The Broken One (The One Series Book 1)

by Selene Maxley

  “It’s probably your phone, if you want to grab the door.”

  Expecting to find a delivery person, I open the front door and find myself face-to-face with a brunette. The brunette. Her eyes bulge, and my mouth drops open a little, so I attempt to cover my surprise with a pleasant greeting. “Hello. Booker, it’s not a delivery! It’s for you!”

  “Who the hell are you?” Without waiting for an answer, she pushes the door open and brushes past me. She meets Booker halfway down the hallway as he hurries out of the kitchen. “Is this Caspian?” she demands, pointing at me like the guilty party in a police lineup.

  “Yes, I told you I had to help her last night,” Booker responds calmly. “What are you doing here, Stephanie?”

  I thought it wasn’t serious. How does she know where he lives?

  “I just thought that the way you left things was really disrespectful, so I wanted to come over and chat. Now I can see why you were so abrupt. By ‘help her,’ ” Stephanie slows down and emphasizes those last two words with air quotes, “you meant help her find your bed.”

  He found my bed, if we’re splitting hairs. Something about this woman brings out the worst in Alexis. I ignore her once again and opt instead for Unshakeable Caspian, a far safer choice under the circumstances.

  “Excuse me?” I hear a voice call through the open door. I turn to see it’s the delivery man with my phone.

  “Thank you so much!” I quickly sign his slip and take hold of the package, relieved to have a way out of this mess. I close the door and slip silently down the hallway while Stephanie lets off on Booker.

  In the bedroom, I unbox the phone and press the power button, stuffing all of my things back into my duffle as the screen lights up. I can hear Booker apologizing, and then I hear him say, “Just because you know where I live doesn’t mean you can show up here without calling first. We went on two dates, and you’re right, I handled the conversation poorly last night. I’ll own that. The fact is, I appreciate everything you did for my mother, but we’re not right for each other, and I don’t want to mislead you.”

  I move to the bathroom, close the door, and turn on the water to drown out the rest of their conversation while I download my information from the cloud. After a few minutes, my phone is up to date, and I order a car. When I turn the water off and come out of the bathroom, I can hear they are still talking, and wish I could think of a way to leave without being noticed. I spot the window, and after a moment of consideration, I decide the questions he’ll have for me will be worse if I don’t just leave like a normal human.

  I take a deep breath, walk to the front door, and address them both. “My phone is here, so I’ve ordered a car back to my apartment. Booker, thank you for letting me stay, you have a really lovely home.”

  “Wait, you don’t need to leave. I’m making breakfast, and your maintenance guy won’t be able to fix your AC until this afternoon,” Booker says, stepping after me.

  “I think you have your hands full,” I tell him, glancing over his shoulder to the scowling brunette. I refocus on him and see my car pulling up out of the corner of my eye. “Thanks again, Booker.”

  Chapter 20

  Booker called me Saturday afternoon to ask if my AC was fixed. After Friday evening, I decided the best way to move forward is to pretend everything is normal, with one exception: I’m going to respond to his messages and answer his calls. It seems like ignoring them was only doing more harm than good. The conversation replays in my mind:

  Me: Hello?

  Booker: Hey, I was just calling to see if your AC is fixed?

  Me: Yeah, the guy just finished.

  Booker: Is it cooled off yet?

  Me: Almost.

  Booker: You shouldn’t have left.

  Awkward Pause

  Booker: Stephanie left right after you did.

  Silence

  Booker: I’m sure it looked really bad, but she took care of my mom before she died, that’s how she knew where I lived.

  Me: I’m glad your mother had someone like that.

  Booker: Me, too. That doesn’t excuse how she acted. I’m sorry it upset you.

  Me: It didn’t.

  Booker: Then why did you leave?

  Me: Because my phone arrived, and you guys had stuff to work out.

  Booker: What about last night?

  Me: I’m sorry I woke you.

  Booker: That’s not what I mean.

