Meant to Be Broken

by Brandy Woods Snow

  “Everything was fine until you showed up.” Okay, so that isn’t entirely truthful.

  Preston, wriggling his nose up and down a few times, walks to Barrett and bro-hugs him. Jaycee whips off her towel, the oh-so-tiny triangles of her bikini barely covering what looks like two large cantaloupes on her chest. As if it wasn’t already hard enough to keep Preston’s attention on me.

  Preston and Barrett take turns flipping off the diving board while Jaycee wades in from the tiled steps, her boobs bobbing along the top of the water like floaties. This sucks. I sit on the edge and dip my feet in the water, bathtub warm from the August heat.

  “I’m hot,” Jaycee complains. “Is there anything to drink?”

  When Preston says there’s water in the fridge, I offer to run in and get—might as well make myself useful for someone tonight.

  I open the backdoor and peer into the short hallway, which looks a little too regal for a mudroom entrance. Preston said it’s the second entrance on the right, a butter-yellow swinging door. Something about the Howard house makes me feel as if I’m walking in a museum, where running and speaking above a whisper is frowned upon. I push open the door, slip inside, and close it without a sound. It’s dark, except for the glow from two pendant lights over the island and an open refrigerator door.

  Behind the stainless-steel block, Gage bends over, rifling inside, only his butt and legs visible. The keys to his Scout hang on one of four hooks underneath the family’s calendar on the wall to my immediate left. I grab them and tiptoe closer. On the opposite side of the fridge door I wait in silence, undetected. At least until he slams it closed.

  When his eyes fix on me, he jumps backwards, narrowly missing the granite-topped island. “What the—” he says, running his hand through wet hair. As a matter of fact, he’s wet all over. Not sopping, just dewy. He’s wearing only black boxers and there’s a towel slung over the barstool. He’s shower-fresh and hotter than I remember from the bonfire.

  I dangle the keys in front of me. “Went muddin’ in your Scout. Third gear sticks a little.”

  The corner of his lip turns up. He lunges forward to grab the keys, but I pull them back just in time. “Like you could handle a stick,” he says, stepping back to assess my position. He fakes left, goes right, wraps my arms tight to my sides and plucks the keys from my fingers. I give in quickly, not just because of the strength in his arms. His touch is different on my skin, like electricity’s running through it. It zaps the breath from me. He feels it, too, because he leans back and rubs his fingertips together. “Sorry. Static electricity, I guess…”

  “Yeah,” I mutter. With his arm up, the dim lighting washes over his abs, and my eyes fixate on the black lettering that runs over the ripples of his obliques, straight down his side. “You have ink?” I’m unable to fight off the urge to run my fingers across the words. I stroke the top of them, smooth on his skin.

  “My eighteenth birthday present to myself.” He pulls his arm back so we can both admire the view.

  “You’re eighteen already?”

  “For about three weeks now. My birthday’s July 26.” He looks up at me and smiles. “I know what you’re thinking. How can Preston and I be so close in age?” He laughs and drops his arm down, smooshing my fingers, which linger on the tattoo, even closer to his skin. For a minute I contemplate leaving them there. But the shivers running up my spine excite me in places they shouldn’t.

  That and I probably shouldn’t be touching Preston’s brother. I curl my fingers into my palm and pull them away.

  “Everyone asks. Let’s just say my parents should be poster-children for the unfortunate side-effects of unprotected sex so soon after having a baby. Turns out people can end up with unwanted children.”

  “Don’t say that. I’m sure you weren’t unwanted.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he scoffs. “So what’re you doing in here? Shouldn’t you be out there on your date?” He thumbs toward the backyard.

  “Oh yeah… them.”

  “Them?” Gage walks over to the window overlooking the pool. “Barrett and Jaycee are here? Y’all couldn’t handle your first date solo?”

  “Apparently not.”

  He smirks and walks back to my side. “Date crashers. That sucks.”

