Not Broken Anymore

by Tawdra Kandle

  The more reasonable part of my brain realized how wrong that line of thinking was. My relationship with Matt had never been healthy, and thinking I could hold his actions against every other man I met was crazy. Tate hadn’t given me a single indication that he had ulterior motives. He’d been straight-forward and easy-going, and I’d enjoyed this day more than any in recent memory. Or maybe even longer than that.

  Finishing the potatoes, I set down my fork on the plate and wiped a bit of butter from my lip. “Tate, can I ask you something?”

  As though he’d been waiting for me to speak, he answered right away. “Of course. Anything.”

  “Why are you here? Why did you spend today with me? I’m not going to accuse you of being in cahoots with Leo again, and I’m not saying I didn’t have a good time with you. I did. Maybe the best day I’ve ever had. But I still don’t get why you did it, unless it’s just that you’re that nice a person.”

  Tate nodded slowly as he chewed and then swallowed. Following my lead, he set down his fork, laid his knife across the plate and regarded me steadily.

  “I promised you that I’d never lie or even quibble with the truth, didn’t I?”

  I shifted in my chair. “You told me that you don’t lie. I guess that’s the same thing.”

  “Right. And I don’t.” He paused. “Is withholding the entire truth the same thing?”

  I considered the question. “In this case, I think so.”

  “Okay.” He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, the first sign of nerves I’d seen in him. “Then I’ll be honest.” He took a deep breath, and my stomach clenched. What could be so bad that he was reluctant to tell me?

  “The thing is, Gia . . . I just wanted to spend time with you. It’s as simple as that, but it’s also a little more complicated. I could tell you that I’m only interested in friendship, but that’s not a hundred percent true. I do want more from you—or maybe it would be more accurate to say I hope for more with you. I’d like to spend time getting to know you better. I’ve kind of . . . liked you for a long time.”

  My forehead knit together. “What’re you talking about? You hadn’t seen me since Matt’s funeral, and before then, we’d only really met once.”

  Tate’s Adam apple bobbed as he swallowed. “We met that one night, the first time you came down to Carolina. That’s true. But I saw you when you came down for football games or to see Matt. And I always thought, damn, if only I’d been the one to ask that girl to dance the night we met. If only I’d been a little less patient and a little more—uh, I don’t know—aggressive? Assertive?” He shrugged. “I’m not going to claim that I pined for you every night and cried into my lonely pillow, but I thought about you more than you might expect.” He hastily added, “Not in a creepy, I-stalked-you-in-secret way. And I’m not saying that I’m going to go full-court press on you even now. But when I saw you going into the grocery store last night, it was like . . . maybe this is our chance to get to know each other. To find out if there could be more.”

  I realized my hands were gripped together under the edge of the table. “Tate, I don’t know what to say. I like you. You’re a terrific guy. But I’m not in any place right now where I could even begin to think about . . . that kind of thing. I’m a mess. I’m fucked up, and I’m broken. And I can’t see a day in the near future when I’m going to be any different.”

  To my surprise, he didn’t flinch. “Like I said, I’m not asking you for anything. I’m not an idiot, Gia. I know that you didn’t ever think of me, or if you did, it was just as one of Leo’s buddies. That’s okay. I don’t have any expectations. Just hang out with me.”

  I twisted my fingers. “This feels unfair to you, though. I hate the thought of you . . .” I tried to figure out how to word what I wanted to say without sounding arrogant. “I don’t want you to think there’s a chance when there isn’t, I guess. I’d feel like a horrible person, using you just so I’m not lonely, when I know you’re looking for something more.”

  “Hey.” He reached across the table and nudged my chin until I met his eyes. “Gia, that’s my decision. I’m a grown-up, and I’m fully aware of what I’m saying. The way I look at it, worst case, we have some fun. I like you. I’d want to be your friend no matter what. And you know I don’t lie, so you can believe that. This is my choice and my responsibility. I promise that I’ll never blame you or even think less of you if, at the end of the day, we’re good friends.”

