Broken and Beautiful

by Ryan, Kendall

  I shake my head, unseeing. “Then why are you sending me away?”

  “I loved them with a selfish, shallow love. I wanted them for myself. But you… God, Ashleigh. I love you the real way. The deep way. The way where I need you to be safe and secure and strong more than I need to breathe. So yes. Yes. This is goodbye.”

  “That’s not fair.” Even as I say the words I know they make me sound my age. Like the seventeen-year-old he’s afraid to take advantage of. Maybe that’s what I am. I’m innocent and world-weary. I’m young and ineffably tired at the same time. I’m everything. Why can’t I be everything? Whoever decided we had to be only one thing—the virgin or the whore?

  He taps the check. “There’s enough here for college. For medical school. Or to travel the world. Do what you want, build a life for yourself.”

  I hold back tears. “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by.”

  “And that has made all the difference.”

  My lip trembles. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

  He sounds faintly wry. “Me either, honestly.”

  “So you want me to go date guys? Marry them?”

  “If that’s what you want,” he says hoarsely. “But if—”

  “If.”

  “If you build a life, and there’s room for me in it, I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  The funny thing about holding a check for two million dollars is that you can’t actually cash it without some form of identification. It’s Blue himself—with those familiar blue eyes I would recognize from anywhere, so like Sutton’s—who drives me away from the ranch in his black Expedition.

  He looks casually competent and intimidating across the large dash. “Blue Security will manage your lodgings and care until such time as you take possession of the funds.”

  “Is that your way of saying I’m not homeless anymore?”

  He gives me an appreciative look. “So you’re the straightforward type of client.”

  “I don’t think I’m a client at all because I’m not paying you. But yeah, I think I’d prefer things straightforward. I’ve had enough of being in the dark.”

  “I assume you don’t have ID. We can get a rush application for your birth certificate and social security card. From there we can get you a state ID card.”

  I look out the window, at the farmland that’s rapidly turning into city. We’re leaving Sutton. We’re leaving Haven. We’re leaving the darkest evening of the year, and there should be some comfort in that. It would feel better if it didn’t feel like my heart stayed behind. “My mother might have those things.”

  “You don’t have to see her.”

  Which answers the question about how much Sutton told him. “It would be quicker. And the sooner you can stop babysitting me on Sutton’s dime, the better. Besides, I want to see her.”

  “You’re the boss,” he says in a tone which means the opposite.

  I slide the piece of paper with her address over. “I’d like to go here.”

  We don’t stop at some waystation, some beige motel where I can be transferred to someone less senior. Instead Blue punches the address into the GPS, and we take a drive into one of the sadder suburbs of Tanglewood. The cardboard McMansions have fallen into disrepair. Apartment buildings have sprung up where there used to be parks. It’s in one of those tired-looking apartment buildings that we stop.

  There’s a crush of air as a bus stops down the street. Someone steps off the bus, looking thinner than I remember, older than I remember. It’s her. I’m frozen to the ground. All I feel is love and hurt. It’s a struggle to hold on to any anger.

  She has her head down as she walks towards us. When she gets close she looks up. A gasp that can be heard across the parking lot. Her groceries fall to the gravel. A peach rolls through a puddle. Then she’s running to me, catching me in her arms. “My girl. My sweet girl. You’re alive.”

  She hugs me, and I cry. Part of me wants to go back to the way everything might have been—if she had left with me when I first told her, if I could trust her. I would live in this sad little apartment, and I would have been happy like this. It would have been home.

  Instead I give her Blue’s card. “I’m here.” My words stutter and choke out of me. “I wanted you to know that—that I’m safe now. You can call me here.”

  And then I get in the passenger seat of the car and close the door.

  Blue murmurs something to her, and slowly, aching, she moves to the sidewalk. He gathers up her groceries—all except the peach, which is ruined now—and gives them to her in the bags. I love her as a mother. I always will. But that love has a deep, indelible crack running through it. I want to have her in my life. But I can’t ask her for anything.

  Not even my own birth certificate.

  Blue backs out of the space and drives me away.

  23

  Sutton

  It would be so easy to look her up. So easy to find out where she is, to show up where she lives. It’s the greatest struggle of my day, not searching for her. I scan every face when I walk into a restaurant or a coffee shop.

  I look for her in the street, but I don’t let myself look her up.

  My grief this time looks different. It’s not about drinking or feeling sorry for myself. I throw myself into work, building my own life. Building something I can be proud of.

  Something that would make me worthy of her.

  I’m sitting in my office, working on the plans when someone knocks.

  “I’m eating,” I tell Mrs. Ness without looking up. There’s a turkey sandwich, potato salad, and a large slice of key lime pie waiting for me on my desk.

  “I’m not Mrs. Ness,” comes a voice from my memory.

  I look up, and there’s Christopher. He looks exactly like I remember him: handsome and diffident. Other people see him as distant, but I’ve always known that he’s shy. “Hello.”

  “Can I come in?” He lifts up a white paper bag. “I brought gifts.”

  “Contraband. Excellent.”

