The Broken One (The One Series Book 1)

by Selene Maxley

  No one in the meeting seemed to have any preconceived notions about me, so perhaps he didn’t say anything. That’s the thing about working in any office: When a guy bags the new girl, he’s a rock star. Meanwhile, the girl is a slut, or only took the job to find a husband, or is looking for the fastest promotion, or whatever other terrible thing people can think up. My favorite part about this double standard is that it’s often the women in the office that are the most ruthless in spreading the gossip and attaching the labels.

  Jealousy and hate are so unbecoming.

  “So how long have you lived in Tucson?” Tyler asks, drawing my attention back to him.

  We’re at the elevator, and I bump the up button with my hip, vaguely aware that everyone but John is with us. “I moved here last Sunday.”

  “But they didn’t pick you for the job until Wednesday?” Steve clarifies.

  “They didn’t. My lease was up, and I was ready for something new. If KSC hadn’t chosen me, I would have found something else.”

  “So, you have family here?” Tyler asks, and I can tell he is a person who plays it so safe. Its unfathomable to him that someone would move across the country alone, with no safeguard.

  “I don’t.”

  “Boyfriend?” he asks.

  I give him a pointed look, arching my brow.

  He picks up what I’m putting down and changes his approach. “Why did you pick Tucson?”

  Tyler is a very curious guy.

  I really don’t want to tell them the truth, but I hate lying and I don’t think my reason is that crazy.

  “My computer at my last job had a photo of a different place in the world every few days,” I say as the doors ding open and we all step inside. “The day I got the paperwork to renew my lease, the photo changed to an amazing sunset full of oranges swirling into blues and purples. I’d never seen anything like it in real life, so I clicked the button that told me where it was and found a rental home.”

  “You moved here because of a picture?” Booker asks at the same time Tyler asks, “You hadn’t even applied for the job yet?”

  “No, Tyler. There are no coincidences; sometimes you just need to trust your instincts. Everything goes my way ... eventually. It may not always be exactly the way I think it will, but things always work out. Why did you move here, Booker?” I ask, trying not to sound interested. I can feel him behind me, but I don’t turn my head to look at him.

  “To take care of my mom before she passed.” His voice is sad, and there is a pain I know well in it. Too well. I hate these moments and am thankful I haven’t looked at him.

  The elevator doors have opened again, and we’re all stepping out onto the fifth floor.

  “I’m sorry man, that sucks!” Tyler says with a slap on Booker’s back, and Steve adds, “I didn’t realize she had passed. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  These are the things people always say, and they make it uncomfortable. People don’t know what to say, and there is a basic human need to try and make it better for the ones left behind. To make sense of loss, to add reason, justification, whine that it isn’t fair, say they’re in a better place, ask what they can do, etc. Anything that they think may ease the pain. We all know the truth. The reason people die is because they must. When, where, and how are just details we need to get over. Everyone will leave you eventually, whether by choice or not, and there is no way to ease the pain.

  I often wonder if I’m the only person who truly understands the last bit.

  “What kept you here after?” I don’t know if my change of subject is a relief to Booker, as it would be to me, but a small part of me hopes that he knows I’m not dismissing his pain.

  “The sunsets,” he says, walking into his office and closing the door behind him.

  Chapter 8

  I don’t understand the panic that fills me.

  I’m running, but I’m not sure where I’m headed or what I’m leaving. I cannot see through the darkness.

  I can feel something behind me, but I hear nothing. When I look over my shoulder, I stumble. As I right myself, the silent stalking behind me gets closer, and I pick up speed.

  I hope I see a light soon.

  The darkness is beginning to take on weight. It grows heavier with each step, making it harder to run. I won’t be able to keep up this pace much longer. The heavy air is thick; my lungs can’t take it in.

  I know the pain is coming.