  “But—”

  “Gia, don’t. You’re looking for a reason to tell me we can’t be friends, because you don’t want to feel like you’re taking advantage of me. Look at it this way: almost all the people I knew from high school have moved away from South Jersey. I’m trying to find my niche on this new team. You told me yourself that you don’t really have friends around here, other than Zelda. This could be good for both of us, if you let it happen.”

  He sounded so convincing . . . and I was tempted. Being with Tate was easy, and the time we’d spent together over the past twenty-four hours had reminded me how lonely I’d been. I wanted to say yes, even though I had a suspicion that doing so made me selfish.

  Maybe I was. But I was tired of being alone, tired of depressing weekends that were the only bright points in my otherwise-drab life. I’d only really known Tate since last night, but today, I’d had fun—actual, legit fun—for the first time in over a year. Maybe I was a heartless bitch, just as Matt had often said. But Tate understood my limitations—or at least he claimed he did, and he still wanted to hang out with me. If we both went into this with our eyes wide open, I didn’t have to carry all the blame.

  “So . . . no pressure, either outright or implied, right?” I spoke slowly, feeling my way. “You won’t push me, and you won’t . . . I don’t know, look at me or touch me in ways that could be construed as pressure?”

  I expected Tate to agree readily, but he hesitated. “I don’t know if I can promise that. I’ll do my best not to gaze at you soulfully, and I’m not the kind of guy to mope around after anyone, but I can’t say you might not see what I’m feeling in my eyes. Can’t help that.”

  I laughed a little. “You know, dude, if you were any other man, when I asked why you were here, you would’ve just fed me the friends-only line. I might not have bought it, but it would have given us both plausible deniability.”

  Tate rested his chin on his hand and smiled serenely at me. “I’m not any other man.”

  For a solid moment, I felt electricity crackle between us, and I couldn’t breathe. This was new, this hyper-awareness of another person, and I didn’t know quite what to do with it. I stared at Tate as my brain scrambled to figure out what to say or do next.

  And then he sighed, breaking the spell.

  “Ready for dessert?” He pushed back his chair and reached for my plate, carrying both his and mine to the sink. I cleared my throat and attempted to find normal again.

  “Dessert? Need I remind you that we ate the cannoli several hours ago, when you claimed we hadn’t eaten lunch, and you were on the verge of starvation? Or did you buy a cake when I wasn’t looking? Or are you planning to whip something up in the next twenty minutes?”

  Tate quirked his eyebrow at me over his shoulder. “Twenty minutes? Does that mean you’re tossing me out at nine?”

  “No.” I shook my head and played with the spoon still in front of me. “It was just a figure of speech.”

  “Good to know. But to answer your question, no, I didn’t buy any baked goods, and I’m not going to toss something together now. Nothing I have to bake, that is.” He rinsed off the scrubbed the plates with my new dish brush and set them into the drainer before turning to the fridge. “C’mon, woman. On your feet. This is something you can help me with.”

  I stood up, watching as Tate withdrew the berries he’d bought. Dumping them into the colander, he washed them carefully before picking up the cutting board he’d used earlier to chop the potatoes.

  “I’ll slice these if you�
�ll handle the whipped cream.” He reached for a knife.

  I frowned. “We didn’t get any whipped cream.”

  “Sure, we did.” Tate opened the refrigerator again, this time emerging with a small milk carton in his hand, which he set down on the counter in front of me. “Here you go.”

  “Just what am I supposed to do with this?” I saw the words on the container. Heavy whipping cream clearly meant that whatever was inside the cardboard could somehow be transformed into the frothy goodness I loved, but I had no earthly idea how to go about making it happen.

  “You’re going to whip it.” He winked at me. “Whip it good. I’ll get you started.”

  I watched him moving around the kitchen, and I thought again how odd it was that such a large man could have such grace. I was willing to bet that it came from playing football, where I imagined his talent for maneuvering probably paid off.

  Within a few moments, I had a small metal bowl, the brand-new electric hand mixer, a bag of powdered sugar and a bottle of vanilla laid out before me. I surveyed all of it with undisguised suspicion.

