Текст книги "Best Kind of Broken"

Автор книги: Chelsea Fine

Соавторы: Chelsea Fine
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

He leaves the bathroom, the fire alarm still blaring, and I sink down to the shower floor, letting the water spray down on me as a shiver runs through my body.

It’s the first hot shower I’ve had in days and I’m in my clothes, out of breath, and cold as hell.

30 Levi

It was a false alarm, the fire drill. The feeling of belonging when Pixie had her arms around me.

I don’t bother explaining my wet clothes as I slosh downstairs to turn off the shrieking noise. Guests everywhere are fussing around, overreacting to the excitement.

Ellen’s in the lobby, assuring everyone that there is no fire as she leads them out back, per alarm protocol. “This is just a drill,” she explains. People hear this, but they still want to chat about the near-death experience they just had.

The only person in the whole place who just had a near-death experience was me. I almost died in the shower just now with Pixie on fire in my arms and my selfish body just burning alive with her.

What the hell was I thinking?

Never mind. I know what I was thinking.

Why the hell did I give in?

Never mind. I know that too.

But that doesn’t make it right. And if I’m trying to atone for anything in my life, I’m certainly not going to find my salvation with the one person who should resent my very existence.

I walk to the back hall, passing by flustered guests who stare at me and my sopping clothes like I’m a crazy person, to the system control box and turn the alarm off.

There is an audible sigh of relief, a brief moment of silence, and then the chaos erupts again. More chatter about the “great fire” that didn’t happen as people file out the back door.

I walk over to Ellen, who eyes me up and down. Her gaze lingers on my very stretched-out wet shirt collar and she raises a brow.

I don’t explain.

She looks around. “Where’s Pixie?”

Like we’re supposed to travel in pairs or something.

“How should I know?” And shit, I said that with a ferocity that was only going to raise questions.

“You two share the same wing, Levi,” she says. “What if there was a fire and she was trapped in it? The purpose of a drill is to practice being safe. Did you even look for her before you came downstairs?”

First of all, fuck that.

I would never leave Pixie to die. I might leave her wet and shaking in a hot shower with her clothes on, but I sure as hell wouldn’t leave her at the mercy of a fire.

Second, whoa.

If Ellen doesn’t know me well enough to know that I’d never let anyone—especially Pixie—die, then I should be shot dead on the spot.

I open my mouth to retort to Ellen in a very offensive and curse-filled way, when I catch the teasing glimmer in her eye.

Damn women.

“Pixie’s fine,” I say.

Ellen looks me up and down again. “You sure about that?”

Wow. I’m never living in a building filled with females ever again. They think they know everything.

“I’m sure,” I say. “Do you need help with anything else?”

“Nope.”

“Right, then. I’ll make sure everyone has evacuated.” I search the inn for any leftover guests, careful to avoid the east wing.

After the chaos dies down, I go back upstairs, taking my sweet time so I don’t accidentally run into Pixie. When I reach the top, I grab some clothes from my room and head to the bathroom.

Pixie is gone and the bathroom doesn’t smell like lavender, so I’m assuming she didn’t stick around for very long after I left her in the water. The mirror is still fogged up, though.

My chest tightens as I turn on the shower.

I need a cold shower, which apparently won’t be a problem because all the hot water is gone.

31 Pixie

I sneak down to the laundry room while Levi’s in the shower, carrying my wet pajamas in my hand. I don’t know why, but I’m wearing the most hideous clothes I own—a pair of plaid sweatpants and a large gray T-shirt that has a ripped collar and a grease stain on the front.

I’m heavily clothed, but I’m still cold.

When I arrive, I’m sure I’m safe because Ellen never comes to the tiny laundry room in the west wing. Never.

“Hi, Pix,” Ellen says behind me, and I want to cuss.

“Hi,” I say in a far-too-cheery voice as I turn around. I try to tuck my wet clothes under my arm without drawing attention to the obvious wet mark they’re branding onto my stupid gray T-shirt.

Ellen sees the clothes and smiles at me. “Doing laundry?”

I nod.

“With only”—she looks down—“two items?”

“Yep.” I nod. “I’m just trying to stay on top of things. These are my favorite pajamas. And I washed them in the sink to conserve energy.”

