All Broke Down

by Cora Carmack

  “Not good.”

  He stands and takes his dishes to the sink.

  “What are you doing today, if you’re not allowed at practice?”

  “Something with Dylan. I don’t really know.”

  “Dylan?”

  “The girl who handed you your ass yesterday.”

  He crosses his long arms over his chest and surveys me.

  “You’re seeing her again? You guys a together or something?”

  “Nah. Not really. She’s, I don’t know, a preppy rich kid sowing some wild oats. I doubt she sticks around long.”

  The words feel wrong in my mouth even before I say them. But just because I have to open up to her, doesn’t mean I want to spill my guts to everyone. It’s better if everyone thinks she is just another girl.

  But as usual, Isaiah Brookes is a hard man to fool.

  “Normally it’s you that doesn’t stick around long.”

  I throw away the empty wrapper for one bar and tear open another. I don’t reply because lie or not . . . he’s right, and I don’t know why this time is different. My deal with Dylan isn’t a relationship . . . I don’t want or know how to have one of those, but I also hope this deal sticks. I have to make it work not just for football, but to keep her around. I can’t think about why that’s important right now, but it is.

  “Is she part of this? Whatever mess you’ve got going on?”

  “No. God no. She’s just about the only damn thing that’s not part of it.”

  The doorbell rings, and I finish scarfing down the last of my breakfast.

  “That’s her. Do me a favor? Tell Coach I’m working shit out.”

  I’m almost out of the kitchen when he calls out my name.

  “Yeah?”

  He says, “Be careful.”

  “I plan on staying far away from all kinds of trouble.”

  “I meant with this girl. I don’t want it to fuck your head up more if it goes south.”

  I don’t have a reply to that, so I just nod instead. I stride the last few feet to the front door and pull it open. Dylan pulls off her sunglasses and gives me a small smile. She’s wearing a blue tank top that’s almost the color of her eyes, and her thick hair is pulled back and away from her face. I can see the straps of a sports bra over her shoulders, and it has her tits pushed up and together. A pair of worn, perfectly fit jeans hug her hips just right.

  She looks comfortable, and she’s not trying to impress me. But I’m impressed anyway. Her eyes scan my own attire, and she asks, “You won’t mind if those clothes get ruined, right?”

  “What exactly do you have planned for us today, Pickle?”

  Her eyes narrow. “I’m going to get you back for that. Just wait.”

  I step out onto the porch and pull the door shut behind me. “I look forward to seeing you try.”

  The car she’s parked on the street out by my mailbox is a sleek steel gray number with smooth curves and money written all over it. I glance at my busted old truck in the driveway and decide that our vehicles pretty accurately represent the differences between us.

  I can’t help but run a hand along the car in admiration as I round the front to get in the passenger seat. I wouldn’t mind running an appreciative hand over the car’s owner, either, but she’s been careful to keep a few feet between us from the moment we exited the house. When I climb into the car, though, it’s small enough that my elbow touches hers on the middle console.

  “So what has Dr. Dylan prescribed for the day?”

  She pulls out onto the road and heads away from the university.

  “You can’t be mad.”

  Not what I want to hear this early in the morning.

  “Shit. You’re not taking me to some kind of crappy self-help thing, are you?”

  “Not self-help, no. But there is helping involved.”

  The mysterious smile she gives me is fucking sexy, and I reach over and trail my finger over her bare shoulder. She shivers, and I shift my hand up to brush across her neck, too.

  “You’re going to make me have a wreck.”

  I glance out the windshield. “You’re coming up on a red light.”

  When she slows to a stop, I lean across the console and kiss the place where her neck meets her shoulder. She shifts away as soon as my lips touch her skin.

  “Silas.” Damn. I’ve heard that tone before. I look up, but I don’t move away. If there’s anything I am, it’s stubborn, and I’ve not had nearly enough of her to be done yet. She says, “I’ve not exactly handled this in the best way.”

  “Then go back to my place, and we can handle things right. Or pull over, I’m not picky.”

  She rolls her eyes, and puts a hand on my shoulder to push me away. I go, but not happily.

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Clearly, I’m attracted to you.” Well, at least she’s admitting it out loud. “But the thing is . . . we’re not dating. And we’re not going to date. So I think it’s better if we keep things between us as platonic as possible.”

  “What if ‘platonic as possible’ is not at all platonic?”

  “It has to be.”

  “I think you’re confusing dating with being in a relationship. Dating can be casual. Dating is low pressure. Dating isn’t off the table.”

  Fuck. I have to be addicted to this girl or something because I have never ever actually brought up the idea of dating a chick. Usually, it’s them who brings it up. Or they just assume we’re dating after one hookup. I haven’t even slept with this girl, and I’m already falling all over myself to do something I never do.

  “And what happens then? We go on one date. We sleep together. And then you’re done dating me?”

  “I told you, Pickle. Once is never going to be enough where you’re concerned.”

  “Great. So maybe we see each other a handful of times. That might sound appealing to you, but not to me.” She stumbles over the last words, barely gets them out.

