The Way We Break

  He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over the Barley Legal logo on his hoodie. “I don’t know. I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking.”

  I get a sneaking suspicion Troy’s been secretly overanalyzing the drama I’ve been going through with Tessa since the divorce.

  “Look, I can’t lecture you on honoring your commitments. I’m the last fucking asshole you want to hear that from. But Georgia is not Tessa. She’s not hiding a mental illness from you.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  I try not to laugh as I take a long draw on my pint, savoring the sharp bitterness and the sting in my throat. “You’re right. I don’t—”

  My phone vibrates in my pocket and I wipe my hands on my napkin before I dig it out. Seeing the words “Rory calling” on my screen sends my body and mind into an instant panic. My muscles tense and my heart starts pumping wildly.

  “Rory? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, shit,” Troy whispers, but I hold up my hand to quiet him so I can hear Rory.

  There’s a pause on the line and a soft rustling. After a few seconds, I begin to wonder if she butt-dialed me. Then her voice comes through, and the sound puts me even more on edge. She’s crying.

  “Houston,” she whispers, sniffling softly. “I need you.”

  Three words. Three words I’ve wanted to hear for what feels like a lifetime.

  When you dream of something happening for so long, and it finally happens, it’s never the same as you imagined. I thought I wanted to hear Rory say those words. But I never realized what it would take to make it happen. And now, I’d give anything not to hear those words over the phone when she’s six hundred fucking miles away, and God knows what has happened to her.

  “Rory, what happened? Are you hurt?”

  Troy’s eyes widen as I rise from my chair. I plug my ear with one finger as I hold my phone to the other ear, trying to block out the noise from the patrons downstairs. Rory lets out a soft whimper that might as well be a dagger in my chest.

  “Rory, talk to me, baby. What happened?”

  “I’m fine,” she whispers, a bit louder this time. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what? You didn’t do anything. Rory, where are you? Are you safe?”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! I should have gone to get her last week instead of giving Patricia another two weeks to finish working on the book.

  “I’m at Starbucks. But… I want to come home. I would have called my mom, but I don’t want to hear her say I told you so. I don’t think I could take that right now.”

  “Why? Did that fucker hurt you? I’ll fucking destroy him.”

  “No!” she replies forcefully, then her voice goes back to a whisper. “No, Houston. I just need your help. Can you help me? I need… help with a plane ticket. I’m low on funds.”

  “Don’t worry about the ticket,” I say, racing down the steps to the first-floor dining area. “I’m coming to get you. I’ll be there in three or four hours, tops. Listen to me, Rory. I want you to tell me the truth. Are you safe at Starbucks?”

  She sniffs softly, then she’s silent for a moment. I dash through the dining room, dodging customers and wait staff as I head outside to go to my car.

  “I don’t know. Should I go somewhere else? I don’t think he’ll come here, but… I don’t know.”

  The dark clouds loom ominously over the parking lot behind Barley Legal. I don’t know if it’s going to rain, but I do know this: Liam is going to regret whatever he did to Rory today. He’s going to regret it for a very fucking long time.

  “Listen to me, Rory. I don’t have time to explain. I’m getting in my car right now to go to the airport. But I need you to do something for me. Can you please promise me you’ll do something? Just one thing?”

  I deactivate my car alarm and hop inside the SUV, not moving or blinking as I wait anxiously for her reply.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Slamming the car door shut, I breathe a sigh of relief when the world goes quiet. “Rory, I need you to call Hannah and ask her to pick you up and take you to her house for the next few hours. I’ll be there to pick you up soon. Okay?”

  She’s silent again as I turn the key in the ignition. Tick. Tick. Tick. The seconds pass by painfully slowly as I wait for her response. Right now, she’s wondering how the fuck I know Hannah. She’s probably wondering if I somehow planned for Liam to do whatever he did to her.

  I pull my car away from the curb and head toward the freeway, knowing that no matter what Rory is thinking right now, nothing is going to stop me from going to California today.

  “Rory? Are you still there?”

  “How do you know Hannah?”

