by B. Celeste
All the Shattered Pieces
B. Celeste
Contents
PLAYLIST
Other Books by B. Celeste
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Bonus Scene #1: Chapter Four
BONUS SCENE #2: Chapter Twenty-Six
BONUS SCENE #3: Chapter Thirty-Nine
Author Note
About the Author
This Book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All the Shattered Pieces
Copyright © 2021 by B. Celeste
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Artist:
Opulent Designs
Interior by:
BJ Bentley
Published by:
B. Celeste
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author
Created with Vellum
This novella is for those who loved Kaiden in Underneath the Sycamore Tree and those who share his struggles and understand his grief and anxiety. I see you. He sees you.
The world sees you.
And we’re here for you.
PLAYLIST
Demons – Imagine Dragons
F U Till I F U – Call Me Karizma
Always Remember Us This Way – Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper
i hate u, i love you – Gnash
Late Thoughts – Hanx
everything i wanted – Billie Eilish
Half a Man – Dean Lewis
The Diary of Jane – Breaking Benjamin
Bring Me to Life – Evanescence
Meet Me at Our Spot– The Anxiety, Willow, and Tyler Cole
Other Books by B. Celeste
The Truth about Heartbreak
The Truth about Tomorrow
The Truth about Us
Underneath the Sycamore Tree
Where the Little Birds Go
Where the Little Birds Are
Into the Clear Water
Color Me Pretty
Tell Me When It’s Over
Dare You to Hate Me
Tell Me Why It's Wrong
Make You Miss Me
Chapter One
I wake in a jolt, cold sweat sticking to my forehead as moonlight streams through the broken blinds.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I pinch the bridge of my nose and rub my eyes with the heels of my palms until reality seeps back in. I sit up in bed, listening to the springs creak under my weight and turn to look at the time on my cell phone.
“Fuck,” I groan, dropping back down and draping a bent arm over my eyes. I’ve only been asleep for three hours. An entire hour longer than I managed to sleep last night.
My heartbeat thumps loudly in my chest, echoing in my eardrums until I can’t take it anymore. I drag myself to the bathroom, dig through my medicine cabinet until I find the nearly empty bottle, and twist the cap.
Two pills.
A glass of water.
My eyes focus on the number of refills.
Zero.
I close my eyes and grip the edges of the countertop before pushing off it.
It’s been two and a half years since I was prescribed the antidepressants. I’d milked them out even after I stopped going to Dr. Brown. I knew if I was smart, I’d call the number on the crinkled business card stuffed somewhere deep in my closet to get another one called in by him, but that would require opening old wounds that I’d like to think I moved on from.
More “how does that make you feel?” and other dumbass questions that only fuel the flames sparking deep inside me.
Because how the hell am I supposed to feel? Death leaves a heartache that nobody can completely heal from, no matter the amount of therapy sessions or medication. There are too many memories left behind of the people you lost that nobody could steal.
No matter how badly I wish they could.
Because then I’d forget.
I’d sleep.
I’d stop obsessing.
I sit down at my kitchen table and stare at the project I’d worked on before crawling into bed. Paint is splattered against the chipped walnut table—purples and yellows dried into a messy pattern that I find myself staring at harder than the canvas itself.
When I do lift my gaze, I see her.
Blonde hair.
Hazel eyes.
White smile.
Frail.
Strong.
I grab my paintbrush and clench it in my hand until my fingers turn white. Then I slash the end of the handle through the middle of the stretched canvas until there’s a gaping tear distorting the image I spent hours working on.
Only then does the pressure in my chest start to subside. Destruction will do that to you.
Give you breath.
Momentarily relief.
I don’t know what the fuck that says about me.
And I’m not sure I care.
Chapter Two
“Sophia tried calling you earlier,” Mom says in a tired tone. My charcoal pencil halts for a brief second when she adds, “She was upset you didn’t pick up. That’s the third time, Kaiden.”
I stare at my sketch, lips twitching into a frown that I swipe away with my palm. “I’m sorry. I was busy.”
She sighs. “You said that last time.”
“I’m a busy guy,” I reply tartly. Mom’s silence makes me toss my pencil onto my sketchbook and throw them both onto the coffee table littered with empty takeout containers and beer bottles. “I’ll call her tomorrow. Promise.”
“I wouldn’t normally make such a fuss about it, but your sister is getting old enough to understand when somebody is avoiding her.”
“I’m not—” I cut myself off before I spew yet another lie.
I’m fine.
