Love Me Broken

by Lily Jenkins

  When he doesn’t answer immediately, I look away.

  “Never mind,” I say. “It’s pretty far anyway. And I—”

  “Sure,” he says. I look up at him, the energy of the moment swimming inside me. His eyes are so soft, so comforting, I just want to stare at him for hours. How can someone have eyes like that and be real? Then he looks away. “But I have a question.”

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  He looks at me, and his nervousness makes me nervous. Whatever he’s going to say, I’m not going to like it.

  “So I know you don’t like cars,” he says, and I cringe at the word. “But what about motorcycles?”

  “Motorcycles?” I look away, considering it. I picture a motorcycle in my head, and feel… nothing. It’s no different than picturing a tree, or a mailbox. “Huh,” I say, my voice filled with surprise. “I don’t hate them.”

  He laughs and smiles down at me. “I can live with that.”

  “Pick me up at eight?” I ask.

  “Saturday. Eight o’clock.” He stares at me a moment longer. Then, before I have a chance to stall him, he turns to walk down the street. His broad back catches the sun, and he looks pretty good from behind, even in his workpants. I watch him leave before I walk up to the house, only realizing once I’ve closed the door that yet again we haven’t exchanged any information.

  I’ve got his name. I know where he works. But I have no way to get in touch with him, no way to change our date or ask him a question.

  I’m sure he’ll show up; he seems like that kind of guy.

  But I’m reminded once again that I shouldn’t get too attached. We only have this summer. This summer will be our last.

  I should tell her.

  I want to be with her but I should tell her.

  It’s Friday, nearing midnight, and all day I’ve been distracted thinking about Erica. Now I’m sitting in Levi’s garage, my new room. My head is in my hands and I rest it on my knees as I curl into myself.

  Why is it so hard to tell her? Even thinking about it hurts.

  Then I remember the bike. I sit up. I’ve paid off the bike. It’s sitting in Levi’s shed right now. I could say that I want to go out for a ride. He might not notice if I take my duffel bag with me. I’d be ditching the job, but I could leave some cash behind for Levi. It’s not like they can’t run the shop without me.

  I could find a new town. Look for a cheap room to rent. That was the point, right? To go somewhere where I’d be a stranger, somewhere without any attachments? Somewhere I wouldn’t have to be myself. Or deal with myself. Or any of it.

  Levi might not understand, but he’d get over it.

  Erica… she’d get over it too. She’s young. She’s hot. There’ll be lots of guys for her. To hold her hand. To—

  Help her cross the street.

  I can’t help it. I start to cry. “Fuck,” I say, and push my face into the mattress. I can’t deal with this. I can’t deal with any of it.

  Nicole works Saturday morning, and I take my normal window seat at the coffee shop. I’ve got my book with me, but I doubt I’ve read more than five pages in the past three days. I have it now less for entertainment than as a sort of armor against any too-friendly locals that might want to start a conversation.

  My mind is on Adam. I know it’s probably unhealthy obsessing so much over so little, but it feels good to let my mind fixate on something positive for a change. Plus, what’s the harm in a little crush?

  Nicole is busy anyway, both with the customers and with showing off the birthday balloons she got from Chad. It’s a bouquet of silver balloons, with cartoon characters and hearts on them. I guess it’s good that Chad took the effort to get her something, but you’d think he could at least pick out characters she liked. Her biggest balloon is a Bugs Bunny—no hearts, no birthday message on it. And I happen to know that Nicole hates Bugs Bunny. (I don’t know why. She just does.) I guess Chad didn’t know this—or maybe he doesn’t know Nicole very well. Either way, she’s prancing about behind the counter, showing off her balloons and not complaining at all. I guess you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. But I just think that a gift isn’t that sweet if it shows how little the person knows about you.

  Maybe I’m being too critical.

  I go up for a coffee refill, and Nicole’s face lights up. She takes my mug and asks if I’m drinking decaf or regular.

  “Regular,” I say. I must say this with a groan, because Nicole laughs. “I was up late last night,” I explain. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Her smile drops. She fills up the mug and hands it back to me. “Nightmares?” she asks quietly.