  “Why do you always insist on lying to me? It is appealing to you. You just don’t want to admit it.” She looks at me like an animal who has been cornered, like she knows she’s caught.

  Then a horn sounds behind us. The stoplight is green, and Dylan rushes to push the gas and direct the wheel.

  I don’t give her the opportunity to backtrack or change the subject.

  “I think I understand you, Dylan. You don’t want a casual relationship with me because you’ve probably been taught all your life that that kind of relationship is wrong. Or you’ve been told it always ends up leaving you heartbroken after you get too invested. And maybe that is who you are. Maybe you’re the kind of girl that can only be in serious relationships. Or maybe that’s just the kind of girl you’ve told yourself you are. I bet you’ve never been in anything but long-term relationships.”

  She swallows and tightens her grip on the steering wheel, hiding her face from me as she turns the car onto another street.

  “I’m right, aren’t I? Come on. Tell me. How many relationships?”

  She clears her throat and then with her chin up answers, “Two.”

  “And how long did they last?”

  “A year and a half on the first, and . . .” She trails off.

  “And?”

  “Four years. And some change.”

  “Damn. Four years? You just turned twenty-one, and you’re telling me you’ve spent over five years of that in serious relationships? You’ve probably been in a relationship since the moment you were allowed to date.”

  She shrugs, and I know I’m right.

  “You might think you need to stay away from me because I’m not your usual relationship material, but I think that’s exactly why you need me. You need to just have some fun. Be young for a little while before it’s too late.”

  She sighs, flipping on her blinker with a little too much aggression, and turning onto another residential street.

  “Okay.”

  For a moment I think I’m just hearing what I want to he
ar.

  “Okay what?”

  “Okay, I’ll stop thinking so much.”

  I wait for her to pause at a stop sign, and then I lean over and kiss her. She makes a surprised sound in my mouth, but then she hums when I drag my lips over her once, then again.

  Someone honks behind us, but this time they can fucking wait. I throw my middle finger up to the douche behind us and press her back against her seat just long enough to make sure she knows she’s made a good decision.

  I hear the car peel out around us, still honking, but I’m not about to let her run on me again.

  When she’s making those little breathy noises again, and her hands have left the steering wheel to clutch at my hair, I slowly pull back.

  “I think we’re already making tremendous advances in your therapy, Pickle.”

  The dazed look on her face lasts only a few seconds before she pushes me back over into my seat and says, “God, you’re so arrogant.”

  I laugh and don’t deny it.

  She smooths her hair down and pulls away from the stop sign. She glances at me out of the corner of her eye every few seconds for the rest of the drive. Each look is like a shot of adrenaline and by the time she says, “We’re here,” it’s all I can do not to pin her to the seat again.

  She slows to a stop behind a truck parked on the side of the road. The street is lined with cars for several hundred yards ahead of us, and a group of people is gathered in a yard a couple of houses down.

  “We’re doing something with other people?” I sound like a whining kid because I’d thought I would have her to myself, that I could continue whittling down those walls of hers.

  “Come on. We’re running a little late, and we still have to check in.”

  I sigh and push open the door. As we get closer, I see tools and paint and hardware, and the picture begins to come together.

  I loop an arm around her neck, and though she tenses, she doesn’t push me away. I lower my mouth to her ear and say, “You’re putting me to work.”

  “You want to be a better leader for your team. First step to being a leader is learning to put others before yourself. Besides . . . sometimes a little work is good for you.”

  “I can think of another way you could have put me to work that’s much more enjoyable.”

  She does push me off then, but she’s smiling.

  “I’m not talking about you and your . . . You know. This kind of work is positive. We’re helping people.”

  “My way is just another kind of helping. And I promise it would be a very positive experience for all involved.”

  “Just when I think I’ve got a handle on your ego, it gets even bigger.”

  I grin. “I thought we weren’t talking about me and my you-know.”

  She shoves at my arm, barely moving me an inch. “Oh my God. You’re terrible.”

  “Dylan?” She stops, and the smile drops from her face as she swivels her head to look at the guy who’s stepped out of the group to stand before us on the sidewalk. Her easy demeanor disappears, and I can almost see her lacing herself up again, reining in her smile, her laugh, her posture. I even watch her pull her hands through her hair, as if she’s trying to tame it into something more presentable.

  “Uh, Henry. Hi.”

  Henry. The name sounds familiar, but I don’t know the guy. His hair is all gelled, and I’m pretty sure he spent more time fixing it than every girl in the crowd. He looks like he’s dressed for a tennis match, rather than construction, and he’s wearing this pretentious smile that already annoys me.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  Dylan is calm as she answers, but I can see tension in her face that wasn’t there a few moments ago. “I called Kim this weekend, and asked if she still needed help. I thought you were too busy and decided not to do it.”

  He sinks his hands into the pockets of his shorts and jangles what I’m guessing are keys inside. “My schedule freed up unexpectedly.”

  It hits me then who this is. The ex. And damn it, I knew this would be the kind of guy she dated.

  The kind of guys that are like a fucking magnet for my fists.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Silas.” I hold out my hand and when we shake, I might squeeze a little harder than necessary. He gives a satisfying flinch, and Dylan hooks her arm around my elbow and starts pulling me away.

