Anything but Broken

by Joelle Knox

  It doesn’t, but the word roommate twists in my gut. It sounds so permanent, and there’s nothing I want to do right now more than leave the dust of this town in my rearview mirror.

  I want to—and I can’t. The hospital wants me to make decisions. My father’s lawyer wants me to go over paperwork about the estate. At some point, I really will have to decide if I’m going to put the house on the market.

  My fingers brush Sean’s as I fold them around the paper. His hand is just as warm this morning as it was last night, and it’s the only human contact I’ve had with someone I actually know. Everything else has been stiff, pity-filled hugs from strangers who look like they’re secretly relishing their brush with the latest town scandal.

  This is different. Warm. Glancing. Almost an accident—until I let myself linger.

  I’m past pathetic. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Give her a call, okay?”

  “Okay.” It isn’t quite a promise. I want to believe I won’t call her, that I’ll take a few Advil, put my head on straight, and march forth into Hurricane Creek like the grownup I’m supposed to be. A week of hard decisions and adult choices, and I can be on my way back to Atlanta to finish off summer term.

  Too bad the mess I left behind me is getting worse by the minute. I almost wish my parents were still here to watch me self-destruct.

  They deserve it.

  »» sean ««

  I know before I even pull into the parking lot that Gibb is gonna give me hell.

  Both garage bay doors are open and chained off. A Toyota is sitting on one rack, high off the floor, with all four tires removed. A silver SUV is in the other bay. Tommy, the junior mechanic on staff, is already busy under its hood.

  Gibb is standing there, his arms crossed over his chest, watching me. So I pull my truck to a stop on the other side of the garage and head into the tiny office.

  He’s at the door before I can sit down. “Tommy had a fun story about how he spent his morning.”

  Here we go. “I had him fetch Hannah’s car from Shorty’s.”

  “Yeah, that wasn’t the fun part.”

  “I bet.” I give up on shuffling through yesterday’s mail and raise an eyebrow. “She didn’t want to go home. Do you blame her?”

  “Nah, she was too drunk for good sense. You, on the other hand…” Gibb steps through the door and swings it shut, and I know shit’s serious. “Don’t do this again, Sean.”

  I don’t have to ask what he means. “You’re way off base, man. Jesus Christ.”

  “You don’t have to be hooking up to get dragged into her mess.” He drops into the other chair with a rough sigh. “Hell, half the time Cait spent screwing up your life, you two weren’t even together.”

  I can’t argue with that. Cait had a way of pulling you back in so hard you couldn’t even remember you’d been trying to get away. But it’s impossible to imagine Hannah doing the same. “This is different, Gibb. I’m not some idiot kid getting stupid over a pretty girl.”

  “Yeah, it’s worse.” With a jerk of his head, he indicates the garage, with its steady clamor of music and voices and tools clanging on metal. The garage isn’t busy, not yet, but I’m building a reputation—and a list of loyal customers. “Now you’ve got shit to lose, and people depending on you.”

  “She doesn’t have any friends,” I tell him. “You’ve been in some rough spots, but you’ve never been alone in them.”

  “Shit.” Gibb sighs again, and I hear the first strains of guilt in the sound. He can be an asshole, but he’s never a bully. “She probably has an entire sorority house somewhere waiting to hug her and bake her cookies.”

  No, she doesn’t. I’m not sure exactly how I know—it’s not like she has three heads or seems particularly antisocial—but I know. There are acquaintances back in Atlanta, maybe even some folks who would call themselves friends. But there’s no one who knows her well enough for this kind of truth.

  “She doesn’t have any friends here,” I amend. “I don’t know, maybe Evie can help her.”

  “There you go. Evie will know what she needs better than you ever could. Rich-girl instincts or whatever.”

  I roll my eyes at him and retrieve the stack of mail. “Is my new engine ready for tonight?”

  Gibb relents with a grin. “Hell, yeah. I needed something to do last night while you were playing hero.”

  “What happened to that girl up in Douglasville?”