  “I’ll explain everything when I get there. Just know that Hannah’s been looking out for you, on my behalf—and your mom’s. We’ve been worried. I promise I’ll tell you everything when I get there.”

  She sniffs again, but her voice sounds stronger when she replies. “Okay. I’ll call Hannah.”

  “Rory?”

  “Yeah.”

  I turn onto the freeway and clench my teeth against the anger raging inside me, forcing it aside momentarily so I can speak to her from my heart. “Rory, I’ve been dying to hear your voice again, but not like this.”

  “Oh, God, Houston, I’m such an idiot,” she says, crying even harder this time.

  “Don’t say that. And don’t worry about anything. I’ll take care of the plane ticket and anything else you need, okay?” I swallow hard, unable to believe I’m about to say the words I’ve been dying to say for the past six weeks. “Rory, I’m coming for you.”

  As soon as I end the call, a chill runs through me, lifting the hairs on the back of my neck. I’m not one to spook easily, but part of me wonders if I’m sensing Liam is near.

  No, that’s ridiculous. That only happens in horror films. This is no movie. This is as real as it gets. I’m really, truly fucked.

  It takes a few minutes for me to work up the courage to call Hannah. I don’t want her to know what a mess my life is. But I promised Houston I’d call her. How the fuck do Houston and my mom know Hannah Lee? I guess it’s not a total stretch that my mom would know her. If Hannah is truly from Salem, maybe they both attended the same writers’ workshop a million years ago when my mom used to actually do stuff like that. Before she gave up on her book.

  I use the cuff of my sleeve to wipe away the stale remnants of tears on my cheeks, then I turn around to face the other patrons in Starbucks. The guy sitting in the armchair across from me glances up briefly from his laptop, quickly returning to whatever he’s working on. Why should I care what these people think about me? The people who truly matter to me don’t give a shit if I cry in the middle of Starbucks. Because the people who truly matter to me know what a drama-filled joke my life has become.

  I shake my head at this thought and take a few breaths to calm my racing heart. Then I dial Hannah’s number and wait. She picks up on the third ring.

  “Rory! I’m so glad to hear from you. I just got a text from Houston, so I’m getting in my car right now. Which Starbucks are you at?”

  My stomach clenches at her cheerful tone. She wants me to know I’m not bothering her, and maybe even that she doesn’t judge me for needing to be rescued. Tears of shame well up in my eyes again, but I manage to blink a few times to hold them back.

  “I’m at the Starbucks on Shoreline and Pear Avenue.”

  A soft chugging noise followed by a repetitive dinging sound. Then she sighs. “Oh, dear. Whatever you do, don’t talk to the customers or you’ll be stuck there for hours listening to someone’s start-up idea.”

  I almost feel guilty for chuckling at this.

  “Okay, honey. I’ll be there in about five minutes,” she says before the line goes dead.

  It takes us twenty minutes and the help of a very kind Starbucks customer to get my bike positioned in a way that it will fit in the trunk of Hannah’s SUV. Though I promised Houston I’d go to Hannah?
??s house, there’s only one place I want to go right now.

  “Hannah, wait,” I say before she can pull out of the Starbucks parking lot. “I need to make one stop… at my—I mean, Liam’s house. I need to get my dog.”

  Hannah presses her lips together as she contemplates this request. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Skippy’s my best friend. I can’t leave him there. I don’t think Liam would hurt him, but I don’t think I can be sure of anything anymore.” I sigh heavily. “I’ll just sneak into the backyard through the side gate. If Liam’s there, he won’t see me.”

  She flashes a warm smile. “Of course.”

  Liam’s truck isn’t sitting in the driveway when we arrive at 13 Harbor Court. Hannah parks her SUV next to the curb and a low humming anxiety settles into my bones. My fingers tremble as I reach for the door handle.

  “I won’t be long,” I say to Hannah, though I think it’s more of a reminder to myself. This won’t take long. Just get in, get Skippy, and get out.

  Pushing open the car door, I slide out onto the curb and shut the door as softly as I can, just in case Liam is home. He always parks in the garage when he’s home. Even though he’s technically still supposed to be at work, I can’t take any chances. I wouldn’t put it past him to be here waiting for me to come get Skippy and my laptop.

