Meant to Be Broken

by Brandy Woods Snow

  She’s not looking at me again. “Pancreatic. Stage four. Unfortunately, this’ll beat me. There’s no recourse. It’s too far gone for anything to be done. Medicines will ease the pain and prolong my time, if we’re lucky.”

  “Your time?” My throat tightens, stopping air flow to my lungs. Dizziness grips me as my cells scream for oxygen.

  “Woah!” Daddy jumps up from his chair, grabs my shoulders, bending me forward, head between my knees. “Deep breaths.”

  “Rayne, honey, are you okay?” Mama asks. She’s suffering and all she can ask is if I’m okay?

  When the spinning stops, I lean up and shake my head. How can I be okay? Mama’s dying, and all I can think is how I never even really got to know her.

  “We have to live with the hand we’re dealt. I know my cards now,” she says matter-of-factly. “I have up to six months.”

  “Six months?” I squeak out in disbelief. I won’t have Mama next fall when I start college. I won’t have Mama at Thanksgiving or Christmas. We just started mending fences, coming together as mother and daughter, and now we have an expiration date when it’s barely started. “It’s not fair. It’s not true! There has to be something they can do instead of just letting you… die!” The words sting my tongue the way they sting my mother’s heart. She flinches and brings her hand to her mouth. I should’ve never said that. The d-word. Die. It’s too final. “Mama, I’m so sorry.” I get up from my seat and circle my arms around her neck.

  She pats my hair. “We ain’t gonna brood around here like life’s ended, because it’s not over until it’s over.” She kisses me on the forehead, then Daddy helps her up and they go upstairs to their room. I stay behind in the kitchen, unable to reconcile how dramatically my life just changed. Life’s fickle—happy one minute, sad the next; healthy one minute, dying the next. You can be so sure of your future up until the moment the rug’s yanked out from under you. I’m floating and falling simultaneously, but whatever the sensation, the utter loss of control surges through me. I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Gage’s number. He answers on the second ring.

  “Can’t get enough?” He’s so happy. So oblivious. I wish I still was.

  “Gage…” I choke out the words.

  “What is it?” His voice drops an octave.

  “It’s late, but… can you come over? I need someone… now.”

  “Be right there.” Silence. He’s on his way.

  I walk through the den to the bottom of the stairs. My parents’ room is dark, no lights shining underneath. I grab a fuzzy gray blanket from the basket by the couch and walk onto the front porch, quietly letting the screen door latch.

  Gage drives in the yard moments later, runs up the steps, and kneels down in front of me.

  “I came as fast as I could.” He’s breathless, eyes pooled with anxiety. “What’s wrong?”

  I’m suddenly mute. When the floodgates open, I sob, ugly crying, and melt into his arms. He says nothing, just wraps them around me. When the tears subside, I pull his hands into my lap, holding them as if they’re keeping me afloat.

  “It’s Mama.”

  Gage’s eyes knit together in a frown.

  Between ragged breaths, I whisper, “She has cancer. Stage four. There’s nothing they can do. She’s dying.”

  His mouth falls open. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” He pulls me back to him. My tears soak the shoulder of his hoodie. He doesn’t know what to say, and I get it. I don’t need his words. I just need him.

  “Just hold me,” I say through the tears.

  He moves beside me on the swing and pulls me to his side, nestling my cheek into his chest. He drapes the blanket over me and gently moves the swing back and forth, the tenderness of his hands warm against my skin. We say nothing—we just hold each other.

  Chapter 32

  Gage

  T

  he look on Mr. Davidson’s face is somewhere between Son, you’ve gotta be kidding me and She’s 18, so what can I say?

  It’s been a rough six weeks for their family. Rayne’s mama sleeps near-constantly, her energy sapped from the medications prescribed for pain relief. Rayne and her dad are shouldering all the household responsibilities in addition to her home medical care, school and work, and frankly, they’re tapped out.

  I help as much as I can. People can only take so much before a total collapse, and when I’m there, doing all the mundane stuff, that’s when Rayne and her dad can enjoy those quiet times with Mrs. Davidson. The opportunities that’ll soon be gone. They need it. Rayne, especially. The emotional toll on the family of cancer patients is something they don’t measure in all those blood draws, but how can you measure the fear that, no matter what you do, it’ll never be enough?

