Meant to Be Broken

by Brandy Woods Snow

  Something snaps inside me. The way he’s hovering over her. The way she’s shrinking under his glare. I push through the crowd and grab her shoulders, pulling her backwards beside me. “I think she’s made it clear she’s done. So get outta here.”

  His attention is now fully directed at me. “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  “And who’s me?”

  “You’re looking at him. Leave Clara Jean alone. She’s with me now.”

  The crowd gasps, people exchanging open-mouthed glances. Taryn pushes through the bodies, coming into the little circle that’s formed around our showdown.

  “Is this true?” Jeremy laughs, panning his hand up and down in front of me.

  The apartment is silent, the music on pause, everyone’s eyes glued to the scene. Clara Jean flits her eyes between me and Jeremy, then wordlessly reaches out and twines her fingers with mine.

  The laughing halts, and his face hardens like stone, jaw clenched. He shakes his head and turns to go, then whirls around with a balled fist and lands a punch square on my chin. I trip backwards against the wall, knocking the back of my head into the sheetrock. Farrah screams, so loud it adds to the ringing in my head, and sweet, conservative Taryn runs by the door and says, “Hey Jeremy!”

  When he turns around, she kicks him square in the man-biscuits and he drops to his knees on the welcome mat where she slams the door in his face and slides the lock in place.

  My head spins and I’m not sure if it’s from the hit or watching Taryn level some justice on a dipshit guy. Maybe both.

  Clara Jean sobs into her palms and runs to her bedroom, locking the door behind her.

  A couple hours later, I’m on my way to the bathroom when I pass Clara Jean’s room. The door’s cracked open now, the only light coming from the outside courtyard lamppost. A series of grunts catches my attention, and I push the door open wider, glass clinking as it meets the wooden door. My boot kicks one of the objects and it rolls into a sliver of light. A vodka mini bottle. She’s just behind it, crumpled on the floor, head and arms slung over her trashcan.

  Terrific. She’s drunk.

  “Clara Jean?” I ask, squatting down beside her. She lifts her head slightly and darts her eyes up at me. Even in the dark, mascara is visible in rivers down her face.

  All because of some dipshit.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say, slipping out of her room and into the bathroom where I grab a cool washcloth. I creep back to her room, kneel down, and press it to her forehead. We sit in silence for several minutes, and I’m unsure whether she’s just quiet or passed out, but then she speaks, slowly in slurred words.

  “Your ex? Was she mean like that?”

  “No. never.”

  “Did she cheat on you?”

  “No.”

  “Did she appreciate you?”

  “Always.”

  “Did she make promises and flake out?”

  “Nope.”

  “Can I ask you a question, Gage?”

  “Sure.”

  “If she was so great, then why is she your ex?”

  “Because I made a stupid decision. Took a gamble that she’d wait for me, but… she didn’t. She moved on.”

  I half-expect another question, but I check, and her eyes are closed, mouth slightly open. I get to my feet and scoop her in my arms, carry her to the bed, and lay her down. I take off her shoes and toss them in the corner, then grab a blanket from her desk chair and cover her.

  I tiptoe to the door and ease it open, trying not to wake her. “Your ex is the one who made a mistake. Moving on from you? She’s an idiot. You deserve better.” When I turn around, her eyes are still closed, but she’s talking to me just the same.

  Chapter 51

  Rayne

  “I

  won’t let her stand in our way.” Ashlyn’s threat makes loops in my head as I clean tables on my Friday morning shift. Preston says it’s nothing to worry about, but her tone suggested otherwise. Plus, Preston doesn’t know we’ve already waged war in round one last year at the Howard house party. She’s out for blood.

  I sweep all the crumbs into a pile and off into my palm, then wipe my hands over the trash bin. The crowd’s much thinner now than when I worked morning shifts this summer. The late November temperatures have finally dipped into the 40s and the constant drizzle makes it pretty darn miserable. Plus, all the kids I know who used to come in here are in the throes of fall semester. And I’m still here in the coffeehouse—going nowhere.