  “Come on. We need to check in.”

  “Nice to meet you, Henry.” I throw him a grim smile and let her pull me away.

  When we’re halfway across the yard, she whispers, “You can be such an ass, you know that?”

  “Me? I spoke to that guy for ten seconds, and I already know he’s a giant douche. You dated that for four years?”

  “He’s nice.”

  I scoff. “First, I doubt that. Dude has spoiled dickwad practically written across his forehead.”

  “Silas, we’re not talking about this now.”

  She steps away from me and up to a folding table where a teenager sits with a clipboard.

  “Dylan Brenner,” she says. “And a guest.”

  The kid pops her gum and looks over at me. “He’ll need to fill out a release form.”

  She taps a stack of papers and holds out a pen. Dylan gives me an expectant look, and I hold back my groan. I fill out the damn form and pass it to the girl.

  She blows a bubble, pops it, and then says, “Join the group. Greg will assign you your tasks.”

  That out of the way, I start in again, “So . . . he’s nice. That’s really the best you’ve got? You give him four years of your life because he says ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ and you’re scared just to date me?”

  “Silas . . .”

  “Seriously. Help me understand. Is it because he’s rich?”

  “Excuse me?” There’s a vague warning ring in the back of my mind that I should shut my trap, but I can’t let this go. I need someone to explain to me why guys like her ex get anything and everything they want just because they’re labeled “good.” What the fuck does that even mean?

  “It’s a valid question,” I say.

  “No, it’s not because he’s rich,” she snaps. “It’s because he doesn’t punch people who make him angry. He doesn’t drink or do drugs to deal with his problems. He cared about me. He didn’t just want to have sex with me for a little while.”

  There are razor blades in my lungs, and when I suck in a breath, it tastes like fire. And I want it out, want to spit it back at her.

  “If that’s all I am, why bring me here? Why do you give a fuck at all?”

  Her perfect lips hang open like she’s shocked herself, and I can see something like regret blooming over her cheeks. I want to hate her. I want to storm off and walk the fuck home. I want to pull her to me, pry her lips open with mine, and take whatever that mouth will offer even if it’s only insults and sour words.

  The thing is . . . she’s right. I know that’s who I am. She’s just the first person besides me to say it out loud. She starts to reply, but a voice from the front of the crowd calls everyone to attention. A middle-aged guy stands on a chair with a megaphone to amplify his voice.

  “Hello. My name is Greg, and I want to thank you all for being here. Today we’re working on the house of this young lady here.” He gestures toward a tiny old woman standing on the ground next to him. Her skin is weathered and cracked like old leather, and when she waves, her flesh moves like it’s not attached to her body. “Mrs. Baker has lived in this house for forty-nine years, and this morning we’re going to be helping her make some repairs and renovations. She worked as a nurse at the local hospital until she retired ten years ago. She spent a lifetime giving to this community, and Mrs. Baker, we’re delighted to be able to give a little back to you today.”

  “Silas,” Dylan whispers next to me. I ignore her and focus on the guy in charge. I don’t know why what she said makes me feel so shitty.

  I am all of those things she mentioned. But I’m trying. Wh
y else would I be here? But if that’s the kind of guy she wants, fuck it.

  I think what bothers me most is the idea that those things are all I am to her. I’ve always thought football was the great balancer in my life. It makes up for all the other things I’m not. But Dylan doesn’t give a shit about football, and unless I get my act together, I won’t even have that.

  And what am I then? Who am I then?

  Greg moves through the gathered crowd, splitting people into groups for different tasks, appointing leaders. I get put in a group with Henry, which is fucking perfect.

  I hope he steps on a nail and gets tetanus.

  Dylan is put in another, smaller group, and I’m beginning to think this little experiment is going to end with me being even more irrationally angry than I already am.

  At least I’m given a cool job. Me and a few other guys are tearing down some rotting and warped siding from the front porch and replacing it with new wood. I’m given a crowbar and a hammer and told to go to town. And I do exactly that.

  There’s satisfaction in the creaking sound of the wood giving way. The nails groan as I use the crowbar to lever off the old siding. And when I encounter a few particularly stubborn boards I use the hammer to add some extra force.

  I lose myself in the task, sweat beginning to trail down my back as I work. The sun glides higher into the sky, and pours light and heat down in smothering quantities. I strip away the bad wood piece by piece. Sometimes it crumbles in my hand, snaps or bends where it shouldn’t. Then I’m left using my hands, my hammer, my foot—whatever I can to tear the stuff away until finally, I can see the framework beneath. All that’s left are the studs to which we’ll attach the new siding. When I’m done with my section, I move over to the next, where Henry has barely done half of what I’ve managed.

  For a while we work in silence, and I forget he’s even there. Then he asks, “So how do you know Dylan?”

  I want so badly to say something to piss him off, some innuendo, but I know she wouldn’t like that. And what I say could make her look bad, and I get the feeling she’s one of those girls who are incredibly concerned with how other people see them.

  Maybe that’s why the idea of dating me seems so ludicrous to her.