  “No,” I say. “Just nervous, I guess.”

  The smile is back on her face in an instant, twice as wide as before. “Ooooh!” she coos. “About your date!”

  I have to smile back at her excitement. I take my coffee mug. “I guess I didn’t realize how much I needed this.” I take a sip and check behind me to make sure I’m not holding up any customers. No one is there. “I wanted to say thank you for pushing me to do this,” I say.

  She waves away my praise. “Oh, don’t mention it. I’m tired of you sitting on the sidelines, making me look like a slut in comparison.”

  I shake my head and point to one of her balloons. It’s pink with a picture of Snow White, Cinderella, and Belle on it. “Never,” I say. “You are the birthday princess.” Then I point to Bugs Bunny. “Or is it birthday rabbit?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Damn Chad. Well, at least he’s got a big—” She stops mid-sentence and looks past me. “Another refill, Margie?”

  I turn, and there is the same old woman as last time. She spends more time in here than I do.

  “Yes,” she says, pushing past me. “And not so hot this time. I nearly burned my tongue last time.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a crime,” Nicole mutters as she takes the dirty mug. I catch eyes with her before heading back to my seat, and then return to pretend-reading my book.

  *

  Nicole walks me home in the early afternoon, and we chat a bit as I put out some food for Prickly Pete. Then she wishes me luck on my date and heads off to get ready for her party.

  It’s Saturday, so both of my parents are home. I make myself a light meal in the kitchen—some tomato soup and saltine crackers—and return to my room to eat it. I keep my door shut as I get ready for my date. Honestly, there’s not much to do. I already had my outfit picked out—nothing too glamorous, just a pair of nice jeans and a pink top that somehow manages to be both formal and party-friendly. I decide to tie my hair back, as I’ll be riding on a motorcycle later, and I apply some light makeup: eyebrows, eyelashes, and lips. Just the essentials. Then I sit in my room and wait. It’s an hour until eight and I’m completely ready.

  The nothingness starts to make me restless. I look at myself in the mirror again and pull down my hair. Maybe I should do something with it after all? Then I decide against it and put it back up into a ponytail. Then I spend a good ten minutes on my bed, trying to force myself to read. But I can’t, and I only end up going downstairs just to have something to do.

  Everything is already clean, so I just sort of stand in the kitchen, looking out the side window. My foot is tapping against the tile, and I’m just about to take out the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and wash them by hand when my dad comes downstairs.

  My dad has always been the quiet type, even before last summer. He’s average height, average build, and has unassuming features. He has light brown hair, worn short and graying on the sides. When he sees me in the kitchen, he stops for a beat as if considering turning around altogether. Then he shakes off the thought and comes in.

  “Hi, honey,” he says. His voice is gruff from disuse, and he coughs after he speaks. I lean against the counter as he crosses the kitchen to the fridge. He pulls out some peanut butter and goes to the counter next to me. He’s trying to act casual, but his shoulders are tense, and I don’t know what to say. Then I figure I’d
better tell him where I’ll be later.

  “Nicole’s having a party,” I say.

  He looks up, his movements stopping. Then he goes back to spreading the peanut butter. “Oh?” he says. “It’s been a while since you’ve gone to a party.”

  “It’s her birthday. I’m obligated.”

  He says nothing as he presses the two slices of bread together and cuts it down the middle. Then he nods. “You know, Erica…”

  I look up. He seems to be choosing his words carefully. He is about to go on when we hear the front door creak open. Both of our heads whip up to the sound. My mother is coming in for more wine. My dad grabs his sandwich and practically runs out of the room. He waves a hand to me without turning around. “Have fun,” he says on his way out, and then I’m in the kitchen alone.

  It’s a little too much later when my mom walks into the kitchen. I think she might have seen my dad and decided to linger by the front door until he went upstairs. She doesn’t say anything to me, only glances in my direction once without really seeing me. Then she opens up the cabinet, pulls out one of the two remaining bottles of wine, and shuffles back outside.

