Anything but Broken

by Joelle Knox

  Belonging.

  The peaches she sets in front of me are ripe and fragrant. They remind me of lazy summers, of Cait climbing the neighbor’s peach tree to toss the fruit down to me. It’s the first time in a long time that a memory of her hasn’t been bittersweet, and I wonder if this is what closure feels like. Regret will always be a part of me, along with sadness, but the weight of expectations and disappointment is gone.

  “Maybe one more.” Sadie sets one last piece of fruit on the edge of the cutting board and leans her hip against the counter, watching me. “Sean said you’re not heading back to Atlanta right away.”

  There’s nothing in her voice that indicates disapproval, but I still feel a flutter of nervousness. “Yeah, I withdrew from school. I thought it might be good to take a break, figure out what I want to do with my life.”

  “They have to expect that you might need a few months.”

  I focus on creating perfect slices, keeping my voice casual. “I may not go back. I’ve been looking at other schools closer to Hurricane Creek. At different programs.”

  “Oh?”

  The idea has been so tentative that I’ve barely let myself think it. It wouldn’t have been a possibility in a world where my mother was alive and controlled my financial future. Maybe it’s still ridiculous, but the worst Sadie can do is laugh. “I was thinking about counseling.”

  For a moment, silence. Then Sadie squeezes my shoulder, her voice low and reassuring. “That sounds lovely, Hannah.”

  I didn’t realize how tense I was until relief floods me. “You think so?”

  She grins and tilts her head into a tiny shrug. “I’m a nurse. I’m not exactly going to discourage you from choosing a difficult, underappreciated career, am I?”

  I laugh. “I guess not. Maybe you can help me look at catalogs sometime.”

  “You name it, I’m there.” She picks up a platter of bacon and sausage and winks at me before heading out into the dining room.

  I’m about to finish up the peach when Sean’s brother, Grady, comes in and reaches for the knife. “You need to get out there and save Sean.”

  “Save him?”

  “From the teasing.” Grady grins. “They’ll lay off if you’re out there. This time, anyway.”

  Heat fills my cheeks as I wash my hands and spend a little too long drying them. Sean and I still haven’t talked about what we are and what we’re doing, but he doesn’t seem to mind other people making assumptions.

  Slipping into this perfect life without having to ask the awkward questions feels like cheating, but I’m starting to think I can get away with it.

  The dining room is noisy chaos again, but there’s an empty spot waiting for me next to Sean. I slide into it with a smile for Sean’s mother, and under the table I sneak my hand into his. “Hi.”

  His fingers close tight around mine, and the look in his eyes makes the rest of the room fade away. It’s just him and me in our own little bubble of happiness as he murmurs, “Hi.”

  It’s the same look from that first night in the bar. The look that settles in my gut and whispers everything will be okay, because I’m the center of Sean Whitlow’s world, and he won’t let anything happen to me.

  A balled-up napkin collides with Sean’s face and shatters the moment. “Lover-boy,” Gibb drawls from across the table. “Can you pass the bacon or not?”

  Sean grimaces and hands over the platter. “You’re an asshole.”

  “Sean,” his mother snaps.

  But Trey is laughing. “Fair shot, Mrs. Whitlow.”

  “I’m a jerk,” Gibb agrees blithely, shoveling bacon onto his plate. He’s in a better mood than I’ve seen him in since I came home. He isn’t exactly throwing grins and winks my way, but he’s not glowering at me, either.

  For Gibb, that’s almost as welcoming as Sadie’s hug.

  Grady comes through the door with a fresh plate of steaming waffles, and I sneak one onto my plate before they can vanish. And they do, within seconds, between Joe, Sawyer, and Sadie’s fiancé, who are at the opposite end of the table discussing the football season kickoff.

  I can go to that now, if I want. I can sit in the stands and cheer for Sean’s brother and his players, like I’m part of a family. Part of this family. I won’t be the first stray they’ve adopted. Gibb and Trey are proof of that.

