Unbroken

by Jasmine Carolina

  Taking a sip of the Coke, I lean over and rest my hand on my grandfather’s stone. “I miss you, Gramps. And if you see Gramma, tell her I miss her, too. It’s been too long.”

  There’s a silver cup inside the ground, and I reach for it. I crack the water bottle open and fill it up. I don’t waste a second in taking the flowers out of their cellophane wrapping and inhaling their scent. They don’t smell special or anything. In fact, I’m pretty sure all the flowers smell exactly the same. But they look pretty.

  I buy her the same flowers every time I come here, because they were her favorites: lilies, accented with snapdragons. I remember that they were her favorites because right before she passed, I sat on her bed and she took my hand.

  It was so cold. Her hand didn’t feel like her hand anymore. But I held it anyway, because I couldn’t imagine not holding it. She ran her thumb over the back of my hand and looked me straight in the eye.

  “Brody, honey, I want you to promise me something,” she said.

  I crawled into the bed with her and wrapped my arm around her middle, trying as hard as possible to avoid touching the IV in the crook of her arm. Laying my head on her shoulder, I nodded.

  “Anything, Mommy,” I told her. I was twelve, but I was a little boy again in that moment. “Anything.”

  “Promise me that you’ll visit me often, baby boy.”

  That was easy to promise, because there was no way I was going to get through life without visiting her. “Of course I will. I’ll even have Dad tell me how to take the bus there, that way I can go by myself sometimes.”

  She smiled, but she was so sad that it barely reached my eyes. I hated seeing her sad like that, and I hated knowing there was nothing that I could do to take that sadness away. She didn’t have long left with us, and that was the worst part. Knowing that our days with her were numbered, and she was going to miss everything.

  “And one more thing, B.” She grinned when I nodded again, too choked up and emotional to respond. “Don’t ever bring me roses, because if you do, I swear I will haunt your ass until the end of time.”

  I raised my eyebrow at that, confused. “Well, what do you want me to bring you? I thought every woman liked roses?”

  She shook her head. “Nah, girls like roses, baby. I’m a woman, and women like much more sophisticated, thoughtful flowers. Bring me lilies. Preferably with snapdragons. Those are my favorites.”

  “Okay, Mom.” I hugged her again, and she kissed my forehead. “I love you so much.”

  “I love you more. I always will.”

  She died two days later, in her sleep. It was the best way, the best we could hope for, or that’s what everyone told us. She’d suffered beautifully for so long, and even when she was in pain, she pretended like she wasn’t, for our sakes.

  Pressing my thumb and forefinger to the bridge of my nose to keep my emotions at bay, I close my eyes. I lean forward and run my hand over the smooth stone where she lay. I trace her name a repeatedly, hoping for some divine intervention, some sign that she’s here with me even when she’s not. I don’t know what I’m hoping for. A whip of the wind, thunder or rain, a heavenly sign.

  But nothing comes.

  And when it doesn’t, I sit back and do what I normally do.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say quietly. “I miss you so much. I can’t believe it’s been six years since you left us. Things are kind of hectic here. Dalis graduates from middle school this year, but thankfully she graduates a week before I do. Cason’s finally pulled his grades up after his slip last year. Mama Quinn is doing exactly what you’d expect of her. She’s taking care of us. But every time she does, I can’t help but wish it was you. I wish you were still here. Six years, and it’s still not fair that you had to go…”

  Three hours later, I’m emotionally spent from my visit with Mom, like I always am. My heart is heavy and I’m missing her more than usual. Everything’s piling up today, and I had to let it out before I fucking exploded.

  I don’t have any obligations for the rest of the day, and I’m so exhausted. I decide I’m going to head back to the Quinn household and take a nap. Usually, I don’t have this kind of luxury, but since I do today, I’m going to take full advantage of it, especially considering the day’s events.

  This house isn’t my second home. It’s my only home. The house I live in, or am supposed to live in permanently, hasn’t been a home since my mother lived there.

  I shut off the car when I pull up in front of the house and take a calming breath. I enter through the backdoor, because there’s a stairway in the kitchen that leads directly to Nic’s old room.

  Every time I set foot in this room, I’m bombarded with memories that have taken place in this bedroom, particularly the one that took place the day of my mother’s funeral, when I couldn’t stand to be in our house anymore. Everyone was there for the repast, and when the Quinns decided it was time to leave, I asked to go with them. I was tired of everyone’s “I’m sorry for your loss”. Or “She’s in a better place now.” Or my personal favorite, “At least she’s not suffering anymore.” I was sick of it, but not nearly as sick as I was of everyone giving me and my siblings that look like we were a group of puppies abandoned at the side of the road.

  Nic had brought me up to her room, kicked off her shoes. She climbed in bed, gestured for me to follow, and she held me while I cried myself to sleep.

  The memory hits me like a ton of bricks, because that’s what I feel like doing now.

  Except she’s not here.

  I’m alone.

  Again.

  FOUR

  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 so
meone 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.

  The longer I stare at him, the more my panting morphs from anger to lust. I want him so bad, it’s fucking insane.