Meant to Be Broken

by Brandy Woods Snow

With who I am.

  With who I’m not.

  I won’t be her Jackson, and she won’t be my Leighton. Love so constraining it becomes toxic, rotting what’s left of any real chance we have to make it. So I’ll give her the freedom she deserves, instead of locking her away until I’m on some sort of higher plane, because that day may never come.

  The first notes of “November Rain” spill out the speakers like acid on all the open wounds. Hell no. I yank out the cord and toss the damn thing on the floorboard. The thwack against the rubber mat sets off the waterworks, the tears puddling and spilling so fast, the yellow lines on the interstate blur into one long smear. Up ahead, the big green sign above the interchange says, Charleston: Right Lanes Only. I pull in a long breath, glance over my shoulder and merge.

  The 4x6 photograph doesn’t compare to the real thing. I stand on the sidewalk, shifting my gaze between the two. Same triple porches. Same floor to ceiling windows. Same brick and iron fence with an “H” designed into the front gate.

  The Harringtons.

  I thought the Howard house was big. This one could kick its ass any day.

  My next move should be a no-brainer. Walk up there, push the bell and wait for an answer. But my feet won’t comply. The walkway is like an impassible river of quicksand, that even if I muddle through, could land me on the steps of people who might not want to face the truth.

  So many lives shifting because of lies.

  I sigh and lean back onto the Scout. Life was easier when I didn’t give a damn.

  Inside, the blue file folder lays on the dash. Yesterday, Dad brought it to me, along with a box of food and a duffle bag of clothes. I reach in the open passenger window and pull it out, pinning the photograph back into the metal clip then flipping through the contents. My family history—at least what Dad’s PI found of it—all put together in one easy-to-read report complete with surveillance photos. Copies of the pictures of Mom he kept in the safe as well as one of her bus ticket are attached in a clear plastic sleeve. All the tools he suspected I’d need when introducing myself to Lieutenant Colonel Benjamin Harrington and his wife Margaret Ruth Harrington.

  Charleston born. Military bred. Intimidating as hell. AKA my maternal grandparents.

  My stomach flips. It’s now or never. I push open the front gate and walk through. It clangs shut behind me as I clutch the folder across my chest like a shield. A salty, humid breeze wafts through the magnolias, rippling through two flags—one South Carolina palmetto and crescent, and one Army—that jut out from either side of the porch entrance. Eight steps up to the white carved-wood door.

  Ding-dong.

  Heavy footsteps echo from the other side, and the curtains rumple sideways as a face appears through the cut-glass sidelights. The door flies open wide, the void filled by a stocky man about my height with a firm jaw and piercing blue eyes. My eyes.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “Um… are you… Benjamin Harrington?”

  He narrows his eyes, running them up and down me. “Who wants to know?”

  “Um… yes, sir… my name is Gage Howard, and…”

  “Well, Gage Howard, did you read the sign?” His steely tone is apt to melt me into a puddle on the spot as he points to a small wooden plaque mounted beside the front window. NO SOLICITING. “We aren’t buying anything, we have a church, and we’re not interested in surveys. Have a nice day.” Without another word, he slams the door in my face, the wind generated by the force of it urging me to backpedal a few steps.

  Retired or not, the military is strong in this one. Still, I came here for a reason, dammit, and he’s going to listen. I ring the bell again. Within seconds, he’s back, grumbling so loud it seeps through the door.

  He swings it wide, this time stepping out on the porch, meeting me chest to chest. “What in Sam Hill didn’t you understand about what I said, boy?”

  “Sir, please, I’m not selling anything. If I could, I’d—”

  “Bennie dear, who’s this young man?” The voice is a calming force to his gruff one. Probably in her mid-sixties, her salt and pepper hair cropped short. She saunters up behind him and slides her hand over his arm. It’s a move I’m pretty sure she’s used a million times to calm him down. When she catches my stare, she pauses, angling her head to the side with narrowed eyes.