  There’s a place for me here, if I can leave the past behind me. And why shouldn’t I? I’m the only one left who knows the worst of the Casey family secrets. I can bury them with my family and live a better life, one where I help girls like Cait, even girls like me.

  Mary Whitlow’s voice cuts through my reverie. “When are you planning on moving, Hannah?”

  That’s right. I have one last tie to cut, though after the last couple weeks, this one seems effortless. “Soon. Evie and I were talking about renting a van and driving over sometime next week.”

  “Don’t do that,” Gibb interjects. “I’m going to Atlanta on Wednesday anyway. I’ll drop y’all off to pack up, and when I’m done with my appointment, I’ll help you load everything into my truck.”

  He says it like it’s no big deal, but this is Gibb. Not just offering help, but to aid and abet my permanent return to Hurricane Creek. He’s been counting down the seconds until I’ll be out of Sean’s life since the moment I crashed back into it.

  This is better than a hug. It’s a peace offering. “Thanks, Gibb. That would be great.”

  “Can you get it all in one truck?” Sean asks. “I can leave Tommy at the garage and—”

  “One truck is more than enough,” I say quickly, because Sean’s mother is watching me, and for a second I feel Cait’s shadow. How many times did she lure him away from something he needed to be doing? From school or work or his life?

  “Okay.” Sean concedes quickly—too quickly, because he has to be remembering the same things.

  Some of them. Gibb was wary for a reason. Even if I do my best to bury the secrets where no one can find them, I can never forget that truth.

  I could ruin Sean Whitlow’s life. But maybe—maybe—I won’t.

  17

  »» hannah ««

  My truce with Gibb hits a speed bump when he walks into my apartment.

  It didn’t occur to me while Evie and I bustled around, packing. But with Gibb here, I see the loft through new eyes. When Carly and I first rented it, the towering ceilings and bare brick walls seemed industrial and adventurous. Exposed pipes and barred windows—we were living the rich-girl fantasy of urban.

  Now it just looks pretentious.

  Gibb’s trying, though. I’ll give him that. He eyes the two thousand square feet of contrived extravagance without comment—until he gets to the iron spiral staircase that leads up to the bedrooms. “As long as you don’t have any big furniture up there, we should be good.”

  I shake my head and wave to the neatly stacked boxes. “This is most of it. I do have an office chair—”

  “I’ll bring it down,” Evie cuts in.

  She’s already heading for the stairs. Gibb reaches them first and blocks her way with one tattooed arm. “I got it, Galloway.”

  Her eyes flash, and the tension in the air feels like a brewing storm. Then it’s gone in an instant, and Evie backs away and holds both hands aloft. “Sure thing, Blair,” she mutters. “Don’t let me interfere with your manly mission.”

  His grin can be a weapon when he feels like using it as one, and he doesn’t spare Evie. “As long as we’re clear on the manly part.”

  His boots rattle the staircase as he climbs, and I slip to Evie’s side. “You okay?”

  Instead of answering, she turns to an open box still sitting on the kitchen counter. “You’re sure we have everything from in here?”

  She’s not as skilled at avoidance as I am, but I let her have it. “Carly and I bought most of the kitchen stuff together, but she never uses them. If there’s anything you think we could use at your place…”

  “It’s not really up to m
e what you take, Hannah.”

  She’s right. It’s a habit I have to stop falling back on, seeking approval and permission. Asking Sadie if I should become a counselor. Asking Evie what she needs for her kitchen.

  What do you want, Hannah?

  I pull open a cupboard and drag out the least practical purchase of all, the one I made out of nostalgia but always ached too much to use. An old-fashioned gourmet ice cream maker, the kind with a wooden bucket that mimics the one my grandmother owned.

  Hers was a true antique, and some of my earliest memories are of sitting on her porch while Cait turned the crank, both of us asking, Is it ready yet? every few minutes.

  It won’t be the same. It never is. But it’s mine, and I want it. “How does homemade ice cream sound?”

  Evie arches an eyebrow, but a hint of a smile is already breaking through her skepticism. “Do I have to make it?”