  I go back upstairs after that. I wait the remaining forty-five minutes in my room, sitting on the bed and staring into space. I don’t even bother to pretend to read at this point. Then, at five minutes to eight, I walk downstairs. The sun is low in the sky, but it’s still bright outside. I stand by the front door, debating whether to wait outside on the curb—in front of my mom—or inside here by the door, and risk Adam having to come up to the house. As I’m stalling, my dad comes down with his empty plate.

  “Heading out?” he asks on his way.

  “Yes,” I say, and grab the doorknob.

  Without another word, I walk outside and past my mother on the porch. I can’t look at her. I really wish she could just be inside and private about her drinking. I hate that everyone has to know. I walk to the end of the driveway and then decide to walk a few houses down, just so I don’t have to be within their view. I don’t know which direction Adam will be coming from, but I figure I’ll hear his motorcycle before I see it, and I can flag him down when he gets here. I sit on the curb and check my phone for the time. 7:59 p.m. I put it back into my pocket and breathe, trying to calm myself.

  And then I wait. There’s little point in denying it: this date with Adam is the first thing I’ve looked forward to in months. I want to make myself stop caring so much about him. It’s not like we can be together. But I can’t help it. Being near him is the most comforted I’ve felt since Conner died. Even thinking about him helps. I tap my foot and check the time again.

  At 8:02 I hear the loud roar of a motorcycle muffler in the distance. Hope flutters in my chest, then explodes as the sound reaches my block and I see a young man pulling up in front of me on his motorcycle.

  It’s Adam. He doesn’t have a helmet on, but there’s one clipped behind him on the edge of the seat. He stops the bike and puts a foot down on the ground to balance it, then switches off the engine. He’s wearing dark jeans, heavy brown shoes, and a tight-fitting black V-neck shirt. It shows off a triangle of his chest, which looks toned and muscular. I catch myself looking and force my eyes away. This must be how men feel when they’re caught staring at breasts. I smile, trying to cover my blushing. But he hasn’t noticed.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says at once. “I had to go back for the helmet.”

  There’s no need for him to apologize, because I’ve already forgiven him. He hands me the helmet and I hold it for a moment. “You aren’t going to wear one?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head and purses his lips ever so slightly. They are soft and pink. I want to kiss him. “Nah,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”

  “So do I just…?” I ask, getting closer and trying to figure out how to climb on. He notices and scoots up. “There’s no seatbelt,” he says, “so you’ll have to hold on tight.” He smiles. “I’ll go slow. Where is your friend’s party, anyway?”

  I take out my phone and show him directions on the map. I take this opportunity to stare at his face, his sharp features, the way his eyebrows draw together when he concentrates in a way that’s masculine and sexy. His hair is messy from the ride, but it looks clean and shines in the setting sunlight. He looks up from the phone and nods that he’s done. Then he grins, staring me in the eyes, and my stomach quakes. “All right,” he says, his voice husky. “Hop on.”

  I slide the helmet over my head and flip down the visor. It’s tinted, and I’m a little glad about this because I’m blushing like crazy as I climb onto the motorcycle, and I have to hold onto Adam’s middle. I’m not sure where to put my hands. They first land on his chest, which is warm and hard. I can feel his heartbeat. Then he takes my hands and slides them down to rest around his upper stomach, right below his ribcage. His stomach is taut and defined, and he makes sure my fingers are laced together for a tight grip before he reaches for the handlebars of the motorcycle.

  “If you need me to stop or slow down,” he says, “just tap me on the side. I won’t be able to hear you once the motor’s going.”

  “Okay,” I shout, my voice muffled by the helmet. Then he starts the bike, and it rumbles into life beneath me. I’ve got my arms around Adam, my purse over my shoulder. We take off.

  He starts slow, but it still makes me gasp to see the ground move underneath me. It’s similar to riding a bike, but more like riding a horse, I imagine. I’ve never ridden a horse though, so I can’t say for sure. I guess I think that because of the sheer power I feel between my legs. It vibrates pleasantly, and maybe it’s because I’ve got my arms around Adam and am already thinking about his body, but the sensation is starting to wake me up inside in a very agreeable way. I can feel my face getting red, even though I know Adam has no idea what’s going on behind him.

