Unbroken

by Jasmine Carolina

  He’s a mess.

  But he’s my mess.

  I’m the chink in the armor for him. I’m his Achilles heel. I can see it. Where he holds up this facade for everyone else in his world, I see his weaknesses, see what will hurt him beyond repair. He showed me for a mere second, a flicker of pain, desperation, and yearning flashing across his face right before he walked away from me.

  I’m going to do my best to never use that weakness against him.

  It’s me.

  I am his weakness.

  And he is mine.

  …

  THREE IN THE MORNING.

  That’s the time the screaming starts tonight.

  I never noticed any of the other nights, because we went to bed together, hence he went straight to sleep without any interruptions. But tonight, given the circumstances, I didn’t expect him to come back here. And I didn’t expect him to climb in bed and go to sleep alone.

  There’s no inner battle tonight, because I know what I need to do. I know he needs me. I toss my blankets aside and sit up, then walk out of my bedroom. I do what I normally do: I peek in each of the kids’ rooms to make sure he hasn’t woken any of them up.

  I open the door to Bianca and Grecia’s room, then recoil a bit, surprised when I see Bianca sitting up as well.

  “Hi,” I say cautiously, hoping I can figure a way to convince her not to tell our parents what I’m about to do.

  She brings a hand up to her face and angrily swipes at the space beneath her eyes. She does this a couple more times before she stops and allows me to see what’s happening.

  “Bee, are you—are you crying?” I ask.

  “Yes! How aren’t you?! How can you listen to that and not hurt for him?” she half-shouts, half-whispers. “Just get out, Sabrina. Go tend to him so I can get some fucking sleep.”

  She spits the remainder of her words like she’s annoyed or angry, but only I know the underlying reason she wants me to tend to him. His presence, his night terrors are bringing up the past for her. There was a time, not too long ago, where I would wake up in the middle of the night to use the restroom or go get a drink of water, and I’d find that she was sobbing unabashedly into her pillow. It took four months to get her to start sleeping through the night again.

  Her question hits me though, right where it hurts.

  Because I do cry for him. I do hurt for him. But I do it in my way, in my time. Beneath the steady beating of the shower water every morning, or into my pillow once he’s fallen asleep every night. I mourn for him, for the person he used to be before he hurt so severely. I ache for him, because I can’t imagine being so deeply scarred. I hurt for him because his scars go much deeper than the ones I see marring his lovely face and body.

  But I’m not about to tell her that.

  I watch as she throws herself backward onto her bed, wraps her pillow around her head, and turns onto her side. After a few moments, I retreat silently and close the door behind me.

  I tiptoe to Brody’s room, opening the door and sneaking in. Just like the first night, he’s thrashing in the bed, tangled in the comforter, his screams high-pitched and agonized. Drawing in a deep breath, I gather my wits about me as I approach the bed. I kneel beside him, trying to figure out the perfect way to approach him tonight. Last time, I just went for it. This time, there’s something keeping me from doing precisely that.

  I reach out and graze his face with my fingertips. When he doesn’t stop screaming, doesn’t stop moving, I try again, a different touch now. He doesn’t respond to this one either.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. Whatever is keeping him in the throes of this nightmare must be worse than last time, because I can’t reach him.

  Now I’m afraid. Afraid of leaving him this way, of waking him up and dealing with what happened earlier. But I know I can’t leave him like this, regardless of how I feel about the fact he left me alone when I needed him.

  The worst part is, I can’t call his name. I get frantic and panicky and start speaking in Spanish in situations like this one, and me yelling in a totally different language would wake him up for sure.

  Right along with the rest of the inhabitants of this house.

  I wrack my brain for a way to pull him out, for a way to help him when he’s clearly incapable of helping himself. He’s twice my size and short of slapping him or tossing him out of the bed—which is absolutely my last resort—there’s not much I can do for him. However, that’s a defeat I refuse to accept.

