Chelsea Fine - Best Kind of Broken

“Fine.” I remove the drawer and study the broken track.

She takes a bite. “And… how’s the job going?”

“Fine.”

“And… how’s Pixie?”

I frown. “How would I know?”

She shrugs. “You live with her.”

“I don’t live with Pixie.”

“You live by her.”

“Which is not the same as living with her.” I kneel on the ground and start working on the broken track.

“So you don’t know how she is?”

“No.”

A moment passes where Haley takes another bite of her candy and watches me closely. “You know what I think?”

I sigh.

“I think Pixie’s sad,” she continues. “And not because of the whore thing.”

Damn gossip.

Haley says, “I think she’s sad because she misses you.”

I unscrew the broken track with more fervor than necessary. “Nah. I think it’s the whore thing.”

I can feel her eyes searing the back of my neck. “Would that make it easier for you?”

“Make what easier?”

“Missing her.”

I stare at the drawer, cursing small-town nosiness and the uncomfortable conversations it brings, and open my mouth to spew a well-crafted denial—when the fire alarm goes off.

Chaos ensues, and guests start spilling out of their rooms and into the lobby, flustered and excited. Dropping my tools, I rush to the system control box at the back of the lobby and throw open the panel door to see which room triggered the alarm. My heart stops.

The kitchen.

It’s all I can do not to knock guests over as I run that way. If anything happened to Pixie, if something exploded and hurt her, if she got burned—

Oh God. Oh God.

The screaming alarm drowns out all other noise as I skid around corners and through doorways. When I finally reach the kitchen, I see Pixie crouched on the floor with her back to me.

“Pixie!” I don’t think. I just swoop down and pull her into my arms, icy fear shooting through my veins as I turn her to face me.

She looks at me in confusion, covering her ears from the blaring alarm, and it takes a few moments for me to register that she’s not hurt. I look around. No fire. No smoke. She’s fine.

She’s breathing. She’s alive. She has a smudge of something white on her cheek, but otherwise she’s fine.

Her eyes fall to my chest and that’s when I realize I’m clutching her to my body, one hand cradling her head and the other pressed against her back.

She’s fine.

I slowly release her and we both stand. I rub a shaky hand over my mouth.

She must have seen the fear in my eyes because she starts explaining, raising her voice to be heard over the screeching of the fire alarm. “I heard the alarm go off and Mable and I started to leave out the back door, but I forgot to turn off the gas, so I came back in and then I knocked the powdered sugar all over the floor—”

“Pixie!” Mable gives a panicked wave from the back door. “Come outside.”

Outside, I see guests and employees congregating under the gazebo at the back of the field, rain falling steadily on the lavender flowers surrounding them.

Pixie looks at me for a second before moving toward Mable. Once she’s out of the kitchen, my heart starts beating again and I hurry back to the lobby. Ellen is guiding people out of their rooms and to the back doors as Angelo leads everyone to the gazebo.

“Where’s the fire?” Ellen yells over the blaring lobby.

I shake my head. “There isn’t one!”

“What?” She can’t hear me over the alarm and the rushing guests.

I run back to the control panel and disengage the alarm, throwing the inn into silence. As the last of the guests hurry out the back door, I start running around the west wing just in case, looking in every room, sniffing the air. Nothing. I search the dining room, the bathrooms, but there’s no fire anywhere.

As I make my way back to the lobby, I slowly start to relax. There’s no danger. Pixie’s fine.

“What happened?” Ellen asks, standing by the front desk, looking incredibly stressed.

“Something must have tripped the kitchen alarm,” I say. “It was probably the rain seeping into the old wiring system.”

“No fire?” Pixie, who clearly didn’t follow Mable’s orders and join everyone under the gazebo, comes up to Ellen with a concerned look.

“No fire,” Ellen confirms.

My eyes catch on Pixie’s, and we stare at each other. Powdered sugar is still on her cheek. Why is my heart pounding?

“Charity’s on the phone.”

We whip our heads to Haley, who is holding a phone out to Ellen.

“Charity from the alarm company,” Haley quickly clarifies, looking at us apologetically.

“Oh.” Ellen takes the phone and walks away as she answers.

“Good grief, woman! Answering the phones?” Angelo shouts at Haley from the back door. “What, are you trying to give me a heart attack? Get your cute butt out here, where I know you’re safe.”

“I’m coming. Geez.” She hurries toward the door. “I had to get the phone, Ang. It was Charity from the alarm company…” Their voices disappear as the back door closes.

And then it’s just Pixie and me, standing in the lobby, thinking about Charity and not making eye contact.

I should say something she needs to hear.

Something like, I’m sorry I killed your best friend.

Or, I’m sorry I almost got you killed.

Or better yet, I’m sorry I intervened with fate and fucked everything up.

But I say nothing. I realize my guilt isn’t entirely rational, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling it.

Pixie looks at me with unreadable eyes and swallows. “I’m glad you’re okay. When I first heard the alarm go off—” She presses her lips together. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

And for the second time today, my heart stops.