  So I’ve come to Mr. Davidson with a simple request. Let me take Rayne away from all this, just for a weekend. To celebrate the birthday that quietly passed without much attention last week. On top of everything else, she’s been sick the better part of two weeks with a sinus infection and ordered to take two rounds of antibiotics and get lots of rest.

  I’ve yet to see her actually rest.

  Rayne’s not convinced he’ll say yes. “No way Daddy’s gonna let me go. He likes you, but come on.”

  I’m not taking no for an answer, though, so I offer a solution. I’ll persuade him with “misdirection.”

  “You mean lying?” she asks. You say tomato, I say to-mah-to.

  And it’s not straight-out lying. It’s all truth, just vague and misleading. AKA misdirection. I ask him to let me take Rayne on a weekend camping trip to Edisto Beach State Park—two nights in a tent with park rangers, gated access, and cameras galore. Totally legit. The not-so-truthful part comes in when I promise that a group of five is going to the beach. And a group of five is going. It’s just that the other three are going to Myrtle Beach, and we’re headed 150 miles south.

  Mr. Davidson stands in the yard and scratches his head while examining a hangnail on his left hand. “I know it’s been stressful around here.” He quits scratching and pans his hand toward Rayne. “And she is eighteen now…”

  “Please?” Rayne asks, hands folded in front of her. “Less than 48 hours and I’ll be back.”

  He sighs and folds his arms against his chest. “Okay, I trust y’all, and you deserve a break.” He glances toward the house. “You’ll probably be back before your Mama even knows.”

  Our bags are loaded before the first slivers of orange sunlight break the blackness on the horizon. Mr. Davidson hugs Rayne then reaches out to shake my hand, tighter than ever before. My knuckles crack under the pressure of his not-so-secret warning to take care of his daughter.

  Four hours later, we cruise the marshy two-lane out to the island under a canopy of Spanish moss hanging from hundred-year-old oaks. The rotten egg stench of the marshes, so intense it lands squarely on your taste buds, wafts in through the open windows, and Rayne slaps her hand over her mouth and nose.

  “Ah, smell that briny air,” I tease, wafting my hand. “Gotta love some swamp gas.”

  “Love is a strong word,” she says from between her fingers.

  “Yes, it is, and I love you.” For the last 300 miles, I’ve watched her from the corner of my eye, head relaxed into the seat, brown curls flying around her head in the breeze, eyes closed, and a slight smile creasing her lips. Perfect and peaceful.

  She drops her hand and pivots her head on the seat to face me. “I love you, too.”

  We pull through the double gates of the state park, down the tightly-packed path of gravel, sand, and broken shells, into our shaded lot, secluded on all sides except the oceanfront, which stretches out wide in a blanket of caramel sand and blue-green waves cresting in the distance. I pitch the tent while Rayne inflates the air mattress, my mind wandering to happier places as I watch her stretching the Egyptian cotton sheets over the rubbery surface—imagining their silkiness rubbing against our skin, tangled in our legs, our bodies intertwined
.

  A bead of sweat rolls down my forehead and drips onto my nose. For the first of April, it sure is hot.

  Or is it me?

  We finish setting up camp and fill two knapsacks with beach provisions. Out front, our bikes lean on their kickstands. Showing Rayne the island is important to me. From the time I first saw this place as a kid, I told everyone this was where I was going to live someday. I still believe it. Except now, the desire to make her love it as much as I do burns inside.

  I help strap on Rayne’s backpack then grab mine from the ground just as she throws her leg across the bike, pops the kickstand, and puts one foot on the pedal. “Race ya.” A cloud of gravel dust billows behind her, and I jump on my bike, giving a hard shove and closing the gap easily.

  At the end of the trail’s seven-mile jaunt is a bike rack, stuffed in between a stand of palm trees. My thighs burn and sweat soaks my shirt. We slam our bikes into the rack, the metallic clang of hers just seconds ahead of mine.