  I run my hands through my hair frustratedly as I try to wake him up as gently as possible. What he’s feeling and going through is violent and ugly, and more violence might only make him retreat further. That’s the last thing either of us need. Him, because it may make his night terrors worse. Me, because I’ll never forgive myself if that happens. And the both of us simultaneously because if I don’t get him woken up within the next few moments, he’ll continue screaming, and he’ll wake up my parents, and they’ll find me in his room.

  Yeah, no.

  Try another approach, Sabrina.

  I climb on top of him, and his body tenses below me. I lean forward and grab him by the shoulders. I take a deep breath as I tug him upward, and then I shake him vigorously. His head snaps back and his eyelids flutter open. Mouth open wide, he gapes at me in unadulterated shock. He gasps and chokes on air as he struggles to accept it into his lungs, his brows tightly knitted together.

  I grab his hands and lean back, using my weight to pull him into a sitting position while I remain in my place atop his thighs. Once he’s upright, I grab hold of his half-naked body and wrap him in the tightest hug I can muster. His posture rigid, he stills completely beneath my touch and then he relaxes. I realize then how well we fit together. I only had a moment or two to see it earlier, how we melded into each other like two halves of the same whole, but I feel it now. And I love it.

  Gasping again, he reaches around me and returns the hug. He grabs onto a tuft of my hair and pulls my head toward his shoulder. I wonder if he’s doing this because he feels like he needs to comfort me through this, but I decide not to even bother asking. He’s doing this for a reason. I rest my head against his shoulder and breathe a sigh of relief. We hold each other like this for a long time, tension rolling off both of us in waves.

  It’s not until I feel him shake and clutch me even tighter that I realize he’s holding me this way for himself. Not for me.

  The silence of his cries echoes throughout the dark room, and as he holds me tight, trying to heal himself, I feel him give me a piece of his heart.

  Without warning, he pushes me to the side, and we both fall in a mess of limbs, hair, clothes, and comforter, still entwined with each other. He curls into a ball and I into a smaller one, so I can fit into the space he’s left open for me. My head’s against his chest as he continues to cry, and I find my hands coming up to rub across his back.

  He pants into my hair a second before he clears his throat to speak. “Thank you.”

  Like I did this for his thanks. I did this because he needed me, not because I wanted or needed anything in return. I don’t want his thanks.

  “Don’t even,” I say. “If you need me, I’ll come running. No matter what.”

  He hears the words unspoken from my lips, which is indicated by the sharp intake of breath.

  No matter how much you hurt me.

  No matter how much this distance is killing me.

  No matter how pissed I am that you walked away from me.

  He reaches behind him and grabs one of my hands. He puts them between us and I look down just in time to watch him twine our fingers together. He squeezes tight, a message. I tilt my head upward and gaze into his eyes.

  It’s only now that I see how magnificent his eyes are. Usually, I’d say they’re this intense, steel gray. But now, in the glow of the moonlight piercing through the blinds, they look almost pale blue. I stare for a long time in wonderment, confused as to how I didn’t notice their brilliance before this m
oment.

  He runs his hand over my hair, smoothing it down tenderly. He inhales sharply. “I’m sorry.”

  Two words is all I get.

  Well, four, really, if I count his ‘thank you’ from moments ago.

  The thing is, I don’t want or need either of them. I don’t want his thank you, and I damn sure don’t want his sorry.

  ‘I’m sorry’ is the most pathetic phrase in the English language. Someone who says they’re sorry is looking to be absolved of their guilt. Someone who says they’re sorry hardly ever means it. Shit, people say they’re sorry so much, it’s merely a formality by now. A sorry person will do it again and again and again and continue to say how sorry they are.

  “Brody, do me a huge favor. Never say you’re ‘sorry’ to me again.”

  His brows furrow and he blinks in confusion, but I must be giving him an evil expression because he nods. His thumb grazes over the back of my hand in small, steady circles. He gazes down at me.

  “I apologize. It was never my intention to hurt you.”