  This time I can sense he isn’t going to break the silence.

  Me: You were really kind. Thank you for being a good friend.

  Booker: Friend? Do you lay on top of all of your friends when you sleep?

  Me: I usually just sleep with them in bars.

  He makes a sound that indicates he doesn’t think my joke is funny.

  Me: Hey, I gotta go. I’ll see you Monday.

  Booker: Yeah, I get it.

  Our conversation gave me a little relief in that he hadn’t misrepresented his relationship with her, but the way I ended the phone call erected another barrier between Booker and me. Our interactions at work this week have bounced all over the zone between how we acted the first week in the office and how we acted on Friday after I realized he just wants to be friends. I don’t know what the hell to make of Saturday. It felt like more, but that just doesn’t make sense.

  Last night I had a different kind of dream than the usual dark nightmare scenario. I was back home visiting my After family. We were all in my parents living room, laughing about something strange, and everyone was paired up. Even me. I couldn’t see a face, but I felt an arm over my shoulder, and I was content. I woke up feeling different today. Feeling ... hopeful?

  “Why do you look like that?” Booker’s voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I close my eyes, sighing. I feel him take the seat next to me at the terminal.

  “I guess I should have expected this,” I say without opening my eyes. I’m wearing someone new. A sort of half-hearted Veronica. She’s wearing new boots carefully selected to match the new look—feminine, black, flat-heeled combat boots with little buckles placed between my heel and my calf. It’s been years since I made a new mask, and I think part of me is hoping I can create a new me along with her. Not immediately, but perhaps I can slowly let go a little and get to something real.

  A tamer blond mane flows down my back, mini braids wound throughout. My lips are painted with Exclusive Realness, a subtle reference to my renewed exploration of authenticity, and my liner is a mild cat eye, heavier than Career Caspian but not as dramatic as Veronica. I’m wearing navy canvas pants with a subtle harem style, tapered from just below the knee to just above the ankle with little buckles securing the fabric. They aren’t quite in style anymore, but I had them custom made when it was the style. My white, cotton, deep-V-neck T-shirt is an homage to Alexis because sometimes I want to be sexy without it being a means to an end.

  “You look … different. What’s her name?”

  I’m not sure why I think it’s funny that he knows to ask, but I do. I laugh my response, “Anne.”

  Boarding is beginning, and Booker stands when they call first class, looking back expectantly.

  “I board last,” I tell him, scowling at the line that has already formed. I don’t see this part of my personality changing.

  He sets his bag back down and sits next to me again, saying, “Yes, well, god forbid you have to wait in a line.”

  “It isn’t as much about the line as it is about the complete disregard for personal boundaries. As if standing nuts-to-butts will get them on the plane faster.”

  The line has backed up almost to our seat, and a woman toward the back shoots me a dirty look when her small child asks, “What’s ‘nuts to butts?’ ”

  “Do you mind?” she hisses.

  “Not at all,” I tell her with a smile and a wink.

  “I’m sorry,” Booker says, throwing a disappointed look at me.

  “You can’t apologize for someone that doesn’t belong to you,” I tell
him. “You can only apologize for your kids, and maybe for a disruptive scene you make with a partner.”

  “Why are you being rude?” Booker asks.

  “Anne,” I say, gesturing to myself.

  “So, she’s an excuse to be a jerk?”

  “She’s new. I don’t think that’s her purpose.”

  “What is her purpose?”

  “I’m still figuring that out,” I tell him.

  “I’d think this would be the time you actually do want to spill your guts,” he says thoughtfully.

  “Why is that?”

  “This is the one time you can say anything, and it won’t matter because you’ll never see them again,” he tells me.

  “Ahh, like maybe I can say such horrible things that they’ll never talk to a stranger on a plane again. I’d never receive the thank you cards I deserve from their future seat-mates, but I’d know they existed,” I say wistfully.

  “Or you could just be a normal human, and not have some elaborate plan.”

