Unbroken (6 page)

I THOUGHT I SAW HER TODAY.

The girl from Lewellyn’s two years ago.

I ran into her at my favorite bakery just days before I asked Michele to be mine. I was scared shitless because up until I saw her standing there with her younger sister I presumed, everything was clear as crystal. Black and white. Me and Michele.

But sure enough, life had to kick me in the ass and throw a curveball at me at the exact same time.

After that day, whenever I looked at Michele, I couldn’t stop thinking about
her
. Everything about her called to me, and I wanted to answer. But there was no way I could, not when I’d basically already given myself to Michele. And not when I didn’t even know her name, or whether she was moving
out
of Harlow, or
into
Harlow, or merely passing through on her way somewhere bigger and better. She looked like she was meant to be somewhere bigger and better.

Harlow is the place where dreams come to die. That’s what I think at least. The people who keep their dreams limited to this town never go further than the sign that says, “You are now leaving Harlow.”

It’s not my intention to stay here forever. No. But I’m not going to uproot my siblings either. Dalis is only twelve, and Cason is sixteen. I want them to finish school in the town they grew up in, with the people they grew up with. Ripping them from this place when I tried so hard to give them some semblance of a normal childhood would just unravel all the hard work I’ve done over the last six years.

After all this time, I didn’t think she’d still be here. I used to look for her in the faces of every dark-haired beauty I encountered, used to ache to hear her speak, because I can’t get her damn “hello” out of my head, used to stare ceaselessly at each girl who even somewhat resembled her to find the sashay she had in her walk. But I never found it. And I’d given up.

Until today.

I watched her as she ran circles around me—well, around the park, but it’s the same shit, basically—and she kept the same pace for at least an hour. My heart stopped beating the moment I got a good look at her face. She panted with each running step she took, and her long ponytail swung behind her.

I thought that my chance at love, life, and hope was gone when I lost Michele last summer. She gave me hope and wrenched it away, and I can’t blame her, because for two years I did precisely that. I didn’t like it much once the shoe was on the other foot. I was heartbroken. What little of my heart that was left after my mother died was owned by Michele, and she ripped it out of my chest before stomping it on the ground. But I found it and it started beating again little by little while I watched this girl run past me about eight times. She did it so casually, like she wasn’t affecting me at all.

Once she was done, she slowed to a stop, stretched, and then sashayed over to some guy and wrapped her arms around him. They held each other like they’d known each other forever, interacted with the ease of lovers. He lifted her into the air and she smiled down at him.

I shook my head at the sight, and I hated that I felt the way I did after watching her with him, whoever he is. And I hate the way I feel now, hate that she’s consuming me, taking over
everything
, just like she did two years ago.

It’s not fair that she can affect me like this and she doesn’t even know it, doesn’t even know that I can barely breathe without her.

That I’m not living without her.

I’m just existing.

She makes me feel discombobulated, and I can’t get her out of my fucking head. And what’s worse is I don’t even want to.

Now I’m back at the Quinn household, and I’ve never felt so low. She’s taken all the little pieces of me and she’s crushing them in her palm. And the worst part is, I don’t know who I’m more upset over: Michele, or this running chick from Lewellyn’s.

As much as I hate this house sometimes, I’m loving it right now. There’s no one here, no one to judge me or lecture me or worse…care for me. There’s no one to distract me from the only thing I want to do right now—wallow.

I make my way to Mama Quinn’s liquor cabinet, pulling out her bottle of Jose Cuervo and taking a shot.

All I know is, it’s all downhill from here.

…

AS OFFICIAL FIRST DAYS OF work go, this one has been pretty solid.

I got to meet Nickayla Quinn, Colin Westwick’s girlfriend, for the second time today. Yesterday, she was sweet as pie, and today, she was even sweeter even though she seemed nervous all evening long. Ms. Archer paired us in the back section together, and although we had a couple hiccups—like me delivering the wrong drinks to one table, and her forgetting one table’s appetizers—I think we make a pretty great team.

It’s the end of the night, and Eric got drawn to do dishes tonight, so Nic and I are hanging out in front of the bar, splitting a giant blender full of an Oreo milkshake.

I know Nickayla is a Harlow native, so for that reason, I want to ask her loads of questions about her town. I’m curious about her and everything that makes Harlow special.

“So,” I say, after taking a long sip of the milkshake and folding my arms across my chest, “how are you liking Harlow’s first ‘upscale’ restaurant so far?”

She smiles, and I admire the way that her smile lights up her entire face, but somehow, it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I love it. Tonight was pretty quiet. I like it almost as much as my job last summer.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“I had a paid internship last summer at North Carolina’s
Vixen
magazine. It was honestly the best experience of my life. I even got to work with Rebecca Whitney-Carlson, the creative director and the granddaughter of the magazine owner,” she explains. “My supervisor liked me so much, she offered me a full-time position at the magazine once I graduate.”

I give her a smile, handing her the milkshake.

“Me, I’ll be working here or at The Underground post-grad. I made a deal with my parents that I’d work through college, since they’re paying for me to go to med school.”

Nickayla raises an eyebrow at me and looks as though she’s about to say something when she gets sidetracked by the chime of the front door opening.

My eyes flash to the entryway and I grin. “Well, my night just got a thousand times better. Check out the eye candy that just walked through our doors!”