  She jumps off the bike and commences an awkward, yet what I believe she feels is necessary, victory dance, some hybrid of the ‘running man’ and the ‘dougie.’ “Boom! I beat you!”

  “You always have to win, don’t ya?”

  She shrugs, her smile never dissipating. “I like to win.”

  “You think I don’t?” I pout my bottom lip.

  “Fine,” she concedes, patting my chest. “It’s a tie.”

  She’s cute—the way her eyes sparkle while she’s gloating. Her freckles shine under the sun and sweat. I step forward, wrapping my arms around her, and she kisses me, her lips gliding over mine like an ocean breeze.

  “How about a tiebreaker?” I suggest.

  “Sure.”

  “First one to the ocean.” I wink, plop her down behind me and take off running, glancing quickly over my shoulder as she stomps her foot and takes off toward me, her footsteps echoing mine off the wooden boardwalk.

  “Cheater!” she yells, but by the time she catches me, she’s laughing as she meets me in the waves, the water splashing up around us and spraying our clothes. She leans in to kiss me, and I part my lips, waiting. She pushes away, though, and glances around as if at any moment her mama will pounce from the sea oats.

  “Maybe somewhere a little quieter?” she asks, eyeing the crowd of families around us.

  I nod and lead her toward a stretch of wide-open beach bordering the marina. We walk the water’s edge, the still-chilly water washing in and out over our toes as we go. On a large blanket on the sand, we spend a few hours laughing and talking, but mostly just lying next to each other, skin to skin but in a completely decent public beach way. Although I do admit to letting my hands wander from time to time, rubbing too long in one spot or trailing too low in another.

  Damn hands need to mind their own business.

  Her breathing quickens and her fingers mash deeper into my skin before she jumps up. “I bet I can find more conch shells than you!”

  I throw my head back laughing. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed, but okay, I’ll take your challenge.” For five minutes we scour the sand then meet back at the blanket. She shoots out her hand: a small silvery conch with the spiral top still intact but half the side missing. I pull out four near-perfect specimens. One look and her face drops.

  “You win again.” She frowns and flops down belly-first on the sand.

  I snuggle beside her and prop up on my elbows, leaning in to kiss her cheek. It’s salty like the ocean. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  “I’ll think how.” She blushes as she says it, and I wonder if there’s a deeper meaning to her words. Maybe she’s thinking all the things I’ve been—I hope so.

  From where we’re lying, my attention focuses on a house, situated where the shoreline curves and the sea oats are thick on the dunes. “See that house?” I point to the weathered gray bungalow on the far edge of the Sound. “I’ve wanted that place since I was a kid. That’s where I want to live one day. Raise a family.”

  Her eyes ping-pong from one gable to the next, growing so wide her eyelids melt under the brow bone. She smiles looking at it, and my heart melts. Eighteen is way too young to be thinking of families, kids, and mortgages, but that house has always been part of my future plans. And now she is, too. It’s only proper they meet ahead of time.

  “It’d be awesome painted a marine blue with white trim. Oh, and add a white wooden swing on that corner so you could look out over the ocean.”

  A swing. Her swing.

  “I like that.” I pull her fingers to my lips. “Gonna come live here with me?”

  She stares at me, and it’s like a silent conversation is going on between our subconscious minds. Rayne. Me. Together. Long term.

  Butterflies. All in my stomach.

  “Absolutely. You buy it, and I’ll be here.”

  “One day,” I vow and kiss her head. “One day.”

  Chapter 33

  Rayne

  B

  efore sundown, we head back to camp, take showers, and dress for supper. Gage takes me to his favorite waterfront restaurant because according to him “you haven’t eaten shrimp until you’ve eaten fresh Edisto shrimp.” And he’s right. The seafood is phenomenal, buttery and tender, but we can’t help overhearing a couple local fishermen at the bar talking about a strong cold front pushing through with heavy storms by morning. When the food is gone and the bill paid, Gage and I drive back to the campsite, kick our shoes off inside the tent and walk out to the beach via the palm-laden access from the front of our site.

