes narrowed, taking him in. "I wouldn't count on that."

  He laughed. "Trust me, these guns are impressive. Danny Boy would probably make me bench press him." His voice was light and filled with warmth. I opened my mouth to cut him down. It felt wrong to be so carefree with his memories. Tossing them out there without any regard to who they would hit was cruel. I tried to stop the filmstrip of memories running through my brain that his words started. The memories were poignant reminders of dares, roughhousing, goofing off, and everything I'd tried to forget.

  The chatter of young voices interrupted us, filling the hall as a group of kids swept into the room.

  Brian pushed himself away from the table. "I better leave you to your class. It was nice to catch up with you, Kat. I've missed you," he said with sincerity before heading out of the room. I wanted to mull his words over in my head, dissect them before I digested them. I felt shaky, as if I were recovering from the flu. It was the same feeling I got before a roller coaster took its first loop.

  I told myself now was not the time as the noise in the room swelled to a deafening level as more kids, who all looked to be in the eleven-to-thirteen age bracket, filled the room. Later I would analyze how whole Brian looked, how normal he'd acted. Two months ago, I'd been ready to tear Mackenzie to pieces for her aura of being completely heale
d inside. Seeing the same aura around Brian was unsettling. Was I the only one who hadn't moved on?

  Five

  I discovered teaching art was different than actually performing it, especially when it came to a bunch of chattering preteens. It took me over a half an hour to get them settled in their seats with the supplies the Y had provided. I'd decided ahead of time to have them do one of the art projects I remembered doing in middle school. At the front of the room I placed the bright red apple I'd brought on a stand so they could all see it. I instructed them to use any mediums they wanted to transfer the image of the apple onto the white piece of paper in front of them, paying attention to dimensions and the coloring of the fruit.

  While they worked, I walked between the tables giving pointers when needed. Some of the work was crude in execution and finished in a hurry. I knew this type. Their parents had most likely cajoled them into taking the class, hoping to spark some kind of interest. I made plans in my head to bring different mediums for them to work with in the future. I did spot several students who showed promise, and I made a point to give them helpful tips. One boy stood out. His drawing was done with lead, and if I wouldn't have seen him working on it I wouldn't have believed he'd done it. The dimensions and contrast were almost perfect. The shading had been done with an expert hand that spoke of true talent. I envied him. Even after years of classes I would never possess what came naturally to him.

  "Can I keep this for a couple of days?" I asked him once he completed it and the class started to empty out. I wanted to show the picture to the art department at the college. They were going to crap themselves when I told them a twelve-year-old did it. It was a shame art was a dying subject in public schools. This kid was missing out.