Chelsea Fine - Best Kind of Broken

I spent the past year struggling with my college plans because planning seemed pointless. Why bother plotting out the future when everything about life can change in an instant?

But life is going to happen to me no matter what. Not planning won’t keep the future from coming. So I may as well try—or better yet, hope—for something my heart wants.

So I have a plan now. And it scares the crap out of me. But it also makes me feel alive.

I hear tires on gravel at the front of the inn and then a door slam. Levi’s truck. I’d know the sound of his truck anywhere.

I throw the trash bag into the Dumpster just as he rounds the corner, looking worn-out and sweaty, but in that good kind of way. The way that feels liberating and strong and helps you sleep soundly at night.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say back, noticing he’s got a football tucked under his arm. “Where’ve you been?”

“Uh, practice.”

I lift my brows. “Football practice?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Wow. Good. Okay. Good.” I sound dumbfounded. I am.

He laughs. “I was surprised too. Zack kind of roped me into it.”

“Good for him.” I hold my hands out and he tosses me the ball. “Whoa,” I say, catching it and turning it in my palms. “I haven’t held one of these babies in a long time.”

“Do you feel powerful?”

“Like a god. Go long.”

He blinks at me and smiles. “Go long?”

“Yeah. Go. Long.” I wind my arm up to throw and wait for him to back up.

He shrugs and takes like four steps backward.

“Seriously?” I say. “Don’t insult me.”

He lifts his hands in apology and takes a few more steps back. “Far be it from me to insult a god.”

“Keep going.” I wave him farther and farther away until we’re standing a decent distance apart in the lavender field. Then I throw a perfect arc to him.

“Damn, girl.” He catches the ball with a smile. “Who taught you how to throw?”

I shrug. “Some hotshot quarterback I knew in high school.”

He throws the ball back to me. “He sounds wildly talented—and extremely good-looking.”

“Meh.” I catch the ball. “He was okay. He was a decent ballplayer but an awful artist. The boy couldn’t draw a stick figure to save his life.” I grin and throw the ball back.

He catches it with one hand. “Stick figures are overrated.”

“So are quarterbacks.”

He shakes his head with a smile and sends it flying back to me. I catch it.

“Charity’s birthday is today,” he says.

I wasn’t sure if either of us was going to bring that fact up. But now that it’s here, out in the open, it’s… nice. It doesn’t feel sorrowful. Just true.

I throw the ball back to him. “I know. She would be turning twenty.”

He catches it. “Yep. And probably be getting herself arrested.”

He throws it back. I catch. “Or thrown out of a bar.”

I throw. He catches. “Or running away to Vegas to get married.”

Throw. Catch. “Or all of the above.”

He laughs. “Yeah, probably all of the above.”

We stand there, two thousand lavender flowers between us in the setting sun, smiling at the memory of our favorite person, and it doesn’t hurt. Not at all.

“Hey, Pix?” Levi holds the ball still and looks at me. “I’ve missed you.”

I smile. “I’ve missed you too, Leaves.”

Charity’s birthday is almost over.

I settle into bed and stare at the ceiling. Two minutes later, my bedroom door opens to Pixie’s silhouette.

Without a word, and by the moonlight shining into my room, she makes her way to my bed and crawls in next to me. She tucks her body up against my side and places her head in the crook of my shoulder and her hand on my chest.

My heart feels funny and I don’t know what to do, but I know I don’t want to let go. So I wrap my arm around her and pull her close, resting my cheek against her head like we’re kids again and no tragedy has marred us.

Charity’s not here, but Pixie is. And that makes everything okay.

Not perfect, but okay.

I pull a sheet over us and, with my arms around the best piece of the worst thing that ever happened to me, I close my eyes and fall asleep.

Levi’s steady heart pulses against my ear, and I’m completely surrounded by his body heat. His room is dark and quiet as I draw in a slow, deep breath.

God, I’ve missed him. His strength. His friendship. So much so that I could cry right now. I didn’t realize how much I needed this—needed HIM—until right this moment. I nuzzle my face against the soft cotton of his T-shirt where it’s safe and warm and smells like the boy who makes up all my memories.

Three days and hundreds of plays later, I’m sweaty and exhausted and more alive than I’ve felt in months. God, it feels good to do something I’m good at and have a purpose outside of the inn.

I didn’t mean to keep coming to practice, but Coach kept asking and my stupid mouth kept saying yes. So here I am again, after three hours of grueling workouts and running plays, sweating my ass off as we wrap up the day. And I love it.

I bullshit with the guys for a little while before heading home. Another storm is moving in as I drive along. I can tell from the dark purple hue of the clouds and the violent shades of orange in the sunset sky that this one will be big and powerful.