  The heavy clouds are building, their inky blackness creeping over the millions of stars dotting the night sky. We pad through the sand, ending up just shy of the pier, holding hands and not saying much of anything, though my mind is flying ninety miles a minute. I love the way our fingers interlace, the way his skin is tougher than mine but tender at the same time. I love the fact we don’t have to talk—we can just be. I love him. I want him. All of him.

  “Gage…” I say as a huge streak of lightning zigzags across the sky and fat raindrops start falling.

  “Run!” he yells, but as I take off, the hem of my maxi-dress catches underfoot and nearly trips me. Gage scoops me up in his arms and sprints toward our campsite, the raindrops falling harder with every step. When we get there, he throws the tent flaps back and sets me down, then zips them tight.

  He peels off his saturated t-shirt and tosses it in the corner. His v-lines cut diagonally down his body, and his hair, which spreads out across his chest, filters into a trickle that runs down the center of his abs and beneath the waistband of the black boxer-briefs peeking out from the top of his jeans. I’ve wanted him for so long, but tonight I know the wait is over.

  He balls up a towel, patting the water off his shoulders and arms, when he looks up and catches me watching. I imagine myself looking like a dog whose owner is dangling a bacon treat over its head, eager eyes and tongue lolled out. “Whatcha thinking about?” he asks.

  “You. Me. Why you’re way over there, when I’m way over here.”

  “We can fix that.” He steps over and presses into me, his front to my back, so close, his tangible desire pushes into my skin. I close my eyes and take a deep breath to regulate my heart rate, which has surged to light speed. He takes the towel and blots the water droplets from my arms, then gathers my hair and pushes it to one side, sliding the towel down the side of my neck. “Hold on,” he whispers. “Still have a few in the hard-to-reach places, but don’t worry. I’ll get those.” He brings his lips to my bare skin, flicking his tongue before finishing off with light suction, in a trail down the curve to my collarbone.

  “I’m ready,” I whisper. When he doesn’t respond right away, I look up. He’s staring at me, stroking the stubble on his chin. “Did you hear me?”

  “I think so. Say it again.”

  This’ll be a first for both of us and for that I’m grateful, because I want to give this part of my
self to him, and I want his in return. “I’m ready. I want to be with you, Gage.”

  “That’s what I thought you said.” He smiles and spins me toward him, tilting my head up to his. “I love you, Rayne. I want you to know that first. There’s no one else for me. Only you.”

  “I love you. I’m yours, Gage. All of me.” The way he hovers in front of me, I think he’s going to kiss me, but he doesn’t. He sweeps his fingertips down either side of my jaw, and then down my neck to my shoulders, where he slips them under the straps of my dress, nudging them over the edge.

  When he takes my arms, which are circled around his waist, and straightens them, the dress slips down and puddles on the ground at my ankles. He grins again, this time letting his eyes skim over my body, pausing at my breasts, and he runs his finger along my bra’s lace-and-ribbon edging, into the small void between the two. His hands reach behind my back, fumbling with the clasp, which he unhooks and allows the bra to fall away. I shiver, not sure if it’s from his touch or the bareness of my uncovered breasts. He palms both, kneading the flesh, rubbing the skin in circles.

  When I think the intensity may kill me, Gage trails one hand down my stomach and fingers the lacey waistline of my panties before sliding his fingers underneath the silken fabric and down. I softly moan his name as my body arches toward him. I may have a heart attack. This might kill me, but I’ll die happy.

  I could let his hands explore me all night, but I want him to know I want him with every ounce I’ve got. “My turn.” I stand on my tiptoes and whisper in his ear, then nibble the lobe and softly blow on it, a move that makes the hairs on his arm prickle against my skin. He shudders. “And I’m just getting started,” I promise with a smile, my lips now pressed to his cheek, grazing ever-so-softly as I form the words.

  My breasts flatten against his chest, the skin-to-skin contact hot and wet as the sweat and leftover rain drops squish between us. I want to be bold, to physically show him my desperate need. I rub my hands, palm to skin, over his pecs, tracing the ridges of his ab muscles with my fingertips outward to the inked lettering. Tonight, no rules apply for us.