I’ll be home for the weekend.
I’ll visit more often.
She’s heard enough of my bullshit by now. I don’t need to keep adding to the pile. “I really was busy. That interview for that job I mentioned went so well they asked me to come back for a second one to meet the big boss.”
Four years at the University of Maryland got me a bachelor’s in physical therapy. It wasn’t easy. There were classes I nearly flunked in my first year. Some I lost interest in and stopped showing up to until my mother sat me down during Thanksgiving break and told me she was done watching me self-destruct. “Don’t let what she’s given you go to waste, Kaiden. That’s not what she would have wanted.”
“What’d she give me?”
“A chance to live your life.”
To the world, losing the girl who’d become my best friend was a beautiful tragedy. They saw our weird relationship grow until the very last second, saw how she managed to break past barriers I’d built since losing my father.
Then she became another casualty.
The therapist I was forced to see said I had abandonment issues. Dr. Brown’s professional opinion was that I didn’t t
rust people enough to let them get close to me.
It’s not people I don’t trust, though.
It’s life.
The unknown.
“…wonderful! Henry will be so excited when I tell him. He was hoping you’d hear good news.”
She never stops to celebrate what I’ve managed to accomplish no matter what I do to frustrate her. Shutting her out. Closing myself off. She sticks with me through everything, never once giving up on me. Losing Dad had been hard, and I’d unfairly taken out my frustration on her and our relationship. But losing Emery…
It put things into perspective.
Dad used to say that life was ten percent what happens to you and ninety percent what you do about it. I hadn’t remembered it until a couple years ago when Dr. Brown asked me who the most significant person in my life had been.
I thought I was lying when I said my father, but then little memories would resurface that I hadn’t let myself think about before. His quirks—how he’d collect whatever prizes were left inside his Cracker Jack bag. How often he’d change the lyrics to famous songs to make them funnier to get a laugh out of me. He wasn’t always a bad guy, even when I’d questioned him.
Because questioning his character made it easier to let him go. To stay mad.
Yet he’s still here. Lingering in my subconscious, poking at me whenever I second guess myself. Whenever I do something stupid, which is more times than not these days.
The point is, Mom is still alive even when he isn’t. She’s still the cheerleader I never asked for. Sometimes it’s embarrassing. When she, Henry, and my half-sister Sophia attended my lacrosse games, they cheered the loudest. During college graduation the three of them brought whistles and signs that were louder and bigger than everybody else’s in the crowd.
Sometimes I feel bad for my mother.
Because she’s stuck with me.
Me and all the shattered pieces.
Not even Dr. Brown could glue them back together, even if I painted on a smile and acted like his sessions did something positive for me when all they did was make me drown deeper.
I clear my throat. “The job will be a great opportunity for me if I get it. The pay is good, and I’ll get full benefits. You won’t need to worry about health insurance anymore.”
With Dad’s health history, she’s been concerned about me phasing out of her insurance next year when I hit 26. Physically, I’m fine. But no matter how many times I deliver that line, she knows there’s more to worry about than my physical health.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Emery in the short time I knew her, it’s that what people see on the outside doesn’t always match what’s on the inside.
Pain.
Grief.
Anger.
“When you get it,” Mom corrects.
My eyes train on the drawing I started late last night when sleep evaded me again. The pill bottle in my bathroom is empty now, taunting me. The sheets on my bed slick with sweat from the amount of tossing and turning I do until I give up.
It’s always bad this time of year.
But it’s getting worse.
Time is supposed to heal people, but all it really does is cover the wounds until only scar tissue is left.
“I wasn’t sure how you’d react about me applying since it’s hours away from you guys. I know I said I’d come back…”
“Oh, Kaiden.” Her voice is light, and I can picture the soft look she must have on her face. I’d seen that look a lot over the past few years. It’s maternal and sympathetic—genuine and fearful. “We want you to be happy. Henry and I know that coming home isn’t easy for you since—”
“Don’t,” I cut her off, jaw clenching.
“Sweetie, I think—”
“Please, Mom.”
We’re both quiet as I stare a little harder at the form I’m drawing.
Fuck.
I take the paper and tear it out of my book, balling it up and tossing it at my overfull wastebasket. It bounces off and lands on the floor along with other pieces I sacrificed to frustration.
“Henry still doesn’t sleep that much,” she tells me when I offer no contribution to our conversation. “He says he stays up thinking about her. About how many years he lost because he was too afraid of making things right. Grief does funny things to people.”