  “Now pay attention, because this is tricky. Here’s the hardest part: dump the cream into the bowl.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Ha, ha, ha, Mr. Smarty Pants Chef Guy. I think I can manage that.” I slid my thumb up the small crease and deftly opened the cardboard carton. The cream was thick and velvety as I poured it into the bowl. “Now what?”

  “Plug in the mixer, submerge the beaters in the cream, and turn it on. Move it around a little now and then. And that’s pretty much it.” He turned back to his cutting board, slicing the tops of some luscious-looking red strawberries.

  Gingerly, I dipped the shiny silver beaters into the liquid and used my thumb to move the switch to on. The small machine sprang to life, whirring in my hand. I held the bowl with my other fingers, staring into it, waiting for magic to happen.

  A few minutes later, I was still waiting. “Tate, this isn’t working. It’s still just, like, cream.”

  “Uh huh. Give it a little longer.” He didn’t even bother to look at me over his shoulder.

  “But it isn’t changing. It’s just swirling around and around.” I raised my voice, in case he didn’t understand how serious this was. I was ruining the whipped cream.

  “Yep, that’s how it works.” His voice remained serene and unconcerned.

  I kept it up a little longer. “I think we must’ve gotten defective cream. It’s still all liquidy. Or maybe I messed it up.”

  “The only way you can mess it up is if you whip the cream too long and it turns into butter. I don’t think you’re in danger of that yet.” He finished cutting up another berry, and drying his hands, stepped over to check out my work. “Okay, turn off the mixer for a minute, and then add some sugar and vanilla.”

  I did as he instructed, resting the edge of the mixer against the side of the bowl. “How much?”

  “Eh, two or three tablespoons of the powdered sugar and a couple of teaspoons of vanilla.”

  I was troubled by his lack of precision in measurements. “Two or three? Which is it?”

  Tate sighed. “Start with two. We don’t want it too sweet, just sweet enough.”

  “All right.” I flipped through the measuring spoons he’d bought today and found the right one before I carefully measured the sugar into the bowl. Next I poured two precise teaspoons of vanilla. “I did it. Now what?”

  “Back to whipping.” Tate used a paper towel to gently dry the blueberries. “Just incorporate all of that into it.”

  Setting my jaw, I got back to work, peering intensely at the whirling white that was threatening to hypnotize me. The cream made a pretty design as it ran through the beaters, and it reminded me a little of snow. As a matter of fact, it almost looked like . . .

  “Tate!” I flicked off the mixer again. “It worked! It’s thickening. Look!” I stood back so that he could see into the bowl without moving away from his spot at the cutting board.

  “Excellent. I knew you could do it. Now keep it up a little longer. It’s not quite ready yet. But watch it, because too long there and it really will turn into butter.”

  “Huh.” I squinted down, nearly afraid to look away in case what was in the bowl might suddenly betray me. “Does it honestly happen that fast?”

  “Nah. I mean, hypothetically speaking, if you had a stand mixer, and you were whipping cream, and you got distracted doing something else while it was mixing, and you forgot to check on it for a while . . . then yeah, it’s a possibility. But you’re on it.” He scooped all of the berries into a round glass bowl and moved over to stand closer to me. “I think you’re good now. See how it’s forming nice peaks?”

  I did see, and I felt an unaccustomed surge of pride. “I did it. I can’t freaking believe it, but I made whipped cream.”

  “Yes, you sure did.” He swiped one finger into the cream and stuck it into his mouth. “Mmmmm, and you got the flavor right, too. Just sweet enough.” Before I could protest, he stuck that same finger back into my bowl again.

  “Hey! Yuck! No double dipping. You’re going to ruin my masterpiece.” I scowled up at him.

  “But I wanted you to have a taste, too.” So saying, he held up his whipped cream-covered finger a few inches from my lips. “Don’t you want to try it?”

  My heart thudded a little. I hadn’t done anything like this . . . touched my tongue to any part of any man . . . for a long time. I swallowed and resisted the urge to fan myself. The kitchen was all of a sudden much warmer than it had been.

