Brody kisses me on the lips. “He’d be a damn fool not to. You’re stunning, Sabrina.”
Heart fluttering, I grin up at him. “You’re not too bad yourself. I think saying that just earned you a round four, Mr. Durham.”
I squeal in excitement as he descends upon me once more.
…
WHEN WE GOT HOME, Sabrina didn’t even make it to her bedroom. She came straight to mine, stripped of her dress, and collapsed on my bed. We talked for a little bit, but I could tell the day’s events had worn on her. She’s lying on her stomach, a blanket draped over her lower half. She’s been in and out of sleep for the past couple hours. I’m not even sure which one it is right now.
I run my finger over the raised skin of her tattoo, admiring it up close not for the first time tonight.
“I could feel you watching me for the past ten minutes,” she mutters into the pillow. “But touching me when I’m not even awake to give my consent? You’re bordering on creeper status, dude.”
I laugh, but I don’t take my hands off her. Now that I know I have her, I want to touch her, look at her, admire her every chance I get. I can’t get enough of her, ever.
Sometimes I watch her when she doesn’t know I’m watching her. I get in these moments when I can’t help but stare at her, because I can’t believe that she’s here, that she’s mine.
Her long, midnight hair gets pulled to the side, revealing a bare shoulder.
“Why birds?” I ask, referring to her tattoo.
It’s an intricate piece: it’s a large black feather, and toward the tip of the feather, it fades out to a series of birds flying off. It’s beautiful. It suits her, but ever since I saw it for the first time a few hours ago, I’ve wondered why she got it.
She turns marginally and glances at me over her shoulder. “Freedom. I got birds in the hope that someday, I’d be free of the things that hurt me. That someday, when my wings are fixed, I can fly far away from this place.”
Wrapping my arms around her and pulling her against me, I press a kiss to her shoulder and sigh. “It’s a lovely sentiment, Dove, but your wing’s not broken, and neither are you. You never were.”
She buries her face into her pillow, and I lean over, resting my head on her back. I hope I haven’t said anything to upset her. Hell, I really suck at this whole ‘being together’ thing.
I rarely say the right thing. I rarely do the right thing. But I want to do right by Sabrina, and I don’t want to hurt her. I care so much about her but at the same time I hate the way she makes me feel. She makes me second guess myself three times as much as I normally do.
“Sabrina. Dove, are you okay?” I ask cautiously, preparing for the worst.
She nods into her pillow, says, “I’m fine,” and I groan.
I’m not totally fluent in girl speak, but I know these three things.
1. Silence is not golden. A girl will tell more with her silence than she ever will with her words.
2. ‘What?’ is not an invitation to repeat what you said. It’s her giving you an opportunity to correct it before she promptly slaps the shit out of you.
3. When she says ‘I’m fine’, she’s definitely not fine. And chances are, you did something to induce this feeling of not-fineness.
So yeah, I’m freaking the fuck out right now.
“I’m sorry—er, I apologize for hurting you,” I say, backtracking and trying to figure out what I could have said to hurt her feelings. Whatever it was, I want her to know I didn’t mean it.
She lifts her head from the pillow and glares at me over her shoulder. “What?”
Oh. Shit.
This is not good. This is actually going worse than I thought.
I’m still not quite clear on what it was that I did, but I’m going to try to fix it nonetheless. I don’t want to do anything to lose her when I just got her.
“I just…I can see you’re upset, and I wanted to apologize for whatever I said that hurt you. I didn’t mean to.”
She sits up, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes as she bursts out laughing. She bends completely forward and her laughter turns into hysterics. I’m just lying here wondering what the Hell is so funny.
I swear, I will never understand girls. Ever.
She stops laughing abruptly and faces me head on. In fact, she climbs onto my lap and leans back onto her heels. I hold her at arm’s length, not sure where any of this is about to go. I’d much rather be safe than sorry.
“Brody, you didn’t say anything to hurt me. I just…no one has ever said something like that to me before. I was just stunned.” I glance at her curiously and she nods. “My family and I have had a rough six months. It’s partially due to me, and partially due to my douchebag of an ex-boyfriend. It’s been tough, and I got the tattoo shortly after we broke up. It was my way of claiming my own freedom, I guess? Because I have felt broken. And wounded. And confined. I’ve been having one of those ‘I know why the caged bird sings’ moments for the past six months. But you’re the first person to say something like that and mean it.” She pauses. “You did mean it, didn’t you?”
Yeah, of course I meant it. She’s not broken at all.
Ever since the day I met her, she’s reminded me of Hercules. In the Disney version, he was always screwing things up because he didn’t know his own strength. He was stronger than he realized, and he moved on from his mediocre life because he finally realized he was meant for something greater. That’s Sabrina.
She walks around here being the backbone for everyone. I see it.
When her mother’s tired, Sabrina cooks dinner. When her siblings are stuck, she helps them with their homework. When something needs to get done, she does it. She’s so busy being strong for everyone else, she forgets to do it for herself sometimes.
I know she thinks I don’t notice how she cries into her pillow every night, and in the shower when she thinks no one’s around to listen.