I watch as Nickayla swivels around, and as the man who’s on his way inside inches his way closer, the rest of this encounter happens in slow motion. The hair. The eyes. The lazy smile. The broad shoulders. The lack of confidence in his stride…

It’s Lewellyn’s Guy!

Holy fuck!

“Oh, shit,” Nickayla mutters, jumping to her feet and making her way over to the guy. She guides him to the bar, but she’s struggling. I almost get up to help her, but I’m glued to my seat, completely floored by the sight of him. “Brody, what the fuck?”

Brody.

The name works on
so
many levels, suits him to a T.

Brody
falls onto a bar stool, and slams his fist atop the bar at the same time that he screams at Eva, “Two Coronas!”

His head falls into his hands, and suddenly, I can’t be in his presence anymore. I need air. I need space. I need…I need to be away from that stench of fucking
alcohol
.

I leap off the bar stool I’m sitting on and make my way to the back. Once I’m out of his and Nickayla’s sight, I lean against the wall and close my eyes. I inhale, I exhale. I try to keep my cool. I wrap my arms around my waist and try to physically hold myself together when I feel like everything is falling apart.

This is exactly how I felt six months ago when I found Maddox…no. I can’t do this to myself, not right now. This isn’t about Maddox, or Bianca, or how I am the absolute
worst
judge of character in the entire fucking world. This is about
Brody
, and how the sight of him rubs me both the wrong way and the right way and I’m not even sure how the fuck that’s possible.

I place my hands atop my knees, and I focus on my breathing. If I pay really close attention, I can hear exactly what Nickayla and Brody are talking about. But I’m not even sure if that’s what I want. I don’t want to know what intimate details he’s sharing with her.

How does she even
know
him? I know she’s not his girlfriend, because I met her boyfriend. But she obviously knows him in ways I can only dream of.

“I miss Michele,” he moans.

Michele?
Who the fuck is Michele?

Michele must be the girl who stared me down in Lewellyn’s two years ago. Oh, yeah. She looked like a Michele.

“I know, B,” Nickayla says in a chastising tone. “But remember, she’s with Hayden now? I hate to pour salt in your wounds, but…getting drunk isn’t really going to help either of you.”

I hold my breath while I wait for him to respond.

“He has a stupid name. ‘Hayden’. That’s stupid. I think ‘Brody’ is much better.”

As sobering as it is to listen to him complaining about how he lost a girl to another guy, I have to agree with him. I never pegged “Hayden” as a boy’s name, because when I hear the name “Hayden”, I often think “Panetierre”.

Nickayla laughs for a long time, and I almost do, too, but I don’t want to give away the fact that I’ve been listening. I’m not normally a
chismosa
, but I’m dying to know what his story is.

Our hearts, our lives, our storylines are already intertwined, and they have been since that brief exchange two years ago. I feel something for him. Something that’s pulling me toward him. I definitely believe in fate, in destiny. I believe in the things that draw two people to one another, that put those two people in each others’ paths, not just once, and not just twice, but time after time.

I’ve thought about this guy every day since the day we met, and I don’t think that’s for no reason. He weighed heavily on my heart and on my mind for some reason, and I’m going to figure it out.

“Stupid name or not, that’s who Mich chose. And you promised you would respect her wishes,” Nickayla says.

I’m holding my breath for his response, and when it comes, it’s like a punch in the stomach.

“I wanted her to wish for me,” Brody says.

My heart aches at his words. I don’t know why I react to him the way that I do, and I don’t even know him. I’m not even sure at this point if it’s because I wanted him to wish for me, or if it’s because all this time I’ve wished for him, he’s been wishing for someone else.

Mom always tells me, “A drunk man tells no tales.” So if that’s true, that means his heart lies with someone else. His heart lies with Michele.

“I know, B. I know. But someday, you’ll find someone who will wish for you.”

I’m filling up a pitcher of ice water to take out to Brody so he can quench his thirst with something non-alcoholic. I’m headed out to give it to him, when I hear the words that seal his fate as far as I’m concerned.

“I don’t want
someone
, Nickayla. I want
Michele
. She was the one.”

I storm from the kitchen, and, realizing how close Nickayla is to her best friend, I push her out of the way. With a hand on my hip, I dump the pitcher of water over Brody’s head.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” I scream, my face shaking from the extent of how angry I am right now. “All you’ve done since you walked in here is fucking
whine
! God! You’re drunk off your ass and you want us to feel sorry for you? I
don’t
! Go home, take a shower, and sleep this shit off. If, when you’re sober, you still want to bitch and mope about your
precious
Michele, I’ll listen. Until then, I don’t want to fucking hear it!”

Brody leaps from his bar stool, and we’re toe to toe now. I’m staring daggers at him, my chest heaving. My emotions are at their peak, and they’re slowly waning as I take in every aspect of his appearance like I never have before.

And I never have before. Not really.

His hair is dripping wet, but there’s a small portion that looks like it won’t grow. His steel gray eyes pin me into place, but they lack all the emotion that should lie in their depths. He’s so young, but the scars that cover his face, the bruise that’s fading just beneath his left eye, the swelling of his lip show that he’s endured more in his eighteen—he can’t be older than that, can he?—years of life than most people three times his age could ever dream of.