  I creep across the lush green grass toward the right side of the house, where the slate-gray wooden fence opens onto the backyard. My heart sinks when I see the gate is wide open. I don’t think Liam would open the gate to set Skippy free. He knows Skippy wouldn’t go farther than the front yard before he turned back. The open gate is a message to me. If you want your dog, you’ll have to come inside and get him.

  My blood goes from a slow simmer to a hot rolling boil in two seconds flat. I storm across the grass and dash up the steps, not one bit surprised to find the door unlocked. I throw open the front door and it crashes into the wall, bouncing back toward me. Skippy and Sparky bark as I step inside, holding my hand out in front of me to stop the door from hitting me in the face.

  Liam is sitting on the sofa with both dogs standing at his feet. His eyes narrow at me, unimpressed with my dramatic entrance.

  “You!” I roar. “You can manhandle me all you want, but you leave my dog out of this. You hear me? If you touch my dog I will kill you!”

  He flashes me a confused look, as if I'm speaking a different language. “Rory, I brought them in because I was… feeling kind of lonely. I would never hurt your dog. That’s insulting.”

  “Oh, save the Saint Liam act for someone who buys it. Just give me my dog and my laptop so I can leave.”

  “You’re just going to leave? Just like that? We can’t even talk about this?” He stands from the sofa, grabbing Skippy’s insulin kit off the coffee table.

  I take a step back, closer to the open front door. “Stay right fucking there and toss me the kit,” I warn him. “I have no desire to talk about this with you. I don’t want to talk to anyone about this. You’ve made me feel sick with myself. I hate myself with you.”

  He tosses me the insulin kit and my stomach clenches as tears form in his eyes. “Rory, I’ll get your laptop, just please sit down and listen to what I have to say. I know I was wrong. I fucked up.”

  “Don’t do this, Liam.”

  “Just hear me out,” he pleads, rounding the coffee table toward me.

  “Stop!”

  “Is everything all right in here?”

  I whip my head around at the sound of Hannah’s voice, then I turn back to Liam. “Skippy, come here, boy,” I call out sweetly and Skippy gallops to me. I grab his collar and lead him toward the threshold where Hannah’s standing. “Can you take him to the car, please? I’ll be fine.”

  She glances at Liam as she grips Skippy’s collar. “I’d… rather stay here.”

  Turning back to Liam, I straighten my back and harden my glare. “Where’s my laptop? It was right there on the coffee table when I left. Where did you put it?”

  He tilts his head as if he can’t believe I’m worried about my laptop at a time like this. “Come on, Rory. Just give me a minute to explain. I know I fucked everything up, but I swear to God I’ll fix this. I’ll… I’ll change.”

  A chill rolls through me as I realize he’s begging. “You don’t get it, Liam. I don’t want you to change. I just want my fucking laptop!”

  “Why are you being such a bitch?” he says, his voice going up an octave as his face contorts with anger. “All I’m asking for is a fucking minute of your time. What? Are you too fucking good for me now?”

  “Fuck you! Where’s my laptop?”

  He takes a step toward me and his face changes again, ripe with penitence now as if he has two dueling personalities fighting for control inside his puppet body. “I’m sorry. That was a fucked-up thing to say.”

  “I said stop!” I hold out my hand to keep him from getting closer, but I lower it when I catch a glimpse of my trembling hand.

  “Rory, I think we should leave,” Hannah suggests gently as Skippy struggles to try to lick the hand holding his collar.

  “Who’s that?” Liam finally asks, glancing at Hannah. “Have you been planning this?”

  “Planning what? Planning for you to attack me? Are you fucking crazy?”

  His mouth drops open like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Attack you? I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

  “All right. That’s it. Keep my fucking laptop. You probably need it for jerk-off material.”