  “I think you got that table just about clean enough, hun.” Sharon walks behind me, rubs my shoulders then takes the dishrag from my hand. “Your Mama’d die if she saw you mopin’ around here like this.”

  “Little late for that one.” In my side-eye glare, Sharon tilts her head and frowns in that I’m-gonna-whip-your-butt-if-you-don’t-straighten-up way all Southern Mamas have perfected. In some ways, she’s sort of a surrogate Mama, always doling out advice and suggestions without my asking. The way she huffs out a huge breath, I know I’m in for another lecture.

  “Youngin’ you know what I mean. All your Mama ever wanted was for you to be happy. Now she ain’t here no more, but I am. The town is. We’re gonna see you through because that’s what Southern folks do.”

  I snort-laugh and shake my head. “Really? Cause I thought they only gossiped about you behind your back.”

  She grabs my chin and pulls me to facing her. She licks her lips the way she always does when a big lecture’s coming on, but I can’t imagine anything she says changing my mind. I’m pretty darn sure small-town politics suck. “Now you look me in the eye. Living in a small town is a double-edged sword, baby. Yeah, they all up in your business, and yeah, they love to share the dirt when they got it. But I’mma tell you something, and don’t you forget it. We ain’t all perfect, and we run our mouths when we just need to shut the hell up, but when one of us is in trouble, you best bet we all gonna band together and figure it out.”

  “That all sounds… quaint… but I must be the exception. Since the great casserole apocalypse after Mama died, I haven’t seen much of this town making any efforts with me.”

  The smug grin on her face hints that she knows something I don’t. “But that’s a two-way street, now ain’t it?”

  Why should I have to be the bigger person here? They’re the ones that gawked at Mama’s Piggly Wiggly scene and called me names for the whole Preston debacle. Of course, maybe we did kind of bring some of that on ourselves, but still…

  I drop my head and stare at my shoes. “Maybe you’ll feel different after you see this.” Sharon walks behind the counter and pulls out a giant basket brimming with diapers, wipes, bottles, and onesies, all tied up in cellophane with a big yellow bow. “Mrs. McAlister and her ladies’ league put this together for you and dropped it off last night.” I’ll be damned. A few tears wet the corners of my eyelashes. Stupid hormones. “People might surprise ya, if you give ‘em the chance.”

  “That’s good advice.” Her voice surprises me and simultaneously sends chills up my backbone. I turn around. Charlotte, in a sapphire blue pantsuit, manages a soft smile, a look I haven’t seen on her before. I’d like to take it at face value, but I know her too well. She doesn’t make courtesy calls. Her visits are really missions, usually having to do with some unpleasant sort of business. Every muscle clenches, and the baby kicks in response.

  “Charlotte? Why are you here?”

  “I wonder if we might chat a moment?”

  Sharon strokes my forearm. “You’re due a ten-minute break. Those ankles need it.” She points to the table I just finished cleaning. “Y’all take the window seat, and I’ll bring you both a coffee. Decaf for you, missy.”

  “Mine to-go, please,” Charlotte calls after her as she struts to the table and sits down, crossing her legs. She pats the table across from her with an invitation to join. I sit, careful to slide my chair back a few inches. I never trust
being too close to her. “You know I don’t mince words, so I’ll get to the point. I’d like to speak with you about Preston and this situation with Ashlyn.”

  Of course she does. The old kick-me-when-I’m-down maneuver. I brace myself for the spiel about how Preston and Ashlyn are made for each other, and I’m a stumbling block on their path to happily ever after. “Look, I’ve already heard about how I’m a—”

  “No dear, you misunderstand me. I’ve come to tell you first-hand that I’ve counseled her and warned her to keep a distance.”

  Huh? There’s no freaking way she just said that, but she’s calmly looking at me as if her words make perfect sense. Preston must’ve given her an ultimatum. There’s no way she’d endorse me over Ashlyn. “Because Preston wants her to or you want her to?”

  She purses her lips and snaps her head back as if incensed I question her motives. “Preston’s happiness and well-being is of utmost importance to me. That being said, there are certain… expectations… in Southern society that one dates and makes a life with someone of… compatible breeding. My son, however, displays a penchant for the less refined, uncultivated life. Preston has an affinity for it, much like his father.”