  When I snap awake, sweat has matted my hair to my face, and I’m breathing so hard that I begin to see stars. The adrenaline coursing through my veins tells me I won’t be going back to sleep tonight. The clock on my phone reads 3 a.m., and I sigh as I realize I don’t need to be at the office for another five hours. I decide that if I’m going to be up anyway, I might as well be properly awake, so I head for the kitchen. My cold brew coffee maker takes about 20 minutes to brew, so I get it started and head to the shower.

  After I have showered, I collect my phone and head back to the kitchen for my coffee. I settle in at the breakfast bar with some of the documents I brought home to review over the weekend, but I realize quickly that I’m not quite ready to work. Instead, I call Josh. It’s almost 7 a.m. in the Midwest, so he’ll probably be getting ready for work.

  When Josh doesn’t answer, I listen to the entire greeting on his voicemail before I hang up. His voice soothes me, but I hate leaving messages almost as much as I hate receiving them.

  I’m still not ready to work, so I decide to settle myself on the couch, put on an episode of The Office, and finish my coffee before I dive in.

  One episode quickly turned into three, in the way that sort of thing happens, and when my phone starts to ring, I’m surprised that it’s already 5 a.m. An unknown number is calling me, and I answer, wondering if Josh got a new number again.

  “Josh?”

  I hear an annoyed voice on the other end of the line, “What? No. It’s Booker, from KSC.”

  “Oh.” I’m surprised and wonder aloud, “How did you get my number?”

  “From the office, obviously. Look, we had something come up. We’ve got a few new shops on the line that’re almost ready to bite, so Keisler wants us to go to Phoenix today and close the deals.”

  “Okay. Who all has to go, and what time do we need to leave?”

  “It’s just you and me, and we need to leave soon. If I give you the address, can you meet me there at seven?”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” I reply, and then I remember that I don’t have a car. “Wait! Booker, I haven’t bought a car yet. You may need to go without me, and I can conference in.”

  Booker lets out an audible sigh. “That isn’t going to work. John said we both have to go. You can ride with me. Text me your address, and I’ll pick you up in 20 minutes.” He disconnects the call before I can object.

  Realizing my options are pretty much zero, I click the number on my screen and compose the message as I fly back to my closet. I have 20 minutes to be ready, and I’m standing in my robe with damp hair and no makeup on. I’m screwed. I throw on a cream-colored silk blouse and hop into a pair of navy, high-waisted, wide-legged slacks.

  By the time Booker rings the doorbell, I’ve managed to brush my teeth and my hair, and I am filling my tumbler with ice water for the ride.

  “Come in!” I yell from the kitchen without thinking. Classy.

  Booker comes in and closes the door behind him, not stepping in further. He appears disappointed as his eyes sweep over the living room. “This is way different than I expected,” he says in a way that makes me want to reevaluate every detail. It’s unusual for me to feel self-conscious, but I do now. My eyes scan the room, assessing it from the view of an outsider seeing it for the first time.

  I’d told the complex manager I wanted comfortable furniture that looked modern. The walls are all painted in neutral colors, and although I was told I could repaint them, I have opted not to. Instead, I’ve added one impasto painting to each room—originals, by art
ists I discovered online. I know I’m not supposed to, but I love running my hands over them. The one he is looking at now is nothing but waves of brilliant greens crashing over each other endlessly in paint so thick, every spatula mark is evident.

  “I call it the nostalgic sea, but I don’t know what its real name is,” I tell him, unsure why I’m explaining anything at all. Before he can respond, I step into my bedroom to grab my tote and a hair tie. When I return, Booker hasn’t moved, and he is looking slightly uncomfortable.

  “Would you like anything to drink for the road? I have another YETI, though you’ll need to be okay with teal or purple,” I say, gesturing toward the travel mugs on the kitchen island.

  “I guess water would be nice, thank you.”

  I set my tote on the island and fill a purple tumbler with ice and water. When I turn back, Booker has my tote and water and is walking toward the door. Taking the hint, I follow quickly behind him, swiping my phone from the couch and my keys from the bowl next to the door on my way out.