She tries to be quiet about it, but I’m the master of suffering in silence. I found her out right away. I can feel her shaking beside me from the extent of her cries when she thinks I’m sleeping. When she rolls over and rests her head on my chest, I always flip her pillow over so she never ends up on the wet side. And I can just barely hear the sound of her sobbing over the stream of the water while she showers. The fact she holds all that in just so no one else has to see her in pain is beautiful, but it’s also incredibly sad.
“Of course I meant it, Sabrina. There’s a quiet strength in you. You think no one notices it, but I do.” I take her face between both of my hands, both loving and hating the feeling of tears rolling over my fingers. I hate it because I don’t want to see her cry, especially not on account of me. But I love it because she’s opening up to me and she doesn’t even know it. “I know I take advantage of you. I’m here because I needed help and you were in the position to help me. I have a ride wherever I need to go because you refuse to let me take public transportation. You sleep in my bed instead of your own because I literally can’t sleep without you. I just want you to know that I appreciate it, I do, but I’m here for you too. All this time, you’ve been my everything. All I’m asking is for you to let me be yours.”
A smile forms on her face through the slew of tears and she kisses me tenderly. With one hand resting on my cheek, she nods. “I’ll try.”
That’s all I needed to hear.
SIXTEEN
I’VE PULLED OUT ALL THE STOPS, or at least I’ve tried to. Mrs. Matteo agreed to let me use the Denali for the weekend. With her help, I made tortas for our date. I packed sparking cider, soda, chips, and various candies; I was unsure what she would like, so I got a little bit of everything.
An hour ago, she sent me a text message.
Dove: So, I’ve gathered we’re going on a date tonight. How shall I dress?
Me: Casual. Panties optional ;)
Dove: Down boy. I don’t kiss on the first date.
Me: Oh, you do more than that, and I ha
ven’t actually taken you on a date yet.
Dove: Touche, mofo. Tou-fucking-che.
I laugh again, reading them over for the fifth time today. I love when she plays around with me.
I pile all our stuff into the trunk of the car. Once I’m sure I have everything, I head outside.
Pulling the keys out my pocket, I climb into the driver’s seat. I turn the car on and pull out of the driveway. Making my way around the block about three times, I stop in front of the house and turn the car back off. Grabbing the flowers I bought her, I get out of the car and walk up the front porch steps. Taking a deep breath, I lift the knocker and slam it down three times. Taking a step back, I wait for someone to open the door.
Within a few moments, Bianca wrenches the door open. Taking in my stance and the flowers in my hand, she laughs.
“You guys are so weird together. I’ll go get Sabrina.” She closes the door in my face and then runs back and opens it once more. “Won’t you come in?”
I laugh, appreciative of the fact that she’s playing around with what I’m trying to do.
I want Sabrina to have one night where this doesn’t have to be our lives. Maybe I’m not the guardian of my two siblings trying to escape an abusive father, and maybe she’s not the girl who’s in the position to help me. I want her to feel like, just once, our relationship is different. If that means borrowing her parents’ car and pretending to pick her up, I’m willing to do it.
From my place in the foyer, I hear the precise moment when her bedroom door closes and she starts down the stairs. I watch every step she takes as the descends them, an ecstatic grin etched on her face.
“You look…wow.” I groan inwardly. I don’t know when my ability to speak correctly around girls vanished, but it’s apparent it has when it comes to Sabrina.
I drink in her appearance, from the lazy ponytail in her hair, to the flannel shirt she has tied instead of buttoned, to the short shorts showing off her legs, to the dark blue Chucks she wears, with the word ‘Eat’ on one of the white toes, and the word ‘Me’ on the other.
“What is with you and writing on your shoes?” I ask with an amused grin.
“It’s my way of giving people my messages without actually having to open my mouth.” She smiles shyly, because I know she knows I’m going to use that to my advantage later on. Her gaze travels to the flowers in my hands and her eyes light up. “Are those for me?”
I nod shyly, extending my hand to her.
She takes them and brings them up to her nose, closing her eyes and inhaling their scent.
She prances into the kitchen, presumably to put them in water. When she comes back to the foyer, she takes my arm. Wordlessly, I lead her out the front door. Her eyes widen when she sees the car, and she turns to stare at me, while at the same time swatting my arm.
“What the fuck? They let you drive the Denali? They’ve never even let me drive the Denali! You’ll have to let me take her for a spin just once before we come home tonight,” she says, releasing my arm and climbing into the car. I close the door behind her and she grins at me.
Walking around the front of the car, I take a steadying breath before I climb in.
As I drive off, I grin. “What’s your middle name?”
I don’t even have to look at her to know she’s raising her eyebrows at me. My question came out of nowhere, and I never really asked her anything personal before. I realize I’ve done everything all backwards, screwing her first, taking her on a date and getting to know her second. I suppose I’m trying to make up for that.
“Yarida, why? What’s yours?”
“Michael. What’s your favorite color?”
I sense her grin. “Green.”
Nodding, I continue our drive. “Mine’s red.” Pausing, I turn onto a small residential street. “Favorite movie?”
“When Harry Met Sally. You?”
I smile at her. “The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King.”
She laughs, loudly, and my heart swells with adoration at the way that sound affects me. “Dork.”