  “Ma’am, I’m here to tell you that—”

  “We don’t want some great deal on cable,” he interrupts again. “Got plenty of channels. Don’t need—”

  “Shut up, you ol’ fool.” She slaps her hand over his mouth, a wide grin spreading her lips. “Can’t you see he’s trying to tell us he’s our grandson?” She walks toward me, palming both sides of my face, maneuvering it side to side for a better inspection. “Let me have a look at you.”

  I pull back from her touch. “But… how’d you know?”

  “A mama never forgets her child’s eyes, especially when they’re reflected back in a grandchild. And even more so, since I look at them every day in this ol’ coot.” She thumbs over her shoulder at the crotchety old Colonel, who’s slack-jawed as he stares at me. Mute for the first time. “Well, come on in. Let’s get you a cool drink and sit down awhile. No grandson of mine is gonna be left standing out on this porch like some common stranger.” She loops her arm through mine and pulls me into the house, glancing back over her shoulder. “Bennie, get the door.”

  The kitchen is at the back of the house, twice as large as ours back home but a million times cozier. Despite the sheer size, it’s truly a grandma’s kitchen, complete with fresh-baked pie cooling on the shelf in front of the windows. She grabs a glass pitcher of iced tea and pours me a glass, then sits down beside Mr. Harrington. “So, tell me. How is our daughter? I can’t imagine she’d be happy knowing you’re here.”

  Oh God. My heart flutters against my ribs. “My mom—your daughter—died almost 19 years ago in a… car accident.” I stop talking for a minute as the terrible truth sinks in, their pleasant smiles melting down their faces. There’s no need going into specifics. The fact that Mom’s dead is traumatic enough. She reaches out and grabs his hand, squeezing it. Her bottom lip trembles, and he stares at the table, chest rising and falling faster than before, as I continue. “I was raised by my father and his wife and only recently found out about my mom. Dad gave me all the information he had. That’s how I found you.”

  Mr. Harrington grits his teeth, jawbone flexing in and out. “Damn that wild spirit of hers. I told her… I tried to warn her…” His words fall out in breathy clods as Mrs. Harrington rises from her chair, nearly lunging across the space between, to wrap her arms around him.

  “Oh Bennie, she’s gone,” she mumbles into his hair as they cling to each other, the muffled sobs squeezing out from between them. A weird burning circulates in my throat and spirals down into my stomach as some innate voice calls out for me to comfort them. Share with them the truth about their runaway daughter.

  “I don’t know if it makes a difference, but… the day she died, this was found on her.” They look over at me as I open the folder, pull out the bus ticket and the picture of Mom pregnant, then slide it across the table. “She was coming home… with me. So yeah, I think she would be happy I’m here now. It’s what she wanted.”

  Mrs. Harrington picks up the photo and clutches it to her chest as more tears fall. She motions me over to them, extending her arm out to pull me into their hug. Reluctantly, I join them, bending down to where they’re sitting.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Harrington—”

  “Please, call us Nana and Grandpa. You belong here as much as any one of us.”

  My mom, according to my grandparents, was not one to follow the crowd… or the rules. Mary Leighton Harrington. She grew up a “citizen of the world,” never landing in one place long before moving somewhere else. The life of an Army brat. What Grandpa called a “wild streak,” Nana described as “fiercely independent.” Something about that sounds vaguely familia
r.

  Her leaving had been a shock, though not wholly unexpected. They came home one day and found a note pinned to the refrigerator. Her heart told her to roam, and she was answering the call. Alone. The ‘don’t call me, I’ll call you’ sort of wandering, and then she disappeared without a trace.

  Upstairs, Nana leads me to the second room on the right where I’ll be staying. It used to be Mom’s room. Out front, cars pass on the street below, and I can’t help imagining her here in this very spot by the window, plotting and planning her escape.

  What went through her mind as she held the return bus ticket in her hand, very pregnant and alone?

  What would life have been like growing up here? To have a mom that doted on me?

  Too many unknowns. Too many questions.

  A brown wooden frame sits on the dresser with a photograph of two girls, around my age, standing side by side, arms linked.

