Chelsea Fine - Best Kind of Broken

My mom moved to New Hampshire, where she was far away from Charity’s memory and my facial features. After the funeral, she could barely look at me, the living son who so resembled her deceased daughter. And when she did chance a glance at me, her eyes would flash with pain before quickly darting elsewhere. Maybe she thought putting twenty-five hundred miles between my face and her eyes would make things hurt less.

“I’ll call you and you can come visit,” she said to me the day she left Copper Springs. I lifted her heavy suitcase into the white minivan she used to drive Charity to piano lessons in and leaned down so she could hug me good-bye. She smelled like lemons. She always smelled like lemons.

She squeezed me tighter than necessary and mumbled a bunch of things about taking care of myself, but she didn’t make eye contact. Not even when tears dripped down her soft cheeks.

She drove away, and I watched the white minivan disappear down the street like it was any other Tuesday. Headed to school, to piano lessons, to football practice.

Headed to New Hampshire.

That was last winter. I’ve talked to my mom twice since then, and both conversations were strained and short, like we no longer know how to interact with each other.

So her e-mailing me is a surprise. Not a pleasant surprise, exactly. Just an interesting one.

With a quiet inhale, I sit down at my desk and open her e-mail. It’s addressed to me, but she copied my father as well.

Fantastic.

From: Linda Andrews

To: Levi Andrews; Mark Andrews

Subject: College

Levi,

I know things haven’t been perfect for our family lately, and I know your father and I aren’t helping any by keeping our distance from each other. But the two of us have been talking, and we’re both concerned about you.

As you know, Dean Maxwell is good friends with your father, and he informed us that you haven’t made any attempt to be reinstated at school. What is going on, Levi? Why are you not enrolled?

Your father and I realize that you’re an adult now and can make your own decisions, but we want you to be happy. We want great things for you. We want you to play football and finish college, and go on to the live the life that you’ve worked so hard to earn. And we want to help you in any way we can. Let’s come together as a family to get this resolved.

We hope you’re doing well. And we love you so much. And miss you.

Love,

Mom and Dad

Several emotions pass through me as I reread the e-mail. Anger. Bitterness. Annoyance. The stubborn part of me wants to ignore it altogether and not respond. But the prideful part of me won’t allow it. So I write them back.

From: Levi Andrews

To: Linda Andrews; Mark Andrews

Subject: RE: College

Mom and Dad,

It’s nice to hear the two of you are on speaking terms, like grown adults who are still married should be, but I’m a little confused at why you’re both so “concerned” for me.

I would think that the time for two parents to be worried about their child would be the first few months after that child lost his baby sister. But you guys didn’t seem at all interested in my state of mind or well-being after Charity died. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

I realize you blame me for her death, and honestly I don’t fault you for that. But I was a wreck after the accident. I really needed you guys, and you just took off and went about “finding” yourselves and “starting fresh.” I didn’t have that luxury. I had to stay.

I was racked with guilt and so messed up. I slowly failed all my classes at school and eventually got kicked off the football team at ASU. So yeah, my probationary status at school is a bummer, but it’s far less severe than my physiological status during your flee-the-city phases.

So thanks for your concern, but you’ll understand if I don’t really feel like coming together as a “family” on this one. Clearly, I’ve handled far worse on my own. There’s no need to start helping me now.

Love,

Levi

P.S. In case you were wondering, Pixie’s doing just great too.

I click Send without a second thought and close my laptop.

It’s late, and most of the inn guests are already asleep.

I wait until I hear the TV click on in Levi’s room before I start plugging everything I own into the wall.

We argued today. We avoided each other. And aside from the weird look we exchanged in the hallway this morning and our little spat in front of Zack, everything is back to normal.

Which means I owe Levi for the cold shower I had to take.

I turn everything on and the lights go out. I hear the TV die in the next room and crawl onto my bed with a smile.

“Pixie!” Levi’s irritated voice rings through the walls and I’m feeling happier than a mature person should.

I hear stomping, and then he opens my bedroom door. Just opens it. Like he has the right to just waltz into my room. I could be naked in here; he doesn’t know.

“You’re going out to the fuse box this time.” He steps inside, and now he’s standing just a few feet away, pointing his finger at me.

I’m on the bed, trying to look casual, like lying in the dark playing games on my phone is perfectly normal. The only light in the room is coming from the glow of my phone and the half-moon outside, so we both look blue and soft. And in the blue softness, I see he’s shirtless.

I see Levi without a shirt on almost every morning, but I’ve never seen him half-naked in the dark, and something about it makes my body feel electric.

“Not going to happen,” I say.

He steps closer. “Well, I sure as hell am not marching outside to turn the power back on.”

I shrug. “Fine with me. I don’t need electricity tonight. I can watch TV on my fully charged phone.” I wiggle said phone at him.

