Meant to Be Broken

by Brandy Woods Snow

  How that’s my fault, I have no idea.

  After the tattoo tantrum, Mom kept harping on the fact she should’ve “expected as much from me, all things considered.” No doubt I’m a big fat failure in my parents’ eyes.

  Unplanned pregnancy. Unplanned problem. Unplanned future.

  But I’m not a “woe is me” kinda guy. If Preston’s chains are any indication of their attentions, I consider myself happily skipped over. But what I want to see, more than anything, is Preston rebel. Cut that short leash Mom keeps him on.

  Join me on the dark side.

  “That tattoo’s badass.” Trevor hangs on the side of the dock, nodding with approval. “Now you just need an awesome car like Preston’s instead of that old rattletrap you drive.”

  Rattletrap, my ass. My old Scout might have some age on him but he’s tougher than all these other pretty-boy cars and flimsy excuses for 4x4s. He’s a 1979 rugged beast. They’re just jealous.

  “Yeah, you sure that old thing can make it out of the mud in one piece?” Preston laughs. I knew it wouldn’t take him long to chime in. He loves ragging on my Scout because it irks me. It’s what we do.

  I relax back on my elbows, the hot sun warming my chest as I shake my head. “That old thing can whip your prissy car’s ass any day.”

  “Please.” Preston swims to the dock and hoists himself up. Trevor follows.

  I arch my right eyebrow in a challenge. “This from the one who’s car is parked up on the nice concrete driveway by the petunias because that big, bad, scary mud pit is too much to handle.”

  “Leave her out of this.” Preston wags his finger in my face with a grin.

  “Her? Preston’s having a love affair with his car.” Trevor wraps his arms around his own body, rubbing them up and down while making kissy-face.

  I laugh and nudge Trevor in the ribs. “That explains all those late nights out in the garage.”

  “Does poor Rayne know she has competition?” Trevor asks, and then adds under his breath, “Speaking of which… good luck trying to crack that nut.”

  Preston’s expression sours. “There’s nothing wrong with Rayne.”

  “Her, not so much. That mom, though…”

  Woah. That’s hitting below the belt and dangerously close to home for me. “Hey. Don’t judge people by their parents. If everyone did that, y’all would expect my nose stuck ten feet in the air and a cobb up my ass.” Preston side-eyes me while the others dissolve into laughter, but the corner of his lip edges up slightly. He wants to laugh, even if he swallows it down.

  “So what’s the deal? I mean, she’s so not your type.”

  “I don’t have a type.”

  “Uh… yeah. Big boobs, small brain.” Trevor holds his two hands in front of his chest making a squeezing motion.

  A deep scowl shades Preston’s face. “Maybe I’m looking for something different. Who cares?”

  He is looking for something different. Preston first mentioned Rayne after prom this past year. Something about how sweet she was, how mature. When he said it, I had to look twice at the yearbook picture just to make sure I was positive who he was talking about. The guy who could have any girl at school wanted the nice, conservative one? He’s dated consistently since sophomore year, his experience the stuff of legend. He’s the guy never without a girl.

  I’m the guy never with one.

  But he hasn’t dated since May when he first noticed her. I’m sure Mom’s constant badgering to find a mature, level-headed girl weighed in on the growing interest, though I’m thinking that wasn’t Mom’s intention. To her, mature and level-headed translated to “approved” and “easily controlled.” That’s why she’s pushing her pick—Ashlyn—harder and harder every day.

  Trevor deadpans. “Who cares? Apparently the whole town. That’s all they were talking about at the Pig earlier.”

  I blow out a loud breath and glare at Trevor. Why bring that up? Preston never had a clue about that when we were there earlier.

  But he continues as the other guys in the water swim closer. “Dude… everybody was whispering about it. Rayne’s mama heard about you asking her daughter out and totally flipped. Panic attack right in the middle of the tea bags.”

  Trevor’s spilling his guts like it’s some sort of sideshow, the guys on stand-by with bated breath. Preston shifts on the dock’s edge, kicking his legs back into the water. Enough is enough. There’s no use picking on this girl who can’t help how her mama acts. Besides, Preston really wants to get to know her. I applaud it. He needs someone out of his norm—someone who can challenge him.