  I don’t get her. Is she trying to be a bitch? Or is she trying to be nice and just screwing it up? “Should I take this as an insult?”

  “No. I simply mean you have not been accustomed to the demands of an upper-class upbringing, but Preston sees something in you, something worth committing to. My son is an upstanding young man, doing all of us a great favor. He’s protecting you and your child, but he’s also protecting our family name, our firm. You see, for years after Jackson’s indiscretion, I worked relentlessly in damage control, so the Howard name wouldn’t be marred by rumors and gossip. Now Preston is picking up that flag, and we owe it to him to be a united front of support.”

  “I agree. Preston is concerned about—”

  “Very well.” With a wave of her hand, she shushes me before I finish. “To reiterate, Ashlyn is no threat, lots of talk but harmless, and also Preston needs our support. He’s under a terrific amount of stress. Do what you can to ease his suffering. I know I’ll do anything for my son.”

  “Of course, Charlotte,” I nod as Sharon’s words bounce around in my head. Maybe I have no reason to question Charlotte’s motives. I’m 99.9-percent sure she loathes me, but maybe she’s really offering me an olive branch for Preston’s sake—a pleasant surprise, like Sharon suggested—as long as I’m open to it.

  “I’ve enjoyed our chat, but I must get back to the office.” We both stand up, Charlotte side-hugs me and heads for the door, turning back briefly. “It almost slipped my mind. In light of the tension between you and Ashlyn, and the fact that her family is traditionally a guest at our Thanksgiving meal, I told Preston to consider spending the day with you and your father. A low-key affair might do him some good. Bye now.” She wiggles her fingers and glides out the door.

  Sharon steps behind me, and we watch Charlotte slide behind the wheel of her BMW and peel out of the parking space. “Ya see? What’d I tell ya?”

  I force a smile, but inside my stomach churns. This new alliance may very well be the product of Preston’s coercion or a goodwill gesture on Charlotte’s part to please him, but it’s evident she still thinks I’m not worthy. And if she can’t hide it from me, how in the world could she convince Ashlyn to leave it alone? The questions drop on my shoulders like a heavy blanket.

  I’m still thinking about it two weeks later as I step on the elevator at the doctor’s office. Now more than ever, the gravity of what’s at stake if Ashlyn makes good on her threat haunts me. The ultrasound photo in my hand makes it all the more real, the legs and arms squished so tightly in the womb like a blob of flesh. One month left, and our baby will be here. The last stop before ‘D-day.’

  I think about Preston. How he’s been there for every milestone and all the little bits in between. Just last week, he spent Thanksgiving with me and Daddy, suffering through my first attempt at cornbread dressing and candied yams, edible, but nowhere near the caliber of Mama’s. He’ll be there when the big day comes, too, and as grateful as I am, I’ll be wishing it was Gage. I can’t help it.

  The elevator dings and the doors open to the parking garage. I’m in the second row to the left. I walk quickly to the car. Something about the parking garage freaks me out. As I open the rear door to toss in my purse, I lose grip on the ultrasound print-out and it goes flying, down, and under the back fender. Terrific. Nothing like being eight months pregnant on all fours, scrounging around on a concrete floor.

  I stretch my arm under, my fingers flicking around before they make contact with the smooth paper. I’m pulling it out when someone yells my name.

  I look up as a sudden, searing pain explodes across my forehead.

  The world comes back to me in flashes.

  Someone tells me to hang on, but my eyes are heavy, almost weighted.

  Blackness.

  The high-pitched beeps of medical equipment.

  Blackness.

  Preston’s voice, a higher octave than usual.

  Blackness.

  The frail whimper of a baby.

  Blackness.

  The sounds of a television playing somewhere in the background. Only this time, the images are registering, kicking out the nothingness.