He sighs. “You don’t understand. I was looking up the contact information for an alarm company I found so I can call and schedule the installation tomorrow. I need the Internet, Pix.”

“Then use your phone.”

“My phone is dead.”

The boy never charges anything. He almost makes the whole fuse-blowing thing too easy.

“Well, that’s too bad. I guess you’re going to have to turn the electricity back on after all.” I pretend to be very interested in my game.

“Let me use your phone. Just for a minute.”

“No.”

“Come on. It’s for Ellen.” He implores me with a pouty face I’ve seen him use on his mom a dozen times.

I scoff. “Please.”

“Dammit, Pixie.” The pout is gone.

“Maybe tomorrow you’ll remember to charge your own phone. Or hey, better yet, maybe you’ll let me have a hot shower.” I make a big production of pressing random buttons on my phone.

He slumps his shoulders like he’s accepting defeat, then whips out his arm and tries to swipe the phone from my hands. Sneaky bastard.

I pull my phone back and kick at him with my foot, but he grabs my ankle—because I’m not exactly a ninja with my kicking skills—and then we both freeze.

Because now I’m leaning back on the bed with my legs spread apart, and he’s got one hand on my ankle and the other on the bed next to my hip where he was reaching for my phone, and his body is in between my legs, which are completely bare except for the tiny gym shorts I have on, and my right arm is raised over my head with my cell phone still out of his reach, but my back is arched and my shirt has come up so my stomach is completely exposed and I’m hot all over.

Hot. Heat. Everywhere.

I mean, really. We look like we’re in the middle of having sex, but with clothes on. My body knows this. His body knows this. And our bodies are really, really happy about this.

He’s looking at me with nothing in his eyes except want. And I like it. No, I love it.

This must show on my face because his hand—still wrapped around my ankle—moves up my leg an inch, and he watches my reaction.

I try not to react because, hell, he can’t win. He can’t just be asshole Levi all day long and then climb into my bed at night and touch me wherever he pleases.

Ugh. Yes he can.

I part my lips and he slowly, slowly slides his warm hand up my calf and, holy hell, I could orgasm right here. I might, actually.

My calf.

My calf.

He’s touching my calf and I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life.

His hand shifts again, and the only thought in my head is, Go higher, go higher.

Please, dear God, go higher.

I could do it. She wants me to do it. She wants me to do whatever I want.

And I want… so… much.

I look at her bare stomach and stare at the skin below her belly button.

I could kiss her there. I could keep my palm around her calf and bend it to her body and lie down between her legs and lick a trail along the very low waistline of her ridiculous shorts. I look up at her, see the desire in her eyes, and almost do it.

But then I see the end of her scar peeking out from the bottom of her shirt and it’s like a train hits me, crashing into me and shredding up my insides with hot metal and shards of split iron until I feel nothing but pain.

What the hell am I doing? This is Pixie.

Pixie.

I can’t ruin her life and then sleep with her. That would be fucked up on so many levels. I’m not an angel, but I know the difference between right and wrong, and sex with the girl I maimed and nearly killed would be wrong.

Probably smoking-ass hot.

But wrong, wrong, wrong.

I force my eyes to stay on the scar, the only thing powerful enough to put distance between us, and with a deep inhale, I close my eyes and lift away from Pixie’s bed. My body is in agony as I back away from her hot, open body.

She stays in the sinful position for a beat, then pulls herself up until she’s sitting cross-legged. She takes a deep breath, and the light from her window shines blue on her chest as it rises with air.

I clear my throat and overenunciate my words. “Can I please use your phone?”

She slowly stands up and straightens her shirt before looking up at me. “No.”

“Ugh.” I pull at my hair. “Why are you such a pain in the ass?”

She makes a face. “Why don’t you ever let me take a hot shower?”

I lean in. “If you want a hot shower, then shower at night.”

“I can’t shower at night. If I shower at night, then I’ll have to dry my hair at night, and if I dry my hair at night, then I’ll have to straighten my hair at night, and then I’ll have to sleep on my straightened hair, and when I sleep on my straightened hair, it gets all poofy.”

I blink at her.

“I don’t like it when my hair gets poofy!” She thrusts her hands out like I’m supposed to know poofy hair is a nighttime-shower-related problem. “Why don’t you shower at night?”

“Because I like pissing you off!” I raise my voice.

She raises her voice to match mine. “Why?”

“Because fighting doesn’t hurt!”

It’s the most honest thing either one of us has said to each other in nearly a year and it just hangs there, in the silence, like a gaping black hole.

Her lips part, and I see the fight drain from her expression.

No.

No, no.

Fight, dammit.

Lavender-scented body heat starts circling around me, tucking me into something lost and safe, making me feel wanted and worthy and all the other things I shouldn’t feel.