  “If you wanted a normal experience, you would have flown in with Tyler and the rest of the guys,” I tell him simply.

  “I guess so,” he sighs.

  We sit silently watching the other passengers board until the flight attendant calls for final boarding, and Booker follows me as I make my way toward our plane. I’m struck by the memory of my last flight and the daydream it triggered. I look at Booker’s face as we take our seats, and the thought of him never seeing his daughter again feels wrong. I look around at the other occupants and think of all of them not seeing their families again. I think of me not seeing my family again.

  My chest tightens, and I know the ridiculous fantasy about my reaction would never be reality. It seems my brain is shifting away from rationality and toward something devastating: I’m beginning to think with my heart. I find myself watching the couple in front of us. Booker didn’t get the first row because I forgot to mention it. He also got an afternoon flight instead of morning, so the sun is beating into the window I’m seated by. I gave Booker the aisle in case he needs to get out.

  The couple in front of us looks happy. They’re chatting softly, smiling and laughing through their excitement over their trip. I make out that they’re getting married in Vegas and think of Josh, a surge of emotions filling me. Excitement, happiness, and perhaps the most overwhelming: guilt. I pull out my phone and send him a quick text message:

  Me: I’m sorry I’m such a shit. I’m so happy that you found your person and can’t wait to meet her next time I’m home. Have you set a date yet? My plane is getting ready to take off, so my response will be delayed. I love you.

  Josh: Who is this?

  Me: haha

  Josh: TY Casper. Can’t w8 4 u 2 meet her. When ru coming home? Thinking nxt year 4 wedding. <3 u 2.

  Me: I don’t know yet, but I miss you all. I WILL call you this weekend.

  I flip my phone to airplane mode and stick it in my bag. When I return my eyes to the couple, she’s got her head resting on his shoulder, and he kisses her hair. The half-conscious memory of Booker’s lips in my hair surfaces. I don’t think that was a dream, and a new feeling is filling my chest that I can’t quite name. It’s spreading up into my throat, and it aches. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Booker watching me, so I turn to stare out the window until I can get a grip on myself.

  Chapter 21

  There is a loaded tension between Booker and I as we step off the elevator onto our floor. “The rest of our team is in the other tower,” Booker tells me, and I feel a little of the weight of this dissolve.

  “What time do they arrive?” I ask, my mind working through the tangled web of feelings.

  “In about an hour. Their flight gets in at six, and we’re all supposed to rendezvous in the conference room at eight tomorrow to set it up for the meetings that start at ten.”

  He stops at his room, which is right next to mine. We each slide our keycards and open our doors, pausing before we step inside our rooms. I know he’s left the ball in my court, so I step into my room first, letting the door swing closed behind me. After I put my things away and pull my hair into a high ponytail, I plop myself onto the bed.

  I’m wavering in my resolve. The last several weeks have made me think of having more. I think of the couple on the plane, how happy they looked. I think of my parents, happily married for 35 years. Of Josh, in love and planning a wedding. Of Ceil’s budding new romance with the lumberjack. I think of waking up with Booker’s hand in my hair, my face on his chest. I think of trying something different, something more.

  My feet know my mind before I do, because I’m looking at Booker’s door, my hand raised to knock. Drawing in a deep breath, I tap twice.

  “There’s a place called Secret Pizza somewhere downstairs, are you hungry?” Good plan, Caspian.

  “Yeah, that sounds good. I’ve heard of it before,” Booker says. “I think I know where it is. Hold on.” The door closes for a moment, and I can hear him rummaging around. When he re-emerges, he has his wallet and his keycard in his hand.

  We fall into step next to each other, and when we’re at the elevator, I hit it with my hip. I’m surprised by the little boop sound my mouth makes and I catch the small that smile spreads over his face. “I like this version of you better,” he tells me.

  “Which one is that?”

  “The one without the calculated outfits. The one with bare fingernails,” he says, picking up my hand with his and brushing his thumb over my bare nails. He continues, “The one from the burger place, without all of the pretenses.”