  “She was starting to talk about how nice it would be if I lived up in Douglasville.”

  Kiss of death. “Someone should have warned her not to try to tie you down.”

  “Hey, I know the trailer’s a dump, but I like my land. No one’s prying me off it.”

  His father’s land—the reminder dies on my tongue, because it’s the one thing Gibb never forgets. His dad blows into town now and then, drunk off his ass and broke, and Gibb takes care of him.

  I’m not the only one around here who can’t resist a lost cause.

  I keep my voice light. “If you hadn’t already run through all the local girls, I could set you up.”

  Gibb laughs. “Whatever. I’m sure I can find a new friend tonight, if I want to. And so can you.”

  “Weren’t you just lecturing me on focus and taking care of business?”

  “C’mon, Sean.” Gibb gives me that look, the one that screams you’re kidding yourself. “If you can’t tell the difference, you’re screwed.”

  “Sex is sex?” I shake my head. Not with the women at the speedway. Fans, groupies, drivers, mechanics—it doesn’t matter. Mess with one and have it go bad? Your life could be a living hell. “There’s enough drama on the track without getting my dick involved.”

  “Yeah, well. There’s drama, and then there’s Casey family drama.” Gibb’s phone buzzes, and he hauls it out of his pocket to check the screen. His brow furrows, but he only locks the phone and rises. “I know you think I’m giving Hannah a hard time, but she just doesn’t know shit about consequences. It’s true, even though it’s not her fault. Girls like that’ll wreck your life and be real sorry, but it won’t help you when daddy’s money is saving them.”

  There he goes again, acting like it’s a matter of time before Hannah talks me into breaking into the high school or spray-painting an overpass. “I’m too old for that stuff. And so are you,” I add with a pointed look at his phone.

  Gibb leers. “It was your sister, asking if I’ll run away with her.”

  “Fuck you, Blair. And get back to work.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He walks out, still frowning down at his phone. Women or family troubles, those are the options. With anyone else, I’d say it could be either. But with Gibb…

  He’s always been big with the ladies. A little too popular from time to time.

  I shove the thought out of my head. It doesn’t matter, anyway. No matter how many times Gibb gets stomped on, he never seems to let it get him down. He’ll be focused, everything in perfect order before we have to load up for the race.

  I need help, so I pull out my checklist. It centers me, looking at a black-and-white list of everything I need to double-check before practice and qualifying. Body dimensions, weight. I’ll have to make sure Gibb replaced the flywheel with one that still meets regulations, and that he didn’t shave any height off the floor-pan clearance.

  I’m so immersed in scanning the list that the thought crosses my mind before I can stop it, and I immediately look around to make sure Gibb isn’t around to see the guilt flash across my face.

  I should have invited Hannah.

  4

  »» hannah ««

  Evie tells me to meet her at the Southern Cross Boutique. I find it on the south side of Hurricane Creek’s picturesque town square. The shop looks like a vintage postcard, from its old-fashioned brick façade to the weathered wooden sign—touched up with a fresh coat of paint, of course. Everything on the street is like that, the disjointed marriage of new and old that y
ou only find in small towns populated by wealthy people.

  In the poorer areas surrounding downtown, buildings are renovated or replaced. In the heart of Hurricane Creek they’re restored, which is a distinction I was too young to appreciate at fifteen. This part of town is closed to anyone who can’t afford to recreate the past. I’m sure there’s a bylaw somewhere forbidding vinyl siding or big chain stores.

  If there wasn’t, my mother probably introduced one.

  A bell jingles above me as I pull open the boutique’s door, and I’m hit by the scent of gardenia. There’s a display of candles just inside the shop, but my gaze slides past it, flitting from one shelf to the next, taking in the chaotic jumble of things, and I’m struck by the oddest sensation. I haven’t felt it in so long that it takes me a second to put my finger on it.