  “Nope.” It’s still in the box, so I haul it over and set it next to the rest of them. “You just have to help me eat it.”

  “Deal.” Her voice lowers, and she worries at the cardboard flap of the open box. “Sorry, it’s just…Gibb, you know? Even when I try to be nice, it’s like he doesn’t want to hear it.”

  I think about Gibb’s absence from my first brunch, and the careful distance between him and Sawyer this past Sunday. There’s something there, I know there is, but Gibb has always had rock-hard armor two inches deep. People like my parents taught him he needed it early on.

  And Evie’s parents aren’t so different from my own. They’re just richer—and still alive. “I don’t think Gibb is good at expressing his feelings,” I say softly, because I can hear the chair rolling toward the top of the stairs. “You have to watch what he does instead of what he says.”

  Evie hears it too, she must, because her answer is nearly inaudible, as muted as the conflict and pain in her eyes. “I’m tired of watching Gibb.”

  Her pain is real, and the world is cruel. Because Gibb’s decided the quickest way down the stairs is by holding the chair over his head in one hand. His sleeve has inched up to reveal the entire length of his flexing arm, and I don’t know how anyone with a pulse could not watch him toss around my hundred-pound ergonomic chair like it’s a five-pound sack of flour.

  Evie’s eyes go wide, and a helpless laugh bubbles out of her as she shakes her head. “Couldn’t find an excuse to lose the shirt, Hercules?”

  “You wanted manly.” He reaches the ground floor and sets the chair down so gently the wheels barely clatter, and somehow that’s even more impressive. He nudges it toward the door. “Finish packing. I’ll start loading the truck.”

  When he’s gone, I let out a breath and give Evie’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “I guess that answers that. No one shows off that hard for no reason.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” But her smile is back as she slams the flaps shut on the box. “I wonder what hate sex is like?”

  Sooner or later, I have a feeling she’s going to find out.

  I don’t tell her that, though. I scan the kitchen instead, looking for anything else I want to take with me. So much of it is pristine and untouched, abandoned in favor of takeout or delivery. And the ice cream machine was the only trace of me.

  Even the things that are mine don’t feel like it. My stack of textbooks for the summer term sits on the coffee table where I left them the day I purchased them, untouched and unwanted. Buying them had been one last gasp of denial. My books from last spring are on a shelf, too, the spines barely creased and the pages devoid of notes and highlights.

  I gave up on being here almost as soon as we moved in. I can’t believe it took me this long to admit it.

  Gibb has come and gone with a stack of boxes by the time I finish my careful circuit of the main living area. The only thing left for me is the stack of mail on the dining room table—mostly bills. I texted Carly yesterday and asked her to leave them out so I could pay my half, but she didn’t say anything about wanting to meet me, and I felt weird about pushing.

  Maybe this is all I’ve been to her for a while. Half the bills.

  I drop my bag on the table and pull out my rarely used checkbook. “I guess this is it.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.” Evie hauls out the chair opposite mine, sinks into it, and rests her chin on her hands. “Not if you need more time to decide.”

  The fact that I can slip in here, pack a few boxes, and leave nothing and no one behind means I’ve already decided. I shake my head and sort through the bills. “I never fit here. Carly tried to drag me out and make me have fun, but I never wanted to go. She’s probably relieved that her boyfriend can move in now.”

  “You won’t be alone,” Evie offers. “You’ll have Sean. And me.”

  “I know.” I reach across the table to grip her hand. “I’m not sad, I promise. Only that I stayed here as long as I did, you know?”

  She gives me a solid squeeze back. “Yeah, I know how that feels.”

  After that, it’s a simple matter of writing the check. A little over two thousand dollars buys my freedom from rent and leftover bills. It takes a bite out of the money from my life insurance policy, but I can live frugally until the estate clears up.

  I don’t leave Carly a note. If she wants something, she can text me, but I don’t think she will. I was always an obligation, though she never made me feel that way. I’m pretty sure I’ve gotten my last concerned email from her.