  But you did. You did it then, and you’re doing it now.

  That’s what I want to say. And as much as I want to, I don’t.

  “I know,” is what I say instead.

  We’re both silent, and I watch as his lips form into an ‘o’ like he’s about to say something, then he shakes his head. He looks like he’s fighting a battle inside himself and I’d give anything to know what causes that battle.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  He purses his lips, then gazes at me.

  “Do you have any idea what it's like to live in a nightmare? To never be able to wake up, even after you've realized everything around you is nothing but a horrible, horrible dream?”

  Gasping from the sheer honesty behind his question, I decide against nodding. I want him to hear it, even though it’s only one word. “Yes.”

  I close my eyes and will myself to go to sleep, listening as his breathing labors then slows, listening to him drift off into blissful oblivion. If I try to talk to him now, I’ll say some things I don’t mean to say, and I don’t want to do that.

  Sleep comes easily.

  Three hours later, when she sun is creeping over the horizon and rays of it is coming through the spaces between the blinds, I wake up to a weight of an arm splayed over my waist. I look over to find Brody sleeping soundly.

  He snores a bit, which is actually really adorable. I grab his hand and lift it gingerly. Sitting up, I place his hand on the bed and climb out as quietly as possible. I don’t know when I decided I was going to sneak out of bed while he was sleeping like a thief in the night. But I’m doing it and out of his bedroom before I have the chance to think about it. Based on his schedule, he’ll be up in a little over an hour anyway. And after what happened yesterday, I’m certain he wouldn’t want to wake up next to me.

  Once I’m safely in my own bedroom, I close the door.

  I rush to my dresser drawer and pull out everything I’m going to need for the wedding this evening. I grab a strapless bra, my body wash, a thong, and then I head over to my closet to grab my towel. I tiptoe to the bathroom and turn on the water, sitting atop the extra space at the end of the bathtub while I wait for it to fill.

  I slip the liga off of my wrist and use it to tie my hair into a bun, deciding it’s best if I don’t wash it. It’ll be easier to style later on if it’s still dirty.

  There’s a bottle of lavender oil sitting on the edge, left from the last time Kelsey spent the night here. I could use an hour of relaxation before everyone else starts to stir and get up, plus I’ve got the grueling task of doing all the hair and makeup for the females who live in our house. It’s going to be hectic later today, so I may as well get my down time in now.

  I pour some of the oil into the rising bathwater and inhale deeply as the steam rises and the lavender scent mixes with it.

  Once it’s full, I turn the water off.

  I stand up, stripping out of my tank top, boy shorts, and underwear. I toss the clothes into my designated hamper, then slowly lower myself into the soothing water.

  Pulling my knees up to my chest, I rest my chin on my knees and try and solve the complicated puzzle that is Brody Durham.

  FOURTEEN

  SHE WASN’T IN MY BED when I woke up this morning.

  That’s all I can think about as I watch her dance with her family in the center of the backyard of her Tia Adrianna’s house. She’s so vibrant when she’s in her element. It’s clear she was meant to always be in Los Angeles, always meant to be surrounded with people who enjoy life as much as she does. The carefree smile on her face as she continues to dance to this Spanish music is enchanting. I don’t understand what’s being said, but I love it because of what it does to her.

  And let’s not even talk about the dress she’s wearing.

  It’s this weird bluish-greenish color, and it’s short as all Hell, ending just a few inches below her fantastic ass. It hugs every dip and curve of her body, clinging to her and fitting like a glove. High heels accentuate her long, perfectly toned legs—the result of years of sports, running, and discipline. Her hair cascades down her back in loose waves, and her smile…well, it’s bright enough to light the entire city of L.A.

  Things could have been awkward between us on the drive down here. However, she nipped that possibility in the bud when she volunteered to take the teen girls in her car, leaving room for me, Grace, Cason, and Mila in the Denali. I watched her every step from my spot in the backseat, ignoring the ache I felt at having to watch her walk away from me this time.