Christ. “You know how I feel about him and this conversation. I’m never going to sympathize with him. He had plenty of time to get his shit straight and he wasted it by being a coward. Not all of us were lucky enough to get that same amount of time with her.”
“I’m not asking you to sympathize.” All she’s ever wanted is me to be civil to my stepfather. It took a lot out of me, but I’ve put in the effort not to completely hate the guy’s guts over the past couple of years.
It’s not just for her that I’m doing it.
Somebody wise told me once that being angry got us nowhere. It was a waste of time. And I wasn’t about to follow in Henry Matterson’s footsteps and waste mine.
Mom sighs. “I’m simply saying that you both have something in common. Something you could talk about if you’d just let him. He cares about you, even if you don’t want him to.” My jaw ticks. “The difference between the two of you is that he can say her name and share memories about her without going to a dark place. I’m not saying I don’t understand, sweetie. You were close with Emery. More so than I probably caught on at the time. But it makes Henry happy knowing what impact she had on people’s lives. His. Yours. She left a mark. When are you going to allow yourself that same gratification? That relief?”
My nostrils twitch and, for once, I answer honestly. “I don’t know. I’m trying.”
“That’s hardly true. You’ve barely tried. You’ve seen so much loss in your life for such a young age, but you’re still alive. Just because your father and Emery aren’t doesn’t mean you have to quit living. You know both of them would want more for you than that.”
My throat tightens. “I need to go.”
“Kaiden—”
The tightness in my chest is back, constricting around my heart and squeezing. I suck in a breath and bend forward, resting my forehead against my knees. “I need to go,” I rasp. “I’ll call Sophia tomorrow.”
Before she can press, I hang up and toss the phone on the other end of my beat-up couch. My hands cup my face, fingertips digging into my hairline before yanking at the longer strands of brown locks I haven’t gotten cut in a while.
I try to breathe.
Try to think.
But it’s too much.
When I lost my father, I thought nothing else could compare to the pain I’d felt. His death left a crack in my heart.
My stepsister’s left a gaping hole.
I go to the bathroom and shuffle through the bottles of medication I’ve collected from over the years until I find one buried in the back from an old surgery I had to repair my torn ACL junior year of college.
The large white pills nearly fill the top because I never liked taking them. My body would become too uncontrollable. I’d fall asleep for hours and wake up feeling anything but myself.
I glance at my reflection in the mirror.
Baggy eyes.
Bloodshot.
Panicked.
I pop a pill.
And crawl into bed.
Right now, I don’t want to be myself.
Chapter Three
They say blue is the saddest color, but the hazel brown color staring at me through a phone camera may just top any shade of blue in existence.
“Kai!” my five-year-old sister says, holding up a picture. “Look what I made you in art class!”
My lips twitch upward at the corners as I examine the colors spread across the page. “It’s really nice, Soph. You’re definitely an artist.”
“I told her I’m gonna be just like you.”
I sure as hell hope not.
Talking to Sophia is easy because I never have to feel bad
about not saying much. She says enough for the both of us, finding every topic under the sun to talk about until Mom or Henry takes the phone from her.
“Mommy and Daddy are going to take me to the art galaxy.”
From somewhere in the background, I hear Mom say, “Art gallery.”
“One day, I’m going to have my artwork there. Everybody will know my name and pay me lots of money for my art. I’ll be rich and famous.”
I refrain from snorting. “Dream big, kid.”
She beams. “You can have your art there too. Mommy showed me pictures that you drawed and told me all about how you drawed ever since you were little. Just like me!”
“I do draw,” I tell her, faintly amused at her energy. “And you’d really share your spotlight with me? Gallery features are big deals for artists. They usually don’t like sharing the space they’re given.”
I know the little girl bouncing on the other end of the video call would do about anything for me. It’s scary how unconditional her love is. One day, I worry that’ll hurt her.
“Yes! You’re my brother and I love you so much, Kai. When are you coming home? Mommy said not ‘til the holiday but that’s forever away.”
I manage to smile. “It’s only a couple of months,” I reassure her. “But maybe I’ll try to make a trip out there sooner than that.”
“Really? For me?”
I swallow, knowing Mom won’t be happy with me if I can’t keep my word. “Yeah. I’ll do my best, Soph.”
“Because you love me?” she presses.
I nod. “Because I love you,” I agree.
She squeals and starts telling me about her new school friend Melissa, everything she’s had to eat today, and more about her artwork. When she passes the phone to Mom, I already know what’s coming.