  Nana walks behind me and leans forward, tapping her nail on the glass. “That’s Mary Leighton, and that’s her younger sister, Ruth Ellen.” I look at her, eyes wide. “Your aunt. She’s married with twin girls, just a bit younger than you.”

  Grandparents, aunts, and cousins. My world is growing exponentially at every turn. Nana smiles and side-hugs me. “Would you like to keep that picture?”

  “Really?”

  “Your Mama’d be real proud for you to have it.”

  For the first time in days, a smile creeps over my face. “Thanks, Mrs. Harrington.” She frowns, and I quickly correct myself. “Nana.”

  She squeezes me again then rubs her hand up and down my back. “If you need to call anyone…” She nods toward the phone sitting on the bedside table then walks out. The door shuts with a soft click.

  I stare at the photograph of my mom and her sister. There’s one person on my mind. Someone who’s been with me through every twist and turn. Someone who’s been more than a brother to me. He’s been a hero. I sit on the edge of the comforter, gathering my nerve, and reach for the receiver. It’s lead in my hands.

  My fingers fumble over the first keys, *67. I don’t need anyone tracking me down. This call is already breaking my resolve to maintain distance. With a sigh, I type in the next 10 digits.

  He answers on the third ring.

  “Pres?” My voice squeaks in response to my stomach somersaulting.

  “Gage? Where are you?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I just had to tell you that no matter what’s happened, you’re still my brother. My only brother. And I love you.”

  The silence burns through the lines before he clears his throat and tries again. “Come home. Screw our parents. I need you. Rayne needs you.”

  “I can’t… just… can’t…”

  “Rayne’s mama died. About an hour ago. You know she’s a mess right now.”

  God, I want to wrap her in my arms and kiss away the tears. Assure her she’ll never be alone while I’m around. But that’d be a lie. I can’t be the strength she needs right now. She deserves better. And that’s what I’ll give her.

  “Be there for her. Since I can’t. Take care of her.”

  “She doesn’t want me. She wants you. Come back…”

  I press the button, disconnecting the conversation mid-sentence. Preston will step in and take care of Rayne. Be her rock when I can’t. He’ll do the right thing.

  He always does.

  Chapter 37

  Rayne

  O

  ur house is quiet. I’ve lost more than Mama.

  I’ve kinda lost Daddy, too. His taking a new travel-intensive position in the company is a defensive move. For weeks, he’s told everyone who’d listen how much I remind him of Mama. Too much. Too painful. It’s a convenient way to avoid me and hide out with his grief.

  Other than school and working three nights a week, I sit at home, alone, watching TV and eating way too many leftover casseroles the church ladies stocked in our freezer. I think my body’s starting to reject them. I’ve thrown up twice this week already and by the smell coming from the microwave, this might be number three. It’s just another part of the new normal I’ve learned this past month—no Daddy, no Mama, no Gage. He hasn’t contacted me, and the few occasions I’ve drummed up the courage to drive by the Howard house, his Scout’s not there.

  I pull the container from the microwave and immediately dump it in the sink when the chicken smells more like day-old skunk. I push the remnants down the garbage disposal with a fork and flip the switch. Still, my gag reflex tickles in my throat and I have to pause and breathe through my mouth to calm the ripples it’s sending down my esophagus.

  I glance at the digital numbers on the stove. Eight o’clock. Maybe I should go to bed. I trudge upstairs and snuggle under the covers with my journal, scribbling down a few thoughts. As I close the cover, the dated pages catch my eye. I flip back through last month’s entries, counting the days repeatedly.

  Dammit. How could I miss something so important? I get up, throw on a hoodie with my pajama pants, grab my car keys, and sprint down the steps.

  The cell phone alarm dings. Two minutes down. My fingers tremble as I pick it up off the bathroom counter, E.P.T.—Early Pregnancy Test printed in small lettering on the handle part. A plus or minus sign to predict my future with 99% accuracy.

  I pull it closer and squint my eyes.

  Positive.

  Oh shit. I’m pregnant.