Okay, clearly, I suck at lying—Ellen knows this. And really, Pixie? Giving three excuses about why your clothes are wet when she didn’t even ask is a dead giveaway.

I pinch my lips together.

Ellen stares me down. “Spill it.”

“No.”

“Spill it.”

“No.” I throw my two items in the washing machine and cross my arms. I’m an impenetrable wall. I’m a fortress of silence. I’m—

“Does this have something to do with Levi?”

“Yes.”

Damn. I suck at being a fortress.

“Want to talk about it?” Ellen leans against the doorway and drapes her dark hair over her shoulder.

“No. I don’t want to talk about it. I want Levi to talk about it. I want him to look at me and stop seeing Charity and all the sadness and I want him to let himself love me again.” I’m totally talking about it, but now I can’t stop. “I mean, what the hell? He and Charity were my best friends. They were my whole life, and then Charity died and Levi just… just left me! And now it’s like we’re totally different people.” I say this loudly and realize I’m about to cry. “We’re not the same anymore. We’re not Levi and Pixie, Transformer and Barbie. We’re not the Three Musketeers with dreams and futures. Charity is dead and my heart is lost and Levi is a mess and I don’t… I don’t… I don’t…”

I start crying and Ellen pulls me into a hug, stroking my hair in a way my own mother would never have done. “I don’t know how to love him anymore,” I say into Ellen’s soft shirt as tears spill from my eyes.

She squeezes me. “Sure you do. Love doesn’t just stop, Pixie. It’s always there.”

I pull away and wipe at my face, frustrated for crying. “But he feels so far away from me. I just want him back. But I’m so…” I search for the word. “I’m so angry with him. For abandoning me. For letting me hurt without him. For forgetting me.”

She shakes her head. “He didn’t forget you.”

“He did.”

“No. He was just hurting, Pix. Levi lost a lot after the accident. He lost Charity, and then he lost his parents—”

“But he didn’t lose me.” My voice cracks.

Ellen bites her lip and waits a beat. “Maybe he doesn’t know that.” She pauses. “Maybe you should tell him that.”

“I can’t.” I shake my head, and a wild blonde curl falls into my eyes. “I can’t. We’re so messed up. I don’t think it would even matter if I did. We’re just too broken.”

Ellen tilts her head and looks me over sympathetically. She tucks the loose curl behind my ear and lightly brushes my cheek with her finger. Then she smiles softly. “There’s no such thing as too broken. Anything can heal.” She kisses my forehead and wraps her arms around me. “Especially you.”

32 Levi

I need to move.

I can’t sleep one door away from Pixie anymore—especially after feeling her up in the shower yesterday. I just can’t do it.

Last night, I stared at my ceiling all night long, telling myself that if I ever tried to touch Pixie again, I was going to kill myself. And then I spent the next few hours staring at the ceiling, thinking of whether or not I actually could kill myself, and came to the conclusion that, no, I couldn’t, because then Pixie would be at the mercy of douche bags like Daren and dirty old men like Earl and I was not cool leaving her in a world where Darens and Earls could look at her without the threat of me.

And then I stared at the ceiling and thought of all the ways I would hurt Daren and Earl if they ever tried to touch Pixie, which led to a very dark train of thought involving plastic bags and bleach.

So obviously, I need to move.

I shake myself as I walk downstairs and into the lobby. Enough thinking about Pixie.

Looking out the front windows of the inn, I see a familiar car pull into the parking lot, and my hands go numb.

Sandra Marshall.

Pixie’s mother, Ellen’s sister, and hater of me.

I watch Sandra exit the car and head for the front doors.

This is not good.

33 Pixie

A quiet knock on my door has me leaping out of bed, thinking maybe it’s Levi. We haven’t spoken since our couples shower yesterday, and my nerves are pretty much shot from the silence.

But when I open my door, I see Ellen.

“Hey.” I smile at her and try not to look disappointed.

“Hey…” Her facial expression goes crooked for a moment, and I know—I just know—my mother is here.

“Oh, no.” I beg her with my eyes, Save me.

She makes a face of helplessness, and we both cringe when my mother’s voice drifts up the stairs from the lobby.

“Why, Haley, how are you?” Oh God. My mother hates Haley. She hates Haley with a passion. Run, poor woman. Run for your life.