  Her cousin Cynthia was a beautiful bride, and the ceremony was short and sweet. I was thankful for Grace’s knowledge of the Spanish language, because she translated to English for me whenever it was necessary. The ceremony is at Cynthia’s mother’s house, and she hasn’t taken her eyes off her new husband all evening long.

  Every time I look at them, I can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to have Sabrina look at me like that.

  I glance at her in the middle of the crowd just in time to watch her stop dancing, lock eyes with some guy, and run over to him. She leaps into his arms and hugs him, and I immediately recognize him as the guy she was running with when I saw her at the park. I don’t like the way he holds her. I don’t like the way he looks at her. I don’t like the way he’s dancing with her, the way he has his hands on her waist like she’s his.

  She’s mine.

  She just doesn’t know it yet.

  Before I even contemplate what I’m doing, I’m pushing through the crowd, all formalities and niceties forgotten. Once I’m standing directly in front of her, she sees me from over his shoulder. Her eyes light up immediately as a smile grows on her face.

  “Mind if I cut in?” I ask him, tapping on his shoulder.

  He turns around to face me, one hand still resting lazily on her hip, and he looks to her for permission. A knowing glance is exchanged between them and his hand drops. He steps away from her and gives me an easy smile.

  “Sure thing, man. You take care of her.”

  I raise an eyebrow at her as she watches him walk away. I don’t wait for her gaze to meet mine. I don’t waste any time in pulling her toward me. Hungrily grabbing her hips, I drag her so she’s pressed against me. Not noticing the roughness with which I’ve grabbed her, she drapes her arms around my neck and rests her head on my chest. We don’t really move, don’t really dance. We’re kind of just standing here, swaying. I know we look ridiculous, because just a second ago she was enjoying herself. Now, she’s stilled, her vibrancy faded away with the guy she was just dancing with.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” I ask her.

  A small sigh escapes her lips. “No, there’s not. But I didn’t think I had to explain anything to you, honestly.”

  “The guy.”

  She leans her head back marginally, just enough to glare up at me. I love how she looks when she’s annoyed with me. But I hate how it feels. It
feels like I’ve failed somehow, like I’ve done something wrong. I hate putting that look on her face.

  “He’s no one.”

  Before she has the chance to lay her head back on my chest, I tip her chin up with my thumb and emit a low growl. “Don’t lie to me. I saw you running with him before. I saw how he held you…how you looked at each other.”

  She shakes her head and jerks it away from my touch like I’ve burned her.

  “He’s no one. Not that I owe you a damn thing.”

  Her words hurt more because the unspoken ones fall between us, another invisible wedge pushing us further apart.

  You’re the one who owes me something.

  I do. I owe her everything. An explanation, for starters. I owe her a better first kiss. I owe her a long night of passionate lovemaking, during which time we’ll both admit what we feel about each other, and she’ll go to sleep in my arms, sated and thoroughly fucked.

  She lays her head against my chest and wraps her arms around my waist as we continue to sway. I rest my chin atop her head, closing my eyes and reveling in being this close to her once more. Where I felt pain before at knowing I’d left her alone while she was hurting, it’s faded from an agonizing throb to a dull ache. I can’t get her close enough, can’t hold her tight enough. None of this is enough. I need more.

  “I just need to know one thing, Dove,” I murmur into her hair. She groans obnoxiously, but I let it slide because I really want to know what her answer will be to my question. Her answer determines how the remainder of the night is going to play out. “Is he the reason you weren’t there when I woke up this morning?”

  A tiny whimper escapes her lips, and it’s like she didn’t expect me to notice. Or care. But I do.

  She shakes her head against me. “No. That would be the jerk who kissed me, made me cry, and then walked away like nothing happened.”

  That’s all I needed to know. I have an effect on her. I make her squirm. If I’m a jerk, that means she cares about me enough to be mad at me. And that’s all I need now. To know I’m on her mind and whoever that guy was isn’t.