  Maybe I should feel sad, at least about that, but I don’t. Tucking my checkbook away, I smile at Evie. “Let’s go home.”

  »» sean ««

  It’s been a busy week, the kind where you have so much to do that it’s hard to know where to start. Here I am, smack in the middle of it, and my head is still spinning.

  So I get back to basics—working on my car before the race on Saturday night. It’s peaceful, being in the garage after hours, with nothing but the clink of tools, the experimental rev of the car after an adjustment. Maybe the radio, and some good-natured ribbing, if Gibb’s in the mood.

  He’s in a mood tonight, all right, but it’s not the talking kind.

  We’re halfway through breaking down the engine to replace the valve springs when I finally break the strange silence filling the otherwise empty garage. “I wanted to say…” I begin awkwardly. It shouldn’t be this damn hard to thank my best friend for a favor, but there’s something weird in the air tonight. “I appreciate it, man. What you did for Hannah today. It meant a lot to her.”

  Gibb shrugs without looking away from the engine. “She’s your girl.”

  “Still. It was a stand-up thing to do.”

  “Yeah, you have no fucking idea, man.”

  I wipe my hands on a shop rag. “Last race of the season. You think Mason’ll be up to some dirty tricks?”

  “No doubt. By this point, he’s figured out he’s not gonna beat you fair.”

  But does he want it bad enough to cheat? “If anything seems too off, we could always lodge a protest. If they tear down his car, you know they’re gonna find something.”

  Gibb grimaces. “Unless they don’t. Then we’re out a hundred bucks, and everyone thinks you’re piss-ass scared and a whiner on top of it.”

  “No kidding.” It wouldn’t matter if he was right. For way too many fans—and drivers—cheating in small ways is an accepted fact of the sport. Everyone does it—or so they say—and the best way to deal is to beat them at their own game. “I guess I’ll have to stick to being a better driver than him. And having a better car—even if it is all regulation.”

  “You’ll kick his ass.” Gibb straightens and reaches for a rag. “I was thinking about racing again next year.”

  It was the last thing I expected to hear. “You want to take over the car?”

  “Hadn’t really thought that far ahead.” He leans back against the work counter, still staring at the engine. “I love this part. But I miss driving.”

  Half the time, racing feels less like competing
against other drivers and more like competing with yourself. Pushing your limits, your car, until the roar of the engine drowns out the surging crowd. Taking every turn just right, with enough speed to carry you through, but not to spin you out of control.

  Being behind the wheel is a rush. Winning is its own class of drug. “Yeah.”

  “There’s time to figure it out. We could swap out, or compete in different divisions.” Gibb grins ruefully. “Probably won’t even punch anyone this time.”

  Gibb is one hell of a driver, better than me. He knows exactly when to take risks on the track, when to run hot, and when to let up before something blows. It’s everything else that seems to trip him up.

  He hasn’t raced in years, not since the season when Roy Simmons made it his personal mission to fuck with Gibb’s head. Either before or after every race, Roy would make snide remarks about Gibb’s dad, even going so far as to threaten Gibb and his brother, Trey. It didn’t surprise anyone when Gibb fought back.

  But getting disqualified or suspended from every other race will play hell with your points. Frustrated, Gibb quit the season—and he didn’t pick up the next year.

  If he could control his temper, he could go all the way. And I’m not talking about winning the purse at a tiny little short track in Hurricane Creek, Georgia. I’m talking invitationals, events at tracks owned by NASCAR drivers, and team scouts crawling his ass.

  If he could control his temper. Not that I give him shit about it, because I’m in no position to talk. If I blow a race or season just for the satisfaction of punching Mason Shaw, I’ll lose more than points. I could lose customers, I could lose my business, and everyone who works for me would be out of a job.

  And still, sometimes, I think it might be worth it.

  “We’ll make it work,” I tell him firmly.

  Gibb nods and pushes off the bench, no more words needed. But I can see the relief in him, as if he’d been tensed for me to talk him out of it.

  That’s not my style—but I do have one more question. “Why now? It’s been almost five years.”