  A black BMW X6 is parked in my driveway with the engine running and Booker behind the wheel. When I sit in the passenger seat, I can’t help but notice the luxuriousness of the car’s cabin. The leather is soft, and there is plenty of room for my long legs, which get cramped in some vehicles. “Maybe I should buy one of these,” I say. I know I won’t, vehicles are a terrible investment. When I do buy a car, it’ll be older, and I’ll pay cash for it. Something under ten thousand dollars.

  “You’re too old not to have a vehicle,” he says disapprovingly. “How have you gotten to work for the last week?”

  “I’m 26, and that has nothing to do with why I don’t have a vehicle. I didn’t need one where I lived before.”

  “Where was that?” he asks, and I can tell he’s genuinely interested. This is the most we’ve spoken since the morning I bit his head off in my office. There were two more meetings last week, and in both, Booker spoke as little as possible and refused to look at me when he did. I’m surprised he picked me up today. Maybe he has a plan to drop me alongside I-10 somewhere to be kidnapped by the coyotes.

  When I glance over at Booker, I realize I haven’t answered him. “Oh, sorry. Chicago, how about you? Where are you from?”

  “You grew up in Chicago?” he asks, ignoring my question.

  “No, it’s where I lived last year.”

  “I see. What was before Chicago?”

  We hit I-10 West, and I see that the road is the same in daylight as I observed my first night in Arizona. My phone starts to ring, and I can feel my face light up when I see the word Bro on my screen. I slide my finger across the phone to answer the call, but a sudden glare on the screen makes me hit the wrong icon. The next thing I know, Josh’s voice is booming through the phone’s speaker.

  “Casper!! How you been?!”

  I laugh at the nickname my brother gave me when I was little. I’ve always secretly loved it; it meant I was one of the boys. It meant he would keep me, and I could love him. It was everything.

  “Hey, Josh! I’m great! How are you?” My face is stretching in a way that it hasn’t in a while. Josh is my soft spot; it doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing, hearing his voice makes me smile so big it hurts. I gladly accept the headache that typically follows our conversations from all of the smiling and laughing. I never take anything for it, it’s the type of dull ache that has a sweetness to it, reminding me of our childhood together. Laughing so hard we cry at jokes that no one else will ever get, jokes that were probably never funny anyway.

  Josh replies, “I can’t complain. We rained out of work and I saw that I missed your call, so I thought I’d try to catch you.”

  “I’m actually going to Phoenix on a special project today,” I tell him. I’m feeling self-conscious in front of Booker for the second time this morning, although this time it’s because I can feel his eyes on me while I’m talking to Josh. “Hey, my phone is messing up and you’re coming through the speaker. Do you mind if I give you a call later?”

  “Wait, when did you go to Arizona?” he asks, and a wave of guilt hits me.

  “I’ve been here for two weeks, I meant to tell you.”

  “You moved to Arizona?” he asks, and the hurt in his voice is so palpable, I can feel it filling my throat. He adds, “I would have helped you, why didn’t you call me?”

  “You know I don’t take much with me, I didn’t need to bother anyone. I really do have to go, Josh. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “No problem. Stop at the store and buy a new phone on your way home. That one has been on the fritz for too long, and we’re tired of it being your excuse.” He says it with a laugh, but I know he’s serious.

  “You’re right, I will.”

  “Love you, bro,” he says.

  “You, too,” I say, and I’m grateful when he ends the call so I don’t have to struggle with the screen.

  I set my phone on the dash and reach for a contract out of my tote to create a buffer between Booker and myself. I can feel his eyes on me again, and I know he has more questions.

  “You have a brother,” Booker says, and it’s more of a statement than a question.

  “I do.”

  “You didn’t tell your family that you moved,” he says, and again, it isn’t a question.

  “You obviously heard the conversation, so you don’t need to give me a replay of it.”

  “Okay,” he rephrases, “why didn’t you tell your family that you were moving?”

  “I don’t like to cause them unnecessary stress,” I say without elaborating.

  “Why does he call you Casper?”

  “You should have asked him.”

  Booker reaches for my phone, saying, “Let’s call him back up.”