“You like it, and you know it.”
Her laughter ceases. “A little bit.”
We drive in silence for a couple of blocks before I start asking more questions. “What’s your favorite song?”
“Okay, what up with all the questions?”
I shrug.
I glance at her momentarily when we approach a red light. “Before my mom died, she gave me a bunch of phenomenal advice. The first piece she gave me was to never fall in love with someone who didn’t care what my favorite song was. And she followed that up with, ‘And if you don’t care what her favorite song is, you dump her as soon as possible because she’s not the one for you. There’s no point wasting time with someone if they’re not The One.’” I laugh at the memory, because I was only twelve, and I wasn’t thinking about soul mates or The One or anything like that. I was thinking about how I was going to give my mother all the memories she was going to miss in the few months she had left. “The last piece of advice she gave me was to never buy a girl roses. Hence the peonies.” I pause, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel. “So. Favorite song.”
She’s silent for a long time, and I wonder if she’s even listening. I happen to peer over at her for a moment, and I catch her wiping a tear from her eye.
“Non-Believer by La Rocca,” she whispers. She takes my hand and pulls it into her lap, clasping it between both of hers. “I’m sorry to hear about your mom. How did…how did you lose her?”
This part’s easy. My mom is my favorite subject to talk about. She was vibrant, beautiful, phenomenal. All my best memories from childhood were because of her. Because she smiled through her pain and laughed through her tears. And she made sure what time we did have with her was memorable.
“Cancer. First it was in her breast when I was eight. But she went into remission and stayed that way for three years. It came back, spread like wildfire, and finally took her just after my twelfth birthday.”
She nods, squeezing my hand. “Did she try to fight?”
I nod in response. “She fought as hard as she could for as long as she could.”
I realize this is the first serious thing I’ve told her in the short amount of time we’ve known each other.
“That sucks, Brody. But at least your mom was brave. I’m not sure I can say the same for mine.”
This strikes me as odd. I’ve watched her interact with her mother. I’ve seen firsthand how close they are. They talk about everything, there are no secrets between the two, especially not now that we’re together.
“What do you mean?” I ask cautiously, wanting to broach the subject as carefully as possible.
“My mom died, too,” she whispers. I must go rigid or something because she sighs. “Ana’s not my biological mother. She’s my stepmother. My mother’s name was Catalina, and she committed suicide when I was four.”
Pulling into the parking lot where the first half of our date is meant to take place, I turn the car off. I turn to look at her.
“I’m sorry, Dove. That’s…that’s rough.”
She shakes her head. “Nah, don’t be. There’s nothing valiant or brave about taking your own life, about removing yourself from your children’s lives permanently and on purpose when I’m sure your mother would have given anything for just one more day with you. And it’s funny, I didn’t realize until this precise moment how pissed I am at mine for being so selfish.” Shaking her head again, she releases a haughty laugh. “I guess we have something to bond over, now. I was beginning to think you only liked me because we have good sex.”
“We have great sex,” I point out. “And I liked you before I knew that.”
She releases my hand and unbuckles her seat belt.
“What’s your favorite song?” she asks in a low voice.
“Home Sweet Home by Motley Crue.”
With those words I get out of the car, close the door, and walk over to her side. I open the
door for her and take her hand as she climbs out. She pulls down her shorts and looks up at the sign of the place we’re at.
Harlow Uncaged was one of my favorite places to come as a kid. Mom would bring me twice a week before I tried out for Little League, and she’d talk to me and coach me through every session.
I haven’t played sports since junior year, after a particularly rough showdown with my dad left my throwing arm all out of whack. I sometimes get in on the games at the park or play one-on-one basketball with Colin, but besides that, I won’t even pick up a ball.
Today, though, considering the fact Sabrina’s an athlete and so am I, I figured we could do something fun, and on neutral ground. Plus, it’s like letting her see, firsthand, a little piece of my childhood. I get to kill two birds with one stone.
“What the Hell is Harlow Uncaged?” she asks.
“Come inside, and you shall see,” I reply.
Taking her hand and intertwining it with mine, I lead her inside. I pay for our admission and scope out an empty cage for us to sit at. I affix a helmet on my own head and help Sabrina maneuver hers over her ponytail.
“Batting cages? Really? This is the best first date ever.”
The excitement in her tone is more than enough to make me happy. As long as I know she’s enjoying this night so far, I don’t care what else happens. I watch as she picks a bat, and then I do the same.
“Every time you miss a hit, you have to tell me something about yourself. Every time you make one, I have to tell you something about myself. And vice versa, when I’m up to bat.”
She grins at me, taking her stance at the fake plate. She looks incredible, and her sculpted ass calls to me from beneath those shorts. Watching her, about to engage in an activity involved with my favorite sport, makes me want to carry her right out of this place, and to the Denali so I can have my way with her again.
“Why do you wanna know so much about me anyhow?” Sabrina asks.
“I like you. I want to know what things make you happy, and what things make you sad. I want to know what infuriates you and I want to know what touches your soul like nothing else can. Maybe a little competition can help spin it so we know everything there is to know about each other.”
Unbroken Page 14