  I stand up, waving my hands in the air between Trevor and his audience. “Enough guys. When is this town not talking? We have better stuff to do.”

  I don’t mind being the kill-joy, especially if it takes the heat off Preston. He shoots me a sideways smile as he gets to his feet beside me. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

  “Anytime,” I say, slapping him on the back. “What are brothers for?”

  The words barely come off my tongue when a female voice, high-pitched and familiar, shouts across the pond, “Preston!”

  On the opposite bank, across from the dock, three girls, all in tank tops and miniskirts that leave little to the imagination, wave at him. Two of them I don’t know. One of them I do—Ashlyn, daughter of Mom and Dad’s business associate friends. The girl Mom believes Preston’s destined to be with.

  But she’s no different than the others. Bonnie, Tiffany, Anna Kate, and the countless others that have shamelessly thrown themselves at Preston over the years. None of them actually cared about him. They just wanted to leech on to his status and boost their popularity.

  I shove my hands in my pockets and lean toward Preston. “What’s she doing here?”

  “Mom asked me to invite her.”

  Fire scorches my insides. Here I am protecting him and he’s doing stupid crap like inviting this trash to the bonfire?

  “Asked or told?” I fold my arms over my chest, waiting. He doesn’t respond. “Let me get this straight. Mom asked you to invite the girl who’s hot for you to a bonfire where you’re planning to ask another girl out? And you did it? Are you insane?”

  Preston waves me off with a laugh. “Ashlyn’s not hot for me. We’re just friends. Have been since we were kids. You know that.”

  My mouth falls open. At this point, I might have to scrape it off my feet. “Well, then you better tell her and Mom that cause they’re already looking at engagement rings for your Old Southern arranged marriage.”

  He doesn’t react, just waves back to her as she and her entourage saunter off toward the main house. I grab his shoulders and spin him to face me. “God, Preston. Open your eyes! I’m your brother. I’ve got your back over anybody else in this world, but… it’s okay not to be perfect sometimes. It’s okay to do what you want. You don’t always have to play by the rules. It’s your life, live it.”

  “I’m living my life.” So matter of fact. So straightforward. So oblivious.

  “You’re living their life.”

  He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and then pats me on the arm. “Let’s not talk about this right now. Let’s just have fun.”

  He turns and jumps feet-first back into the water, leaving me alone on the dock.

  Sure. Blow me off. Ignorance is definitely bliss.

  Chapter 3

  Rayne

  I

  twist the radio knob, blaring Aerosmith through the car speakers. Jaycee glares at me from the passenger seat and reaches over with a quick jab to the on/off switch, leaving us in silence.

  “Oh, no you don’t. You owe me details.” She kicks her feet up on the dashboard, wiggling her fresh-painted toes, and then leans forward to swipe Perfectly Pink polish over a few nicks.

  “And you owe me some information from Google maps. I don’t have a clue where we’re going.” Open fields sporadically dotted with grazing cows and flanked by endless lines
of barbed-wire mirror each other on both sides of the road. The e-mail said to look for a cow pasture and a fence. Yeah, that’s specific. I grab her phone from the cup holder and toss it in her lap. “Look up the address again, and for the love of God, quit it with that nail polish. It’s stinking up the whole car.” I press the button on my armrest and her window slides down two inches.

  A humid breeze floats in and Jaycee bristles, pawing at me like a rabid cat. “What the hell are you doing? God, Rayne! I told you A/C only. My hair!” She leans across the console, nearly in my lap while using the pinky of her right hand to press the button, sliding her window closed. “I spent a lot of time on my hair. I didn’t just wash-and-go like you.”

  Jaycee has one personality setting—blunt. She never means to hurt my feelings; she just has no brain-to-mouth filter. Other people hate it, but I respect it. She never makes me guess.

  “Bitch, please.” I wrench the nail polish from her grip, tighten the lid while I steer with my forearms, and toss it over my shoulder into the backseat.

  “Hey!” She throws her hand back trying to intercept it but misses, turning to me, mouth molded into an upside-down “u.” “You can’t say that to your best friend.”