  The implications should be smacking me in the face—how I’m going to do this alone, how I’m going to find Gage and let him know. But that’s going to have to wait because I’m overcome with a manic need to get rid of the evidence. I swipe all the packaging off the counter into the plastic bag and run outside to the large green trashcan by the garage. I can’t risk Daddy coming home and finding it. I’m not ready to tell him. I can’t look him in the eyes and tell him his daughter is going to be a clueless, teenage mother whose dreams of college and a life just went out the window.

  I flip open the lid and stuff the bag into an empty cereal box. Extreme, but in this town you can never be too careful.

  Careful. I don’t get it. I’m on birth control pills so how in the world...? Oh. My. God. I missed a few doses while I was sick, right before our trip. It hadn’t even crossed my mind.

  “Dammit. You’re an idiot, Rayne!” I yell out loud.

  “I wouldn’t call you that,” he says from behind me, his voice hesitant and low—the wrong Howard brother.

  “Preston?” I shove the box in the trash but hold onto the test stick. For some reason, I can’t toss it, so I pull my shoulders forward to block his view as I wrap it in my palm. “Why are you…?”

  “What are you doing?” He grabs my arm and spins me toward him, nearly causing me to lose balance. When I grab hold of the trashcan to steady myself, the test escapes my grip. His eyes lock on mine until the click-clack of plastic on the driveway tears his gaze away, and he leans down to pick it up. His eyes blare wide. “What the…”

  I wrench it from his fingers. “It’s none of your business.”

  His mouth hangs open, hands clamped over his forehead. “You’re… pregnant?”

  “No shit.” I spit out the words, lunging at his face like some crazy prepubescent boy provoking a fist-fight.

  He grabs both my shoulders to steady me. Or hold me back. I’m not sure. “Is it Gage’s?”

  I flash my eyes to meet his. I’m not sure what pisses me off more—the question or the fact he’s looking at me like he really doesn’t know. “Who else’s would it be?”

  He ignores me. “Does he know?”

  “I found out, like, two seconds ago. And in case you haven’t noticed, he’s not here.” I sweep my arms around.

  “Where is he?”

  “How am I supposed to know? He ended things. He left me.” I’m screaming now, and acutely aware I’m about to lose my shit as all the realities of my screwed-up life descend on me in a lump. Holding it in is impossible. I kick th
e trashcan hard, sending it over on its side, the contents spilling out on the cement.

  “Go.” Preston orders, pointing his finger toward the house as he bends down to scoop up the mess. “Front porch. Wait for me.”

  I whirl on my heels and stomp to the swing like a toddler pissed off at the world. Except I have no reason to be angry with Preston. And I’m not. He’s just taking the brunt of all my pent-up frustrations, and the weird thing is, I don’t know why. Why is he here? I thought he’d sworn to loathe me forever, and now he’s cleaning up my mess and acting all saintly?

  I unwrap my fingers from the test stick, the pink plus sign staring back at me. I’ve thought about this moment before, and it’s always looked the same—mid-twenties, married, house, job, husband. I don’t think any girl dreams of getting knocked up at eighteen.

  Preston walks up the steps and sits down beside me. He glances over at the stick. “You know, there are ways to have prevented

  this—”

  “Yeah Einstein, but only one method’s foolproof.”

  “Damn,” he says under his breath and picks at a hangnail. “What are you gonna do?”

  “I don’t know.” I close my eyes. The only thing I know is what I’m not going to do—get rid of it. I’m having this baby, this piece of me and Gage.

  “You have time to think about it. Nine months, right?”

  I snort a laugh. “More like a couple weeks. The jig is up when the bump shows up.” I point at my stomach. “You know how… perceptive… this town is.”

  “I’m so sorry… I…” he stammers, totally out of character for the cool and calm Preston Howard.

  “Look, I’m not gonna beat around the bush so… why are you here, Preston? It didn’t end well. We haven’t talked in months. Your family hates me…”

  “I don’t hate you.” When I look at him, he’s staring back. “And I can’t blame you and Gage for something that’s my fault, too.” He presses his lips together, swallows hard, then continues, “I was an ass. I didn’t take time for you. I didn’t even take up for you. I took you for granted. He didn’t.”