  Benny’s is a BBQ place down the street from our office. Rather, down the street from our office when we had one. The short-lived, ill-fated company of Bardot and Mayfair.

  He hands over the bag, and I look inside to find two Styrofoam containers filled to the brim. I pass one back to him and keep one to myself. Neither of us bother with plastic silverware.

  I take a bite and close my eyes on a moan. “God, yes.”

  Christopher does the same, and the expression he makes is pure erotic pleasure, even with the hint of barbecue sauce on the corner of his mouth. The sight arrests me for a moment. Probably the sight of a beautiful man always will, but it’s a faraway kind of appreciation.

  I take another bite of the warm meat. “Do you know how long it’s been?”

  “Probably since you left.”

  “Mrs. Ness would never order from there.”

  “Pussy,” he says, though the word holds no heat.

  Both of us took instructions from the older woman. She was our office manager when we shared an office. When we split up, somehow I ended up with her, which I was grateful for. I suppose it was compensation for Christopher getting Harper.

  When I’ve finished the full line of ribs I move on to the jalapeno bread. “So what is this? A peace offering? Or do you need me to sign some papers?”

  “Hell,” he says. “Why not both?”

  I have to laugh at that. “You’re more of a bastard than me, Christopher.”

  He looks affronted. “Of course I am. What, you think stomping around for a few weeks makes up for a lifetime of being a cold and conniving bastard?”

  “You’re not as bad as everything thinks you are.”

  “I’m not as good as you thought I was, either.”

  “No, probably not. Nobody can live up to the pedestals they’re put on, can they?”

  “Here’s the thing about me and Harper. You loved her for everything good about her. You l
oved her in spite of her flaws, but I love her because of them. She’s vain and selfish and wicked.”

  “She’s not—”

  “Yes, she is. She’s also talented and generous and so damn caring it makes my teeth hurt. She’s a whole person, the good and the bad, and I love every single part of it. She deserves someone who loves every part of her. And you deserve someone who loves every part of you.”

  “Hey,” I say. “What’s not to love? A deadbeat alcoholic with anger management issues.”

  “There will be someone who loves that part about you.”

  Maybe I already had that person. Maybe I gave her up.

  And I understand what he means.

  The fact that she lived on the street. The fact that she prostituted herself. There are men who would judge her for that. They might be with her despite that, but they wouldn’t appreciate her because of that. When I look at her time on the corner, I see only her strength. Her survival. The world would be such a dimmer place if she were gone. It tried to put out her light. Her father. Even her mother, for all that she repented later.

  Maybe Christopher had a point. I saw Harper’s flaws, but he sees them as strengths.

  The same way I see Ashleigh. That’s love.

  * * *

  Ashleigh

  Sugar dips her paw into my teacup and drinks. Then she walks across my organic chemistry homework, leaving wet prints. A stack sits precariously at the edge of my desk, organized by a system of deadlines, subjects, and random thoughts in my head.

  There’s a knock on my dorm room door.

  It’s Jason from my class. “Did you get notes from political science?”

  “Yeah, do you want to see them?” When he nods I pull out a sheaf of papers.

  He whistles. “This is a lot.”

  “Professor Morris was on a roll.”

  “Can I make copies of this and return them?”

  “Sure.”

  He pauses at my door, and Sugar eyes his ankles like she wants to attack. It’s a private dorm, so we’re allowed to have an animal if we pay an enormous fee. But it means no more mice hunting. Instead Sugar likes to attack my friends’ feet. “Maybe I could drop them back tonight. Would you like to go out for dinner?”

  A date. He’s asking me on a date. He isn’t the first boy to do so, but he’s the first one where I’ve thought about saying yes. Jason is cute, and he’s kind. I think about Sutton, but he’s not here. He left. Part of me wants to be pissed, but part of me also knows he was right. I have to at least date another boy in my lifetime. That has to be part of the experiment. If you build a life, and there’s room for me in it, I’ll be there. “Yes,” I say. “Dinner would be great.”

  24

  Five years later

  “Ashleigh Johnson.”

  Until the moment my name is called, part of me doesn’t believe it’s real. I stand up and climb the steps to the stage. The band plays their short crossing-the-stage montage. It’s a small department in a small school, with a graduating class of 20 in the School of Natural Science. The dean smiles at me and mispronounced my name—Ash-lee—and hands me a rolled sheet of paper. We pose for pictures. It feels like a blur, like maybe this is a dream instead of real.

  Only when I’m crossing the other side do I see him.

  The audience sits on white folding chairs across the green lawn, the mass of them moving. Parents. Siblings. Friends. That’s why he stands out. Other people look down and leaf through the program. Other people wave at their children waiting for their turn. Other people are on their phones.

  My mother wipes tears from her eyes.

  Even Ky has his camera in front of his face, snapping photos.

  Sutton is completely still, watching me in a suit, a solid point in a storm. I would recognize those blue eyes from outer space. That wild mane of hair and square jaw. That body that looks as comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt as he does in a custom suit.

  The rest of the ceremony takes forever.