  Comfort. I’m comfortable in this store, for all the reasons I wasn’t on the sidewalk. It’s funky in a way that has nothing to do with caring what other people think. It’s authentic. The shelves are cluttered with handmade artwork and trinkets. There’s soap and lotion on a second display past the candles, and more bottles that look like every sort of bath product you could possibly want. Beyond that, an entire section of kitchenware—not the glossy, perfect china patterns my mother favored, but earthy bowls and plates that look hand-painted.

  On my left is a display case full of jewelry. Rings and bracelets and necklaces, all intricate metalwork, each piece unique. I pick up a ring that’s nothing but a broad, flat circle—except the silhouette of a tree has been cut out of the top, so the pieces don’t quite meet, creating an image in the negative space. No leaves, just the stark trunk and wide branches.

  That’s how I feel. Stripped of everything. Bare.

  A tall brunette steps out of the back and squints at me for a moment before smiling. “Hannah?”

  The Evie I remember was tiny, short and slender. Now she’s my height, with curves like a silver screen movie starlet, rocking a yellow sundress that manages to be both cute and sexy. I feel unsophisticated and stuffy by comparison.

  But her smile is the same, and it’s like the store. Welcoming, so reassuring that I smile back. “Hi, Evie.”

  “I was so glad to hear from you.” She pulls me into a short hug. “How’re you doing?”

  I’ve hated that question since I was fifteen, because no one wants the messy reality, and no one believes the pretty lie. I’ve come up with a dozen stock answers, the polite middle ground of civilized conversation. I’m hanging in here. Getting by. Still going. At some point in my life, my continued existence became the best news I had to offer.

  None of them fit here, so I tell the truth. “Things kind of suck.”

  “No kidding.” She rubs my upper arms for a split second, then steps back and shakes her head. “What can I do?”

  “I need a place to stay.” I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that. It sounds like I want to crash on her couch, even though I haven’t seen her in seven years. “Just while I’m in town, I mean. Sean— I mean, someone told me you were looking for a roommate. I can pay rent.”

  “I’ve got space,” Evie says with another smile. “If you don’t mind sharing a bathroom.”

  Relief makes the room wobble. I don’t have to go back to that cold, empty house, and I want her to ask me how I’m doing again because better would be the truth now. “Not at all.”

  “Okay, then.” She props her hands on her hips and looks around the shop. “I should be done here around seven. You can come back then, or just hang out. If you want.”

  I’ve already done my daily stint at the hospital, and I can’t take care of any legal stuff on a Saturday. It still feels like slacking off, but I don’t care. “I’ll hang out. You said this is your aunt’s store?”

  “Aunt Rose,” she confirms. “The eccentric black sheep of the family. Except now she has to share the title with me.” She walks behind the display case. There’s a small, sleek cash register there, along with a coffee maker that brews by the cup. “Want some tea?”

  “I’d love some.” I’m still holding the ring, and I don’t want to put it back. So I place it on the counter and reach for my wallet. “Who makes the stuff in here?”

  “In the case?”

  “The jewelry, yeah. It’s beautiful.”

  “Most of it is mine.” Her pride is evident as she runs one hand along the top edge of the display. “Aunt Rose lets me sell it here with no consignment.”

  “Really?” I take a second look, even more impressed than before. I’ve watched friends pay a few hundred dollars for stuff that isn’t half this nice. “How did you get into it?”

  “The truth?” Evie wrinkles her nose, and her cheeks turn pink. “I learned to spot weld because of a guy. I know—it’s pathetic. Turns out, I liked the metal more than I liked him. I’ve been doing it ever since.”

  I want to ask what happened to the fine arts academy, to ballet, but it doesn’t seem right. For all I know, Evie never wanted to dance as much as her parents wanted her to be a dancer—something I can relate to all too well. Or maybe it was a dream that came to a painful end for her. Either way, she seems happy now. “It turned out better for you than the time I joined track because of Shep Neally.”

  “Twisted roads,” she murmurs. “It’s funny where they take us, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t even know what road I’m on.” It’s maybe too much truth, so I soften it with a shrug. “But I guess I’ve got time to figure it out, right?”