  Snatching my phone, I stuff it into my bag and sigh, “I don’t know why he started calling me that. It drove our mom nuts. I love that nickname, though. He would introduce me to his friends as his little brother, Casper. Josh is the only one who calls me that,” I can feel myself rambling, but I can’t seem to stop. “When we were little, I wasn’t like the other girls. I liked quads, catching snakes, shooting guns. Basically, anything my brother was doing, I wanted to do. I loved being one of the boys. When I became a teenager, I got a little more girly, but I stayed one of the boys. It created a buffer so that the guys I went to school with didn’t try to date me.”

  “I sincerely doubt that it was as effective as you say,” he says, and I see him relax in the seat next to me. It feels nice to tell that little story. It warms me and makes me miss home all at the same time. I don’t make it a habit to talk about things that make me feel, and I’m desperate for a change of subject when I see the sign for the ostrich farm ahead. Random, but I’ll take it. “Have you ever been there?” I ask.

  “No, I can’t say that I have. My free time has been pretty limited since I got here last year.”

  Shit.

  I didn’t think about what his time here has been like. Instead of saying anything, I pull open the mirror on my visor and do a quick evaluation. My face is okay. I moisturized when I first got out of the shower, but I didn’t have time for blush, so I’m a little washed out. Thank god for eyelash extensions. The best part about them is that they make you look halfway done even when you’ve just rolled out of bed. Since I got them a year ago, I always feel like my grey eyes pop a little brighter. The worst thing about them is the maintenance.

  “You aren’t going to ask about it, are you?” Booker asks me, and his voice is unreadable.

  I look away from the mirror to study his face for a moment. He’s staring at the road and there’s a tension around his eyes. I see a small flex in his jaw and wonder if that’s pain or stress. His face is all angles and hard lines that seem to be the very definition of masculinity. I’m not sure what to say, so I tell him exactly that. “I’m not sure what to say. All I want in your situation is for people to move on to another subject and leave me alone, so that’s what I’m doing.”

/>   “I hate when people tell me what they would want in my situation. You have no idea what you would want in my situation,” Booker says with a little venom in his voice.

  I stare at his face, contemplating. I’m not sure why I want him to know that we have this in common, but I do. It can’t hurt to talk about Before, just this once.

  “I didn’t say all I would want, I said all I want.”

  His eyes are on mine then, searching. There isn’t pity, not yet.

  “My mother died when I was a child,” I say it cold, like it means nothing. Callous Caspian, my dead mother mask.

  I needed Callous through school, when everyone knew my story. A story I didn’t want anyone to know. Questions I didn’t want to answer. Pity I didn’t want to see. The easiest way to escape it was to make each person more uncomfortable than they made me. Callous was born with my first dead mother joke and the realization that if I made them laugh and/or cry, they would never ask again. Callous is the keeper of my dark sense of humor, and I can slip in and out of her with the blink of an eye. She’s the perfect crime, the one they never see coming.

  Traffic has stopped, and Booker’s eyes continue to bore into mine like a tanker trying to hit oil. The eyes really are the windows to the soul, which is why I hate when people try to look through mine. I return my eyes to the mirror and continue my evaluation before they can fill. I’m not sure what is happening to me. I haven’t cried over my mother since the day she died. I don’t even remember crying at the funeral. Did I?

  I know I’ve made a mistake allowing myself to crack open the door, and before I can stop it, my mind pushes me all the way through.

  I land in a small room not much larger than a closet. Next to me is an old cardboard box with a few worn-out toys inside. I am holding a doll in my arms. My hands are small, like a child’s, but I see with my own adult eyes.

  The doll feels strange. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing with it.

  Another little girl sits across from me, but I can’t see her face, only her navy dress.

  I’m taken away from the toy box to the room I don’t want to be in. Flowers are everywhere, all around me, flowers on me, flowers blind me. The is room full of eyeless, mouthless, fleshy faces. Faces I do not know. When the faces take shape, they are twisted with anguish.