“Hello, Sandra.” Haley’s voice is polite and friendly.

“Fell off the diet again, I see?” my mom says. “Well, at least curvy suits you. You’ve never been one for the lean look.”

“Mom!” I holler down the stairs, moving from my room, not caring that I’m still wearing my hideous pajamas from the day before. I need to spare Haley any further abuse.

When I see the woman who gave birth to me, I plaster on a smile so fake I think it might crack my face open.

“Hi there!” I say.

“Hello, darling.” She gives me a fake smile as well. “I have a box of your old things at the house. You should come pick it up before I throw it away.” She lifts one overplucked eyebrow. “What are you wearing?”

I look down. “Pajamas.”

“Ellen!” my mother yells at my aunt, who has followed me down the stairs and is now standing behind me. “Is this how you let your employees dress?”

Always so casual with my mother, Ellen shrugs. “She’s not on the clock yet, Sandy. She woke up five minutes ago.”

Mom looks at me and frowns. “Go put real clothes on before some pervert sees you in your sleepwear and gets bad ideas.”

I make a face. “I’m wearing oversized pants and a disgusting shirt, Mom. No pervert is going to—”

“Hush. Go change.”

“She doesn’t need to change,” Ellen says sharply.

“It’s fine,” I say to Ellen as I turn around to head back to my room. I don’t want to fight. It’s not worth it. And I don’t want Ellen to have to defend me. She’s already done enough of that throughout my life.

A nervous twitch starts behind my left eye as I climb the stairs and hear Ellen snap at my mother about being kind to me.

I was thirteen the first time Ellen tried to get me to move in with her. She’d witnessed my mother’s severe dislike for me throughout my childhood, and she’d tried to temper it for years—without success. Sandra Marshall was unhappy about her life and clung to her bitterness like it was a drug and she was an addict.

My mom was the head cheerleader in high school while my father—some guy named Greg—was the star basketball player, and they were this adolescent power couple or whatever. Until my mom got pregnant. She was seventeen.

I was young and beautiful and skinny, until you came along and ruined everything, she used to say to me. As if I were somehow responsible for my own conception.

Good ol’ Greg couldn’t handle the idea of his thin little girlfriend gaining weight and being sick and emotional all the time, so he spent more time bedding the rest of the cheerleading squad than he did hanging out with my mom during her pregnancy. Which broke my mom’s heart.

But she refused to dump him because she didn’t want to raise a baby on her own. Plus, she had plans to move to California with him, where they were both going to attend UCLA so she could become a news anchor. So she let her scumbag boyfriend cheat on her while she suffered through morning sickness and took on the body of a whale.

And then I was born.

Suddenly the baby thing got real, and life got hard. My mom and Greg were broke high school seniors who had no parental help, and Greg decided he didn’t feel like being a daddy anymore. He skipped town when I was four months old.

My mother dropped out of high school, waved good-bye to her future as a news anchor, and got a job at a local diner, where she let her broken heart fester until it was black. With Greg out of the picture, the only person left to blame for her miserable life was the baby girl who had ruined her body and driven away the only man who would ever love her—that was her reasoning.

So I never had a chance.

Ellen, who was a few years older than my mother, jumped right in to help out with baby me. But Sandra Marshall was determined to be miserable. And with every year that passed without providing Sandra a way out of town or a handsome man to sweep her off her feet, she grew more intolerant of me.

Ellen’s attempts at tempering Sandra’s behavior failed. So as a last resort, she offered up her home—a place just a few miles from the inn—and asked me to consider living with her indefinitely. My mother wasn’t horribly against the idea, but she was wicked cruel to Ellen for suggesting it. Because if Ellen took little Pixie away from Sandra, then whomever would Sandra have to blame for her unhappy existence?

I declined Ellen’s offer under the guise of not wanting to move out to the middle of nowhere and live far away from my friends. But really, I just didn’t want Ellen to have to take more heat than necessary from my mom and deal with whatever temper tantrums she decided to throw throughout my remaining years.

So I stayed in my mother’s house and settled for visiting Ellen as often as possible. She used to drive into Copper Springs and pick Charity and me up from school on Fridays so we could stay the weekend at Willow Inn.