“Pix, I… if anything ever…” Am I brave enough to say something real here? Something honest? “I’m glad you’re okay too,” I say, because I’m chickenshit.

She nods, and we stand in silence.

I shift my weight. “About the other day—”

“It’s fine.” She waves me off.

“No, it’s not.” I shake my head. “It’s not fine. I shouldn’t have called you a whore. I’m an ass and I’m sorry. I really am.”

She shrugs. “Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen.”

I slowly nod. Sure. That’s what we’re good at: pretending things didn’t happen.

When I was seven years old, I spent nearly every weekend at Charity’s house. On one of these nights, while sleeping beside my bestie in our matching My Little Pony sleeping bags under the glow of her night-light, I woke up shaking from a nightmare, convinced there were monsters out to get me.

I tiptoed out of Charity’s bedroom and headed for the bathroom—for some reason I thought bathrooms were monster-free zones—and on my way down the dark hallway, I heard a voice.

“What are you doing?” Levi whispered.

He scared the crap out of me, and I totally jumped and started crying and blabbing about my scary dream and how there were monsters everywhere and how I was going to die.

He looked at me like I was crazy as tears and boogers ran down my face.

“Don’t cry, Pixie. Hey…” He stepped out of his room and hesitantly pulled me into an awkward boy hug. “If I see any monsters, I’ll punch them until they turn into mush, okay?”

My tears and boogers started to subside as I shook in his skinny arms. If Levi would mush monsters for me, I knew I was safe.

“Want to see something cool?” he asked, no doubt trying to distract me.

I nodded.

He led me to an upstairs window overlooking their backyard, opened it, and climbed out onto the porch roof below, motioning for me to follow. I did, and we sat side by side on the roof and stared up at the night sky.

“This is what I do when I have a bad dream,” he said. “There aren’t any monsters out here.” He sounded very matter-of-fact, in his Superman pajamas and messy hair.

As I took in the twinkling stars and quiet shadows of the night, I realized he was right. There weren’t any monsters outside. Or at least none when I was sitting beside Levi.

That was the first time Levi Andrews was my hero.

And yesterday, when he thought I was hurt and he looked scared out of his mind, it was like he was that eight-year-old boy again. Protecting me. Looking at me like I was worth saving. And it made me want to cry for everything that we’d lost. Everything I’d ruined the night I let Charity drive drunk.

I swallow, trying to push the memory back into the cold corner of my mind where most of my childhood is locked up, and step out of my bedroom.

Levi’s in the shower, hogging all the hot water again, and I’m both mad and relieved. Yesterday’s scare broke the silence between us, and with it came an unspoken truce. And I’ll take a cold shower over a cold shoulder any day.

When he finally emerges from the steamy bathroom, I put on my best “I’m pissed” look and stare him down in the hallway. He’s wearing only a towel, of course, and I’m momentarily distracted.

“Waiting outside the door, Pix?” He slants his eyes with a cocky smile. “Have you been missing me?”

I raise a bored eyebrow. “Only with my shotgun.”

Okay, it’s a cheesy line, but come on. It’s early. And he’s only wearing a towel. I can’t be expected to whip out witty comments when I’m sleepy and aroused.

I try to step around him and enter the bathroom, but he blocks my path. With his bare chest just inches from my face, the textured skin of his nipple catches my eye and white-hot desire darts through me. It’s all I can do not to lick him.

This is what I’ve been reduced to. Nipple-licking fantasies.

“If you want to see me naked that bad, all you have to do is ask.” He winks.

“Move, asshole.” I push against his chest with my hand, damp heat wrapping around my wrist, and move him out of the bathroom and into the hallway.

When he speaks, his chest vibrates and the current runs up my arm. “Ah, Pix. You know you love me.”

I remove my hand from his chest. “I know I loathe you.”

“Promises, promises,” he says with a crooked smile as I start to shut the bathroom door.

But for a moment—for a super-tiny second, right before I close the door on his face—our eyes meet in a vulnerable gaze.

No facades. No snarky remarks. Just him and me, seeing each other. Knowing the hard things we wish we didn’t and wanting to undo things we can’t. It’s raw and it’s honest and it makes me want to cry.

But he blinks.

And I blink.

And then it’s gone.

The bathroom door latches shut, and I’m left alone in the spearmint bathroom with my scar and an endless supply of cold water.

Note to self: Do not look in Pixie’s eyes. From now on, stare at her mouth or her nose or… just anywhere else. But not her eyes. Her eyes see inside me and know the things I’m too afraid to say out loud.

On my way to Ellen’s office I pass Haley, who quickly looks away.

She feels bad about saying the name Charity yesterday, and how stupid is that? People shouldn’t be so afraid of Pixie and me that they can’t even speak Charity’s name around us. That’s bullshit. Pixie and I are fine.

I rub the back of my neck because that’s a lie straight from hell.

I turn a corner and pace down the back hallway.

Most people who lose someone close to them support each other through the tragedy.

Not Pix and I.