  I turn to leave and he grabs my wrist. My instincts kick in and twist around, landing a hard smack on his cheek with my free hand. His blue eyes narrow, ablaze with a fury I recognize from when he throttled me in his car earlier. Against my better judgment, I thrust my leg upward to kick him. My knee barely clips his crotch area, but it’s enough for him to release his grip on my wrist.

  “You fucking bitch!” he roars as I race out the front door, trailing closely behind Hannah and Skippy.

  “He can sit on my lap,” I say, grabbing hold of Skippy’s collar and giving Hannah the insulin kit so I can get in the passenger seat.

  I wrench open the car door, glancing over my shoulder to see Liam standing on the front porch, his chest heaving, his eyes narrowed with seething anger, that perfect lumberjack smile nowhere in sight.

  Sliding into the passenger seat, I pat my lap for Skippy to hop up. He’s a bit hesitant at first, so I reach down and grab his collar with my right hand and slide my left hand under his belly, pulling him up as Liam lumbers down the steps.

  “Go!” I urge Hannah as I reach for the handle to pull the door closed.

  The inertia helps me slam the door shut as she drives away from 13 Harbor Court. Away from Liam and every hope I had for a fresh start. Away from my laptop and every password to every account I’ve ever created. He can log into my Google Drive right now and delete every version of my novel I’ve ever saved.

  I hug Skippy at this thought, burying my nose in his black fur, partially for comfort and partially to hide my tears from Hannah. Skippy whines as he tries desperately to turn around so he can lick my face, but I hold tight to him, using him as a shield for my shame.

  Other than my occasional sniff, the drive to Hannah’s townhouse is awkwardly quiet. I don’t know if she’s waiting for me to offer an explanation, or if she’s waiting for me to demand she explain her connection to Houston. Either way, I don’t have the courage to ask, and the silence only amplifies my mortification over today’s events.

  No matter how many times I remind myself that I’m not at fault for Liam spying on me and attacking me today, I still feel like none of this would have happened if I hadn’t been stupid enough to move six hundred miles away from home with a guy I hardly knew.

  Hannah pulls her SUV into her garage and I insist on getting the bike out myself. I lean it up against the wall and follow her through a door leading onto a small patio, which connects us to the back of the townhouse.
We enter through the back door leading into the kitchen, leaving Skippy outside with a bowl of water since Hannah’s home is pet-free.

  As we enter the kitchen, the last bit of resolve I had crumbles as the guilt takes its place. Hannah and I have spent every other day at this kitchen table for the past ten days feverishly processing rewrites on my book. She said her agent is looking for a fresh romance right now and she wanted me to get at least half of the book edited before she sent her the sample. What if Liam deleted all our hard work?

  Even after spending so much time here over the past ten days, I still feel like an annoying imposition. Especially under the current circumstances. I know this is stupid. It’s not as if I’m asking Hannah to give me a place to spend the night. I’m just waiting for Houston to get here in a couple of hours. But coming here without my laptop, I feel like a guest coming to a dinner party empty-handed. I have nothing to offer her.

  I sit down at the round white table in the breakfast nook while she heads for the refrigerator. “Thank you for doing this,” I say, my voice small and lifeless. I don’t even sound like myself anymore.

  She waves off my gratitude then grabs a pitcher of iced tea out of the fridge. “Please. This will be the highlight of my week. I think that guy who helped us put your bike in the back of my car was checking me out.”

  I wait until she’s poured us a couple of tumblers of tea and sat across from me before I address the elephant in the room. “Hannah, how do you know my mom?”

  She smiles as she stares at the glass of tea in her hand, as if she’s remembering something fondly. “Your mother and I met at a writers’ conference in Salem about fourteen years ago. I don’t know how old you were then, but I was twenty-six. And your mother, if I remember correctly, she told me back then that she was thirty-seven.”

  She looks to me for confirmation and I nod.

  “Ah, I guess my memory’s not so bad after all,” she continues. “Well, anyway, we ended up seated next to each other at the luncheon and we chatted up a storm. We griped about our mutual disdain for pitch sessions and the difference between extroverted and introverted writers. Then, we decided we’d go to the next workshop together. Barry Winters was giving a workshop on applying cinematic plot structure to a novel.”