  “I’ll say it because you’re my best friend. Now get those directions or no one’ll even see your hair, because we’ll never find the freaking farm.”

  She yanks hard on the seatbelt, readjusting to a 45-degree angle in the seat, looking out the window and flipping her long, blond locks over her shoulder hard enough to graze my face, the spikey-ends clawing at my nose. In a few taps and finger slides over the phone screen, she pulls up directions. “Left at the next four-way stop, then two rights.” She pivots in her seat, eyes boring into me. “Well?”

  I glare at her sideways. “Well what?”

  “I gave you directions. Now give me the goods.” She crosses her arms and cocks her head to the side. It’s as if she believes once Preston’s declared his intentions to date me some mysterious data file uploaded to my brain, but I don’t know anything more than I did before 9:30 this morning.

  “You know as much as I do.”

  Her eyes nearly bug out of her head when I tell her I haven’t taken the initiative to cyber-stalk him on Facebook or Twitter. She flips to her app and within seconds gives me a rundown of his most irrelevant stats—Killer Abs in 10 Minutes. Late nights at the Waffle House with the boys. Playing football with Gage. Cheeseburgers.

  “After tonight, your name will be all over his page—check-ins, selfies, sweet tagged posts about how much he’s in-love with you.” She clasps her phone to her chest, sighs, and leans back into the seat, closing her eyes. A grin creeping across her face.

  “Why are you so giddy?”

  Her eyes open and she glowers at me. “Everyone knows we’re besties, a package deal. If he gets you, he gets me too.” She crinkles her nose and bites her lip. “I honestly figured he would’ve chosen me, but it’s you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Preston has a yen for big boobs and long legs. Hello.” She waves her hand down the length of her leg. “And hello.” She twitches her index finger back and forth in front of her chest.

  She has a point. By late middle school, Jaycee towered a whole head taller than me, her chest swollen three times the size of mine. I was shopping with her and her mom when Mrs. Tucker picked up a blue lace bra with cups as big as my head and plastered it to Jaycee’s chest. The small white tag hanging off the side, marked 36-D, was like a badge of honor. When Mrs. Tucker glanced up at my doe eyes, she side-hugged me and promised I’d hit my growth spurt soon. Four years later, I’m still waiting.

  “And what’s wrong with these?” I point to my own meager girls, barely making cleavage with the help of a good push-up bra.

  Jaycee sweeps her eyes over my face and chest, a smirk inching up the corner of her mouth. “Bitch, please.”

  “Hey! You can’t say that to your best friend.”

  She shrugs one shoulder up to her ear. “All I’m saying is you break his pattern. What’s his angle?”

  “Does there have to be one?”

  “Isn’t there always?”

  “He said I was pretty and smart.”

  She frowns. “Qualifiers. Every guy’ll say that to get in a girl’s pants.”

  There’s no way I’m a booty conquest, unless Preston’s playing a game of “conquer the virgin.” I swat her shoulder. “I know! He’s gone blind. Got brain damage? Needs a tutor for all those college classes coming up?”

  She snaps her fingers. “Good one. You are a nerd. I hadn’t even thought of that.”

  “Shut up.” I stomp the gas, the car lurching forward on the curvy two-lane.

  After I make two three-point turns and play a game of chicken with an F250 passing a slow-moving John Deere, Jaycee spots the wooden-planked fence and long gravel drive winding across knee-high pasture grass. A couple guys are perched on the top rail, and one of them jumps down and swings open the large steel gate for us to drive through.

  Jaycee unbuckles, rolls down the window and leans halfway out, waving at the guy in skin-tight Wranglers. “Keeping the uninvited out?” She giggles and pinches her elbows to her side, popping her chest up and out even further.

  Hot Gate Guy tips his cowboy hat and smiles back. That’s when I recognize him as Barrett Sanderson, one of Preston’s friends, the party host and grandson of the farmer who owns the place.

  “Just keeping the cows in, ma’am,” he says with a Southern drawl thicker than usual. Jaycee slinks back into the seat, mouth wide open as she follows his every movement in the side mirrors of the car.