  With a deep breath, I closed my eyes and lifted my mouth to his hand, closing around the creamy goodness. The second the flavor hit my tongue, I forgot all about how it got there.

  “Oh . . . my . . . God.” I moaned the words. “That is amazing. So much better than the stuff I get in the can.”

  “The real thing always is better.” Tate’s voice was hoarse, and he slid his finger out of my mouth. As I watched, he turned his back to me, busying himself with pulling out two small plates and a couple of forks. I wondered what I might have seen in his eyes if he hadn’t turned away. I wasn’t sure I’d have been able to deal with what whatever might have been there.

  “Grab a spoon for your, uh, masterpiece, and let’s eat.” He lifted the berries on the cutting board and set the whole thing down on the table. “Serious conversations make me hungry.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Is there anything that doesn’t make you hungry?”

  Dragging out his chair, he shot me a wicked smile. “That’s for me to know and you to find out. And lucky girl, you’ll get to find out, because as long as you’ll let me, I plan to spend as much of my free time with you as possible.”

  As I sat down to join him at the table, I wasn’t sure if the butterflies in my stomach were from worry or anticipation. Dragging a plump red strawberry through the fluffy whipped cream—that I’d made with my own hands—I decided it didn’t matter either way. For once, I was just going to enjoy myself while it lasted. I’d deal with the inevitable fall-out when it hit me.

  And it would hit me. Because Tate might paint a rosy picture, but I knew that nothing good lasted forever.

  Now

  “Okay. Be honest. You can tell me if you liked it or not. I promise, I won’t be mad either way.”

  Gia had been lying on her stomach on the bed, facing the foot, in her usual TV-watching position, but now she swung her legs around to sit at the end of her bed and lean over to peer into my face. I was in my normal spot, on a pile of pillows on the floor, my back against her mattress. For a moment, I studied her wide brown eyes. Today, those eyes were serious and just the tiniest bit anxious as she waited for me to respond, but I thought that they were also maybe a little less sad than they’d been a month before.

  “You really have to remind me to be honest, sugar? I thought you understood that my brutal truth-telling is a given, no matter what.”

  She smiled, her face lighting up. “Oh, my mistake. I apologize for do
ubting your integrity.”

  “That’s better.” My fingers itched to reach up and trace the line of her cheek, and I had to make a fist to stop myself. I’d learned over these past five weeks what Gia deemed acceptable touching and what spooked her. I could offer her my hand to help her up, or I could lay my hand on her shoulder now and again, if we were in a crowd and trying not to get separated. I could press her back lightly to guide her through a doorway or pat her hip if we were cooking and she was in my way.

  But Gia never initiated any physical contact, and she got skittish if I didn’t have a good reason for doing so. I could always tell if I’d gone too far, because she’d get quiet and her face would tighten. She didn’t hold a grudge, and she got over it pretty fast, but I was still careful. Pushing her was the last thing I wanted to do.

  She cleared her throat now, tilting her head to remind me that she was still waiting for my answer. I considered carefully before I spoke.

  “It was much different than I expected it to be, from what I’d heard over the years.” I paused. “The music was . . . it was unbelievable. There was so much depth and emotion in every single song, and I’m not a big fan of musicals.”

  “Okayyyyy . . .” Gia rolled her hand in the classic get-on-with-it gesture. “And?”

  “And . . . I really liked it. I’ll admit it. I loved Rent.”

  “Yay!!” She clapped her hands and did a little scooch-bottom dance on the bed. “I’m so glad. I thought you would, but I was kind of nervous that you wouldn’t.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? Great acting, and the storyline was heavy, sure, but it was about redemption and love and family. Not a traditional family, I guess, but why should that matter?”

  Gia shrugged. “It just might not be something a typical football-playing macho man would enjoy. But I’m happy you did.”

  “Haven’t I told you I’m not the typical football Neanderthal, toots? When are you going to start believing me?” I quirked one eyebrow at her, challenging.