The summer we were fourteen, Charity and I got to stay at the inn for two weeks. It was two weeks of ice cream and movies and late-night fun with Ellen. That was the summer Ellen started calling me Pixie. I’m glad she never stopped.

Sandra Marshall’s scolding voice rakes over my nerves as I hear her chatter away downstairs.

Goddammit, my mother is here. I thought I was free, but now the very person I’ve been trying to get away from my whole life is downstairs yelling at Haley about eating carbs.

34 Levi

I occupy myself with outdoor jobs all day before heading back inside, hoping to avoid Sandra Marshall.

There are only three ways I can enter the inn. I can go through the front door—but Sandra might be in the lobby. I can go through the main back door—but Sandra might be in the library or by Ellen’s office. Or I can go through the kitchen’s back door.

Kitchen it is.

I wipe my shoes on the mat outside and let myself in.

“Hey, handsome.” Mable smiles warmly at me. “I made honey croissants. Want some?”

“Always.” I take a croissant from her and bring it to my mouth. Pixie’s over by the sink, her hair pulled back from her face so her cheeks and nose look extra small. Her yellow apron is covered in flour and what looks like chocolate, and I notice she’s wearing nicer clothes than usual.

Our eyes meet.

She looks away.

Sandra enters the kitchen and frowns at Mable. “Croissants are not good for a woman your age. Are you trying to die?”

Mable arches a brow. “Are you?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Mother.” Pixie rolls her eyes as she starts kneading dough on the counter. “Quit insulting everyone.”

Sandra isn’t listening to her daughter, though. She’s looking at me.

Here we go.

I’d been working at Willow Inn for only three weeks the first time Sandra Marshall came to visit her sister. I hadn’t seen Sandra since Charity’s funeral, and I didn’t expect her to speak to me at all.

But she did.

“You work here now,” she stated with disgust as I hung a painting on the lobby wall.

I turned around with a hammer in my hand, not sure if she wanted me to respond.

“My sister says you live here, as well,” she added. “Do your parents approve of this arrangement? Oh wait. That’s right. They’ve moved away.” She clucked her tongue. “You just destroyed your whole family, didn’t you? First your sister, then your parents.”

I clenched my fist around the hammer.

“Can’t say that I blame them.” She looked me up and down with a pitiful sigh. “You look just like her.” She shook her head. “Your poor mother. I bet she curses the day you were born.” And then Sandra Marshall turned and left, walking out of the inn like she hadn’t just ripped out my heart and verbalized every fear I had hidden inside.

I stood, hammer in hand, staring after her for long, hot minutes, waiting for my heart to stop pounding in fury. But I couldn’t shake the pain in my chest. Because she was right. I was the reason Charity was dead.

And now we meet again, this time in the kitchen. Sandra’s evil eyes narrow in on me, and I’m the same guilty boy I was six months ago.

She purses her lips. “Judging by the muck and stench you’re covered in, I guess you still work here.”

I smile tightly. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“No, you’re not,” she sneers.

“Leave Levi alone.” Pixie glares at her mother.

“I most certainly will not leave him alone. He almost killed you last year!” Sandra turns to me. “And you scarred her too. No man’s ever going to appreciate her naked now. Does that make you happy?”

Mable gasps, all color draining from her face.

I feel like Sandra just punched me in the stomach.

“Mom!” Pixie looks humiliated.

“Well, it’s the truth, Sarah!” she says. “You’re only half-pretty to begin with, but with that giant scar through your skin—and across your chest, no less—it’s just… well, repulsive.”

All feeling drains from my fingertips as I stand frozen by the counter. I can’t breathe. I’m torn between wanting to kill myself and wanting to kill Sandra Marshall.

I might do both.

“You hush your mouth, Sandy,” Mable says. “That’s no way to speak to your beautiful baby girl.”

Pixie looks like she’s going to cry, and my decision is made. I’m going to kill her mother first, then myself.

Sandra rolls her eyes. “Oh now, Sarah, don’t get emotional.”

“You need to leave, Sandra,” I say. And I call her Sandra because formalities are way the fuck over.

She whips her eyes to me. “I’m not going to take orders from the janitor.”

“Then the janitor will be escorting you out,” I say.

“Mom, can you just go?” Pixie’s voice sounds small, and I hate the defeat I hear in it.