  I flutter my eyes. A sitcom is playing on a TV suspended in the corner of the room, which is very white—too white. It smells like bleach and the sweet chemical scent of latex gloves. A rhythmic beep undercuts the TV dialogue, and over my left shoulder, a small machine prints out up-and-down patterns of a heart rate on a long strip of paper. It’s only when the machine makes a whirring sound I realize it’s connected to me. The cuff on my arm tightens, stops, then releases slowly.

  It’s like putting together a jigsaw puzzle, but not understanding what picture will emerge. I’m in a hospital. But why? Why can’t I remember? Recalling facts is futile, like my brain’s ramming headfirst into a concrete wall. The last thing I recall is looking at the sonogram picture. The sonogram. My baby.

  My arms are heavy and largely immobile, but with concentration I’m able to slide my fingers over my belly. Instead of baby legs swirling below the skin, I feel nothing but soft, swollen skin through the thin cotton gown. I slide my hand down and find a tender spot just below where my jeans would sit, as if someone's wrapped a rubber band around my waist. My baby’s gone. What happened to my baby?

  “Ga—Gage,” I whisper. In my head I’m screaming, but my voice doesn’t match up. It’s weak. “Gage, are you there?”

  In a flash, Preston is by my side, leaning over, touching my face. “It’s me. Preston. I’m here, Rayne.” He looks away, yelling over his shoulder, “She’s awake!” then reaches down, pulling my fingers away from the cut.

  “Where’s my baby? What happened to my baby?” I’m clawing at his hand with all the strength I can muster. I’m empty. There’s a void where our baby used to be. It’s gone. And I don’t know where. Please God, don’t let him tell me my baby’s gone.

  “Shhh…” He pulls both my hands into one of his and strokes my forehead with the other. “The baby’s here. He’s going to be fine.”

  “He?” I can barely muster the words. My baby’s not gone. He’s here. He’s okay. Gage and I have a son. But somehow I’ve missed the whole thing. My baby came into this world without my knowing and without his daddy here to see it. Oh God, we’ve let down this little life so much already by playing stupid games and letting circumstances become bigger than this. This was supposed to be ours.

  “You have a son. He’s in the NICU because his lungs needed a little help from arriving early. But the doctors say he’s tough like his mama,” Preston says as my daddy rushes into the room.

  “Doctor’s on his way,” he says out of breath. “Glad to see you awake, baby girl.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed—it’s the only way I can forcefully
step back from the storm raging in my head and try to make sense of what’s going on—but no matter how hard I try, nothing adds up. “Why am I here? Why can’t I remember?” Someone must know something.

  “The doctor said this was a possibility,” says Daddy, an ominous note undercutting his tone.

  “What? What’s a possibility?” Tears finally slip down my cheeks, which, in some odd way, is a relief. Before, my body seemed slower and non-responsive. It’s finally catching up.

  “Calm down.” Preston pads his fingertips below my lashes to whisk away the tears. “You need to heal—for yourself and the baby. I’ll tell you everything.”

  He sits down on the bed covers, still holding my hands. “You were attacked this morning in the parking garage at the doctor’s office. Someone hit you on the head, and it knocked you out. You were only there a few minutes before someone found you and called EMS. You have a concussion, which caused you to lose consciousness for a while. The trauma caused the baby’s heart rate to spike, so they performed an emergency C-section. He’s early, but at 35 weeks, he should only have to be in the incubator for a couple days.”

  The pounding in my head gets louder, like a drumline at the Christmas parade. Unbearable. “Why can’t I remember any of this?”

  “The doctors warned you may have some memory loss, especially around the incident. It could be permanent or only temporary. They don’t know.” As he finishes, the doctor and two nurses rush in, sweeping everyone away from the bed and converging on me like vultures on a dead opossum, shining lights in my eyes and asking me to focus on their moving fingers. Up and down, back and forth, one corner to the other, and suddenly everything’s blurry and the room spins.

  The snare drum in my head intensifies with the dizziness, and I have to close my eyes and escape into the darkness to keep from hurling. The beeping monitor runs triple time. The cinched line across my lower belly radiates a deep ache throughout my abdomen, and I don’t realize I’m tense and holding myself up until the doctor takes my shoulders and lowers me back onto the pillows.