  I’m considering this for a moment. When the elevator doors open, I tell him, “I guess it’s okay to be unpolished sometimes.”

  We step inside, and Booker presses the button for the floor we’re looking for. “I think you should try it more. You can’t wear that outfit to the meeting tomorrow, but people should see this side of you.”

  “I prefer to control the narrative,” I confide.

  “Control is an illusion. The sooner you accept that, and let go, the better life gets,” he responds, looking at my eyes in a way I haven’t seen before.

  “I let go all the time.”

  “Running isn’t letting go,” he tells me, gesturing for me to exit the elevator before him when the doors open.

  We walk down a long hall, crossing paths with only a few people along the way. I think about what he’s said for a few paces, unsure of how to move forward. If I’m going to try something real, something true, something more, I decide I’ll need to loosen my hold on my filter. So, I say the most honest thing I’m thinking, “Leaving is the most difficult way to let go. It’s a sacrifice that saves everyone more pain later.”

  “I disagree,” he tells me simply.

  “Let’s move on from this,” I sigh. We won’t agree, and the only way for me to make him see that is to start a fight. To be honest, it’s a fight I don’t want to have out loud. There’s a seed of doubt that I can’t acknowledge without losing everything.

  “I think it’s important to discuss the difficult stuff,” he says.

  “I’m trying to find common ground with you, Book. I can see the end of this conversation already, and I don’t think it’s productive to what we’re trying to accomplish.”

  “What are we trying to accomplish?”

  “I don’t know,” I sigh. “But it isn’t that.”

  “Okay. Let’s try something easier,” he suggests. I nod, and he goes on. “Do you have a favorite color?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe teal today. What is yours?” I respond.

  “It’s gray.”

  “It’s always gray?” I ask, doubtful. How can anyone always love the same thing?

  “For years it was blue, but now it’s gray. Do you have a favorite food?”

  “Mexican food. Most of the time it’s tacos, but sometimes enchiladas. Nachos if that’s more convenient.”

  “Well you’ve moved to the right place,” he tells me.
/>   “Yeah, I guess so. You can get Mexican food anywhere, though.”

  “Not like this,” he tells me, turning down another long hall. Up ahead, I can see a few people standing in a line. That must be the pizza place I read about.

  “Tell me about Josh,” he says. We both know he’s throwing me a bone here.

  “Josh is the best. He’s always funny, but never in a mean way. He’s humble and modest without being self-deprecating. I always feel like people who are self-deprecating are begging for someone else to build them up, and I can’t stand that. He’s just proposed to his girlfriend, and I haven’t met her yet, but she must be amazing if he’s made that leap.”

  “How old is he?” he asks, keeping the conversation moving.

  “He just turned 30, we’re about four years apart.”

  We’ve reached the front of the short line, and it’s time to order. Turns out this isn’t a place you sit down and put in traditional orders; they constantly have pizzas ready, and you either buy by the slice or buy a whole pie. Booker asks if I like pepperoni, and soon we’re back in his room with a pepperoni pie that smells so good I could rub it on my body.

  On the way back upstairs, we established that Booker has a couple of distant relatives in Illinois and has been thinking about moving back after this project.

  “What about the outside of the house?” I ask, remembering that he still has a lot of work to do there.

  “Stucco requires a specialized skill. I’m pretty handy, so I thought I could do it, but I learned quickly that I overestimated my abilities.”

  “So, you’re going to hire it out?”

  He nods and puts the television on while we eat our Secret Pizza on the bed, and I’m able to relax a little. The questions haven’t been too much, and I’ve learned quite a bit about him.

  After my second slice, I groan, “I don’t think I can eat anymore.” These aren’t normal slices—the pizza is huge, and I’m pretty sure each slice is the equivalent of two or three normal ones.

  Booker, who is just finishing his third, groans in agreement, moving the pizza to the coffee table in the room’s sitting area.