  Or does he? Have there been other girls?

  We reach the end of the block, and he stops to look both ways. I notice that he sets his feet down to balance. I wonder for a moment if I’m supposed to do that too, but then I figure if he wanted me to do it, he’d ask me.

  We turn onto the road and start heading uphill. The engine is revving to fight the climb, and gravity is forcing me backward so that I have to clutch onto Adam even tighter. The wind is blowing his hair, and I feel the breeze on my arms and legs and through my clothes. This is completely different than riding in a car. I’m much more exposed, much more part of the environment. I glance up at the clouds and am glad it doesn’t look like rain.

  We turn onto level ground and start heading east around the town. I think about Nicole. I wonder how her party is going. But my thoughts are cut short as Adam starts to go a little faster. My heartbeat accelerates, and for a moment I can’t breathe inside my helmet. It feels like we’re doing sixty, maybe seventy miles an hour—and then I notice the speedometer. We’re not even doing thirty.

  Okay. I calm down a bit. I guess all the wind and the fact that I haven’t ridden in a vehicle for almost a year is playing with my senses. It will be okay.

  And as I realize this, I start to relax and get into it again. It is sort of exhilarating, like riding a roller coaster over the hills of town.

  When we reach the other side of Astoria, the ground is flatter and the roads straighter. I start to really enjoy myself. It feels—it feels like we’re flying. Yet it feels probably safer than it should, under the bubble of my helmet, with my arms around Adam, feeling his warmth and the way his stomach inflates with each breath.

  I don’t know him that well, but I don’t care—I want someone to share this moment with. I lean forward and press my body into his back. I already had my arms around him, but now it feels like I’m hugging him. His body reacts without changing his position. He leans back into me ever so slightly, and even above the vibrations of the engine I swear I can feel a moan escape from his chest and rumble through his frame.

  It’s a moan of longing that runs deeper than sex. It’s the moan of a lonely soul. And I
just press up against him tighter.

  Erica’s got her hands around me the whole way to the party. A few times when we make a turn or go downhill, her grip tightens and I have some trouble breathing. Not that I’m complaining. I’m just glad she feels safe.

  And then about halfway there, she starts hugging up against me even when we aren’t turning.

  It makes me glad I took a shower before heading out to pick her up. Yeah, it made me a little late. Which is not cool. But I’d rather have her angry with me than thinking I was gross. Plus I knew she’d be looking hot as usual, which she is.

  Finally our ride is over and we pull up to Nicole’s, a single story brown house standing across the street from some tidelands. I scoot past a line of cars and trucks parked outside and pull the bike up to the front by the garage. It’s not dark yet outside, but there’s a yellow light on the front porch, and from inside comes the sound of music. People-shaped shadows move against the closed blinds.

  I turn off the engine and put my feet down to balance. Then I step off and help Erica down. Her hand is shaking when I take it, and for a moment I worry that she was freaking out the whole time. Maybe the ride was as bad for her as crossing streets alone—or worse?

  But when she pulls off the helmet, her hair is flustered and there’s a huge grin on her face. I smile with relief when I see it.

  “That was incredible!” she gasps. I take the helmet and she starts to smooth down her hair, looking past me and almost laughing at the memory of the ride. “I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.”

  “You told me,” I say, and laugh a little too. I set the helmet down on the seat. “You ready?” I ask, and motion to the house.

  Her smile freezes a little and her shoulders hunch slightly as she listens to the sounds of the party. She tries to smile again, but it seems forced. “Yeah,” she says, a little too light-heartedly. “Let’s go find the birthday girl.”

  We step up onto the porch and Erica raises her hand to knock, then reconsiders and just opens the door. I follow her inside, and the bass of the stereo hits me at once. It’s a song I don’t recognize, and I can’t say I’m a fan of it. It sounds like something by a teen pop group formed to sell records to lonely young girls. It lacks any kind of heart or soul to it.