By the time I park, rain is coming down in buckets and the parking lot is a giant puddle of mud. I splash my way to the back door by the kitchen—not the front door since I know Eva hates it when I track in mud—and let myself inside as the purple clouds turn to gray and hide the sunset completely. The outside world is a dark mess of wind and rain as the kitchen lights flicker on and off. I wipe my feet on the mat and head down the back corridor, running smack into Pixie.

Her curves press against my soaking-wet body and mold to me with heat as she looks up through startled eyelashes.

“Sorry,” I quickly say, stepping back from her in the tight space. The front of her white T-shirt is completely wet and sticking to her breasts in a way that’s making my body ache and want to do bad things.

“No problem.” She licks her lips.

More bad things fill my head.

“Practice again?” she asks as she takes in my wet state.

“Yeah.” I look over her paint-stained shirt and the smudges of gray on her cheek. “Are you painting?”

“Yeah, a little. Storms make for great painting weather.”

I nod. “I remember. You used to say that all the time, always dashing home to paint before the rain let up.” I swallow, because maybe that was too revealing of just how much I know and remember about her.

“Oh. Yeah. I did.” She licks her lips again.

I need to get the hell away from her before I start licking her lips as well.

I clear my throat and shift past her. “Sorry, again, for running into you.” When I’m free and clear of her wet boobs and glistening lips, I hurry upstairs to the bathroom. After showering off the day’s workout, I shut myself in my room and stare at the blank page on my computer screen for a long time.

One essay on winning. I can do this.

I stare at the screen. Nothing.

I absently open my in-box and, sure enough, there is a response from my parents. Actually, there are four responses—all group e-mails.

I start to read.

From: Mark Andrews

To: Levi Andrews; Linda Andrews

Subject: RE: College

Levi,

First of all, please be nice to your mother. She was reaching out to you because she cares about you.

Second, our concern for you—while it may be a little late—is sincere. You’re our son, and we love you more than we could ever express.

But third, and most important, WE DO NOT BLAME YOU AT ALL for Charity’s death. And we never have. Not for a moment. What happened to Charity was a horrible accident, and your mother and I were nothing short of blessed that you weren’t killed as well. If we have made you feel guilty, in any way, for Charity’s death, then we have failed you.

It was wrong and selfish of us to leave you like we did. You were a young man in college, and I guess I assumed that meant you knew how to heal on your own. But considering I myself didn’t know how to heal, that was rather dumb reasoning on my part. And no excuse, whatsoever.

We should have stayed together, as a family. Please forgive me.

Dad

From: Linda Andrews

To: Levi Andrews; Mark Andrews

Subject: RE: College

Levi,

Oh, honey! We don’t blame you at all for what happened to Charity. I feel just awful that you thought that for even a second. And I’m so sorry for leaving you like I did.

I just didn’t know how to be around you and your father without feeling complete sadness at all the reminders of Charity, and that was wrong of me. I am so sorry. And I can’t believe I let this much time go by without seeing or speaking to you. I have failed you in so many ways.

And Sarah! Oh my Lord, I didn’t even think about Sarah. That poor thing was just left in the dust by us too. Oh, Mark—how could we have let this happen?

Clearly, I’ve made some terrible mistakes as a mother, and I don’t know how to undo them. Please forgive me for leaving. I’m so sorry. I love you, sweetie. So much.

Mom

From: Mark Andrews

To: Levi Andrews; Linda Andrews

Subject: RE: College

Linda,

Obviously we have some mistakes we need to work out concerning Levi, and Sarah also. Maybe we should talk on the phone? Do you still have my new number? I only check my e-mail on Tuesdays.

Mark

From: Linda Andrews

To: Levi Andrews; Mark Andrews

Subject: RE: College

Mark,

I agree. A good long phone conversation is overdue. Yes, I have your number still. I’ll give you a call later this week.

Linda

I sit back and gape at the screen. Well. Okay. My parents are talking—maybe even on the phone. This is good. This is a start.

I bite the inside of my cheek. Leaving me was careless of my parents. But they didn’t stop loving me. And who am I to judge them when I abandoned Pixie in the same way?

My life fell apart, a shambles everywhere, and the only thing left standing was Pixie. And then I left her. God, I still can’t believe I did that.

With a deep breath, I reply.

From: Levi Andrews

To: Linda Andrews; Mark Andrews

Subject: RE: College

Mom and Dad,

I think we all might have a lot of guilt and blame we need to let go of. Charity’s death was hard for us all. Even though I don’t understand your leaving, I forgive you guys. We’re just human. And it’s not like I’ve been a model son this past year, but I want to fix that. Maybe we could all talk on the phone one of these days?

Levi

P.S. Sarah is doing okay. She misses you guys.

I click Send and feel something I haven’t felt in a long time. Hope.

I stare at the tube of red paint as the storm outside rages on. There’s something inside me, something untamed and fearless, that wants nothing more than to run out into the night and feel the storm on my skin, the rain in my hair, the thunder in my bones.