  Then we throw our hats into the air. Even before they’ve hit the ground, I’m pushing through the crowd, searching for him. He finds me and pulls me into a bear hug. He smells like sunshine and male spice. I almost remembered this scent in my dreams.

  “Congratulations,” he says to my ear.

  There’s a crowd of people around us. This isn’t a private moment, except it is. We’re the solid place in the middle of a storm. “You got my invitation.”

  “I was coming either way. It was better not to sneak in, though.”

  That makes me laugh. The security on this private university campus is laughable. Then my smile fades. “I wasn’t sure you’d come. Or that you’d remember.”

  “Every day. Every night. Every goddamn hour.”

  “It wasn’t so long that the two of us were together. Not compared to a lifetime.”

  “A lifetime wouldn’t be worth much without love.”

  I hold my breath. “Love?”

  He presses his face into my hair and breathes deep. “I have this theory.”

  “It doesn’t matter how many times we fail or how much it hurts.”

  “It doesn’t matter how long we have to wait.”

  It feels almost impossible that he could have come. That he would love me and I would love him. One chance in a billion. The great human experiment. “Did it work?”

  Blue eyes search mine. “Let’s find out.”

  That makes me laugh, though I’m not sure why. It’s a joyous sound.

  Sutton pulls something from his pocket and drops to one knee. A brilliant cushion cut diamond sparkles at me from a blue Tiffany box. “Marry me.”

  Emotion tightens my throat. Tears prick my eyes. People turn to watch us. There’s clapping and cheering. We’re surrounded by friends and by strangers. All of them understand what’s happening, because this is more than an experiment.

  It’s the great human constant. “Yes.”

  The people around us go wild. More hats fly into the air.

  Sutton pulls me into his arms and kisses me like he’s never letting go.

  * * *

  Ashleigh

  I take him back to my dorm room, which is swarming with students heading to after-parties and a few families helping their graduates move out. Sugar hisses when she sees Sutton and runs out of the room. “Don’t take it personally,” I say. “She hates men. And my neighbor keeps cat treats on his nightstand.”

  He gets this look on his face like he’s holding something in. A comment. A question.

  “What?” I ask, pausing in the act of moving a box of books from my bed.

  It’s like the question is pulled forcibly from his body, catching on everything on the way out. “Have there been a lot of men here? Christ. I wasn’t supposed to ask that.”

  I try to look stern. “Are you slut shaming me?”

  “God. No. I’m a caveman. There’s no excuse for it.”

  He’s so adorable when he’s flustered. Adorable and handsome and yes—there’s something distinctly caveman about him. The suit and slacks can’t disguise the primal male who’s come to claim his mate. “Have there been a lot of women for you?”

  “No.”

  “What about men?”

  “No, but I am friends with Christopher again. Just friends. There hasn’t been anyone for me. I have five years’ worth of frustration built up. Five years of hitting the gym and cold showers. Five years of beating off to the image of you in my bed. You aren’t going to keep me waiting, are you, Ashleigh?”

  Once I’ve cleared space on the bed I drift toward him, wrapping my arms around his neck. We’re inches away. “I dated,” I murmur.

  His hands tighten on me. “I’m not mad at you. I swear. It’s just that I need to go run ten miles, and then we can have this conversation.”

  I laugh softly. “I never brought them back here.”

  He doesn’t relax. “You have a right to date whoever you want.”

  “Or went to their place.”

 
“It’s natural to want to explore.”

  “There hasn’t been anyone I wanted except you.”

  “Thank fuck,” he says, pressing his lips to mine. His tongue searches into my mouth, finding my tongue, my teeth, the silk on the insides of my cheeks. It’s like he wants to explore every square centimeter of me, like he wants to breathe me into his lungs.

  We fall in a tangle of limbs on my twin-sized bed, fully clothed, our lips together. His legs are too long for the space, and we bump into the headboard and my nightstand.

  “Sorry,” I say, gasping as my elbow hits the wall.

  “Is there room in your life for me?” he asks, his blue eyes deep.

  There’s a lot I don’t know about my life. I graduated with honors with a bachelor’s in biology. I have acceptance into medical school. There will be long hours and interning and a ridiculous amount of work to achieve my dreams. But I know one thing. There’s room for love.

  “Yes,” I say stroking his wild curls back from his forehead. There are new lines on his face. Stress lines. Grooves on the side of his mouth. This isn’t a man afraid of hard work.

  “I love you, Sutton Mayfair.”

  “Good,” he says, turning me onto my back. “Because I’ve waited long enough.”

  25

  The car passes the Den and I tense in the passenger seat.

  “You okay?” he murmurs. Of course he sees the anxiety building even though I’ve tried to hide it. He told me we were coming to the west side. I knew it would raise some memories.

  “Sure,” I lie.

  He mutters a quiet curse. “It’s too soon. We can come back another time.”

  “No.” I’m insistent. “I want to see my surprise.”

  His hand runs over his face and through his hair in that way he has when he’s frustrated at himself. It makes him look rumpled and sexy. “I should have gotten you flowers as a surprise. Balloons. Chocolate. Do you like chocolate?”