Sandra looks appalled. “And leave you here with this”—she looks me up and down like I’m a criminal—“filthy, despicable, sister-killing boy?”

And that’s the end of any strength I had. Sandra played the Charity card, and all the oxygen has officially left my lungs.

“You are a horrid woman,” Pixie says, straightening her shoulders. “You are truly awful, and I hate that we share DNA.” She points to the dining room door. “Leave.”

“But we haven’t even had dinner.”

“You didn’t come for dinner. You came to be a bitch and remind me how very worthless I am. And you know what? Mission accomplished.” Pixie throws the rolling pin down. “I’m ugly. I’m scarred. I’m worthless. Whatever.” Her eyes harden. “I might be all of those things, but you know what I’ll never be?” She pauses. “You.”

She’s more confident than I’ve ever seen her before, and I’m so proud.

“And you,” Pixie continues, “are the ugliest thing in this room.”

So fucking proud.

Sandra runs cool eyes over her daughter, looking her down in condescension, and mutters, “I knew I should have had an abortion.” Then she turns and walks out of the kitchen.

I start to follow after her, but Pixie’s voice stops me.

“Leaves, no.”

Leaves. She called me Leaves.

My heart is pounding, my palms are sweating, and my soul is screaming to run after Sandra and hurt her for all the hurt she’s done to Pixie.

But Leaves…

Leaves stops me in my tracks.

I look at Pixie and she shakes her head. “I just want her gone, okay? Just let her go.” She looks exhausted.

I nod once and watch as Pixie takes off her apron, hangs it on the hook, and exits the kitchen. I stand there for a long time, trying to figure out what to do with all the rage inside me. I’m so angry. Angry that Sandra put so many emotional scars on Pixie and angry that I went and put a physical one on her too.

When I finally move from the kitchen, I travel up the east wing stairs only to find Pixie seated at the top, like maybe she was trying to run away from everything but got discouraged and just sat down where she was.

I slowly climb the stairs and stop a few steps from her. “Your mom’s a piece of work.”

She nods. “My mom’s a bitch.”

“Yep.” It’s awkward for a moment, and I’m not sure if I should go to my room or stay where I am. But something about leaving Pixie feels… wrong, so I shove my hands in my pockets and stand still for a moment. “I’ve never seen you stand up to her like that before.”

She sweeps a loose hair back from her face. “Yeah, well. I don’t live with her anymore, so it’s not like I’ll have repercussions for days and days.”

I nod. I look to the side.

She looks at her shoes.

“I’m proud of you.” The words fall out of my mouth.

Pixie looks up and gives me a small smile, which just encourages my mouth to keep moving.

“You were pretty kick-ass back there,” I say.

Her smile grows, and something inside me warms.

“Nineteen years too late, I guess,” she says.

“No,” I say quietly. “Never too late to be brave.”

She rubs her hands over her face, and I have this overwhelming urge to sit down beside her and wrap an arm around her. I used to do things like that all the time. It used to be so natural for me. For us.

She glances at me and wrinkles her brow. “What my mom said, about my scar—”

I start shaking my head, panic and fear racing through my veins. “She was right.”

Pixie looks like I just slapped her. “About it making my body repulsive?”

“What? No! God, no!” I want to kill Sandra all over again. “No. She was right when she said it was my fault. I’m the reason you almost died—”

“No, you’re not.” She looks confused.

“And I’m the reason Charity died.”

“What?” She blinks. “Levi… what? Are you insane? A truck driver named Joe Willis who feel asleep at the wheel is the reason Charity died. The accident wasn’t your fault.” She looks baffled and raises her voice a notch. “And if anyone else is to blame for that night, it’s me. I’m the one who decided we should drive home drunk.”

“But I messed with fate, Pix. I basically forced the two of you to pull over, and then I drove you straight to death—”

“You were trying to protect us!”

“Yeah?” I’m yelling now. “And how’d that work out? Did I protect Charity? Did I protect YOU?!” My voice echoes up and down the east wing and my eyes start to burn.

It’s so silent I can hear the beating of my heart and the very shallow breath Pixie just took. Her face is stunned.

My chest aches. My chest aches so much.

I head to my room and slam the door behind me.