  “Did you see his ass in those jeans?” she asks as we continue down the gravel road and pull into a grassy patch alongside the other cars. “He could put his cows in my pasture any day.”

  “Tell him that. Great ice breaker.”

  Jaycee flattens her lips into a line, and then shoots me the bird when I crack up. She flips down her visor, slicking on one last coat of pink gloss in the tiny mirror, then kisses the air in front of her reflection. “We both may have an interesting night ahead.” She winks, swings open the door and slams it behind her. Only Jaycee can make a wink look both sinister and inviting.

  I lock the car and shove the keys in my pocket. “Unless I screw it up. Kinda my thing.”

  “Quit being such a doubter. What the hell could be worse than your mama going spastic at The Pig today?”

  “Really? You’re gonna jinx me like—” Suddenly the ground doesn’t feel even. It’s firm under my left foot, soft under my right—and warm.

  My gold Jack Rogers squish deep in cow pie, the manure oozing up around the edges of my sandals and onto the tips of my toes. “Shi-it.” I pull my foot from the half-baked, grass-laced brown clod with a pffwt as I break the suction and shake my foot aggressively, throwing poop bombs into the surrounding grass. So much for throwing down $180 of my hard-earned cash for the expensive French pedicure and the new designer sandals. Right now, they look no better than skanky chipped toes in dollar store flip-flops.

  I yank a fistful of dried-up cornstalks from a large mound of debris heaped in the grass and swipe them down the sides of my ankle and foot, peeling brown ribbons from my skin and stopping every so often to gag. If this keeps up, I’ll have crap and puke on my sandals.

  “Ugh, that’s nasty. Hurry up and wipe it off!” Jaycee clamps one hand over her mouth and waves the other one quickly in front of her face. Yeah, that’s helping.

  “Looks like you got into some serious shit.”

  I’m mid-gag, bent over with my butt in the air when he says it. We didn’t see him coming up the gravel road. Oh God, please no. Just no.

  I shuffle my foot as far away as possible so he won’t see and peer over my shoulder, but it’s not Preston. Gage Howard stands there, thumbs hinged in his belt loops, rocking back on his heels and smiling like he’s just won the jackpot.


  I blow out a breath and squat down to scrape even harder. “No shit, Sherlock. I guess this puts me on your shit list. Poor little Rayne is up shit creek without a paddle.”

  His smile fades, eyes searching me like a crossword puzzle.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Did I scare the shit outta you?”

  “Actually, that’s impressive.” He nods, the apples of his cheeks rounding. “I guess you’re a girl who has her shit together. That gets you brownie points in my book. Get it? Brown-ie points?”

  I toss the poopy-stalks into the grass and extend my hand, wiggling my fingers. “Gonna stand there with that shit-eating grin on your face or help me up?”

  He extends his hand partway then yanks it back, smiling. “Nah, I think you might be shit outta luck.” He nods back over his shoulder, at what I don’t know, until Jaycee kneels down beside me, so close it’s as if she’s climbing on my lap. Her nails dig three inches in my skin.

  “Get up,” she hisses. “We’ve got company.”

  “Uh…yeah,” I tick my head back toward Gage and pry her nails from my arm.

  “Not him.” She stabs her finger to the side of Gage, further down the gravel road. “Him.” Of course it’d be him. Of course it’d be now. Preston saunters toward us, teenage perfection in his khaki shorts and green polo with just a peek of white tee-shirt through the unfastened buttons, emerging like a phoenix from the gravel dust still hanging in the air from the last truck that pulled in.

  Kill. Me. Now. How many times am I going to say that today?

  He slows once he gets to my side, his feet no more than a few inches to my right—large, thin feet with long toes and freshly-trimmed nails and no callouses. Could feet be this perfect? And then there’s mine… covered in crap. Please God, just send an earthquake now and suck me under.

  He squats down. “Rayne? You okay?” His first real words to me. Sweet. Caring. Totally embarrassing.

  “I… uh… stepped in… uh… it’s on my foot…” The words lump together in meaningless brain piles, none matching the others. I keep my head down but peep up at him. His prismatic brown eyes almost make me forget I’m covered in crap—except they’re just about the same shade.