  She nods, but her smile fades slowly. “How are you holding up? Really.”

  “Really?” My stomach churns. The muscles in my neck and shoulders ache, as if my whole life is pressing down on me, the weight of it making me smaller. “I don’t know that, either.”

  “You take your time, okay?” she says firmly. “It’s your shit to handle, no one else’s. That means no one gets to tell you how or when to do it.”

  Tears sting my eyes, and I can’t blink them away. We’re older and different and haven’t seen each other in years, but unlike Sean, Evie never belonged to Cait. Evie’s mine—maybe the only person in the world I can say that about now. “I missed you.”

  She folds me into another hug, a longer one this time. “Me too. Seven years is too damn long.”

  “I should have looked you up.” It’s an excuse I’ve given so many times. “It was just... After Cait, things were weird for a long time.”

  “I understand.” Her face shadows. “I heard about it while I was at school in Atlanta. I’m sorry, Hannah.”

  It’s funny how universal the secret language of grief is. It’s like the pain is too vast and uncomfortable for the people around us, so we have a thousand ways to give them permission to move on. I know all of them, so many they bubble up without thought. “It was a long time ago.”

  Evie bites her lip and bows her head, and her hair swings forward to hide her face. It’s a gesture I recognize—she’s biting back words. Holding her tongue. The angles of her face are sharper, and her hair is shorter, with glossy red highlights set off against the brown, but the expression is the same.

  Some things never change.

  And some things need to. I reach for her hand and squeeze it. “I know. I sound like my mother. Wouldn’t want to talk about anything real, right?”

  Evie says nothing, and I remember my mother’s in the hospital, another of those things that’s too painful to discuss, and that’s my life now. Grief, awkwardness, and small talk about the weather.

  “Sorry,” I offer weakly. “Even my sense of humor is broken. Are you sure you want me in your house?”

  “You’re handling it all as well as anyone can expect,” she protests. “You need something normal. My house is normal. Hell, it’s boring. It’ll be great.”

  “Boring sounds good.” I’m such a liar. Fifteen minutes of sitting in peace, left with my thoughts, and the itching will be back under my skin. Or I’ll trip over a few more painfully stupid attempts at conversation and wish I was a
lone again. I don’t know if I’m actually better at talking to people after a few drinks, but I feel better at it.

  Maybe I need to brave my parents’ house one last time. After all, it wouldn’t be the Casey home without an extensive selection of top-shelf liquor. Only the highest quality in all things—even the secret vices.

  »» sean ««

  Walking into the pits in the dead of summer is like walking through the gates of hell.

  I’ve pulled on my fire suit already, but I leave the top hanging around my waist to enjoy the faint breeze on my bare arms just a little longer. It seems like a good idea when I pass by one of the newer Buzz drivers puking into a garbage can. He must have been trying to watch the ongoing race—standing in the infield, following the cars as they roar on the track surrounding you, will make you dizzy as hell. That, combined with the heat and the overwhelming smell of exhaust, will leave you chucking your dinner while the other guys laugh.

  I keep my gaze straight ahead, locked on the man standing by the back left wheel of my car. He looks up from his clipboard at my approach and shakes his head.

  “Time to suit up!” Boone yells. I can barely hear him over the screaming engines and my ear protection, but he motions to the flag stand, where the white flag is waving wildly. “Mini Mods are almost done!”

  One more lap. Gibb is still camped out under the car, making last-minute changes. He wasn’t happy with the car’s performance during qualifying, which is insane, because it was one of my best times yet.

  I shrug my arms into the sleeves of my fire suit and crouch down next to him. The current race finishes, and I pull the plug out of one ear. “Wedge adjustment?”

  He slides out from under the car. “You were too loose coming out of the corners. You want Shaw to crush you?”

  Mason Shaw is a rich kid playing dress-up. He’s never had to fight for anything, and I don’t think he has the heart to beat me on the track. “He can try.”

  “Oh, he’ll be gunning for you, all right. And I’ll never fucking forgive you if you let him win.”