  “Story of our night.” He arches one eyebrow and pinches his lips. I wave my hand. “Long story. Don’t ask.” I open the fridge and bend down to grab four bottles, my butt sticking out behind me like his was earlier. “I’m supposed to get waters. Not that rump roast I saw when I first came in.”

  I look at him over my shoulder, his grin so big I can fully see both rows of teeth. “Funny thing,” he says, “I was looking for some cherry pie, but it looks like Preston might’ve nabbed it first.”

  I snap upright, bobbling the water bottles, and lose grip on one, which falls to the floor and rolls by Gage’s foot.

  Still smiling, he picks up the runaway bottle and drops it onto the others in my hands. “Didn’t mean to embarrass you…”

  “You didn’t. I… I just need to get these out there…” I rush to the swinging door and pop it open with my hip. “See ya later.”

  Outside, the three of them are in the shallow end, hitting a volleyball back and forth. “Waters,” I say, plopping them down on the poolside table. I sit on the edge and dangle my legs over the side, unscrew my bottle cap, and take a swig.

  Jaycee looks over with a scowl. “Took you long enough.”

  I shrug. She sure as hell wouldn’t approve of my being in the kitchen chatting with Gage. “Sorry.”

  A light flicks on in an upstairs room where the window is cracked open. I can’t see him, but I can hear him singing something to himself before the first bars of a song filter through. Oh no he didn’t. Warrant’s song “Cherry Pie” blares through the screen. I sing along in my head, my lips curling involuntarily into a smile. A heat explodes in my chest, springing to life like someone’s struck a match against my ribcage.

  Preston swims over to the side and grabs my legs. “Whatcha smilin’ about?”

  “Nothing.” I shake my head, put down the water bottle and slide over the edge into the pool.

  Chapter 10

  Gage

  T

  he overhead sun is scorching, too hot for what’s supposed to be late summer. I peel off my black T-shirt, which absorbs the heat like a sponge, and tuck it under my arm as I walk out on the dock. Barrett’s grandparents’ pond is the perfect place to spend such a day, diving in and out of the cool water and laying on one of the long plastic floats soaking up the rays.

  A flash of red catches my attention. Rayne sits on the farthest edge, kicking her feet in the water. Clouds of tiny droplets spray the air with each foot lift. Her brown hair hangs loose, barely past her shoulders and curlier than I remember, meeting the back of her red tank top, which is open lengthwise down the middle, laced together in a crisscross pattern with a black fabric strip. Peeks of skin, sun-kissed and coppery brown, show through.

  She must be expecting Preston. I glance around, but he’s nowhere to be seen, so I walk toward her and take a seat. She looks over and smiles, her lips a perfect match to her shirt.

  “Hey, Gage. I’ve been waiting on you.” Her voice is mellow, almost musical.

  I narrow my eyes. “Waiting on me? Why?”

  “Because, silly, I brought you something.” She pulls a large picnic basket onto her lap and rifles inside until she locates a round pie tin. It’s covered in foil. She sets the basket to the side and folds the top partway back. The crust is a golden brown, and when she digs the fork in, crimson fruit and filling pours out. She rakes on a large bite and extends it in my direction. “Cherry pie. I knew how much you wanted some.”

  Shouldn’t she be waiting on Preston? Having a picnic with him? Still, my mouth waters at the sight of that pie. It looks so good, I can’t resist, so I lean forward, mouth open.

  One taste won’t hurt.

  The sweet ch
erries are almost on my tongue when the wooden board I’m sitting on unexpectedly gives way and cracks down the middle, the jarring movement sending me into the pond headfirst. I flail my arms against the water, bursting back through the surface.

  My breath escapes me, my heart beating 90 miles a minute. The red digits of the alarm clock say 7:32 AM as I sit straight up in my bed, the covers tousled and half hanging off the side, my pillow on the carpet.

  A small sliver of sunlight peeks through the six-inch gap of the open window, and I squint as my eyes adjust to the brightness while the memories of last night filter in. Preston and Rayne’s first date. Our chance meeting in the kitchen. That cherry pie reference.

  So that’s where the crazy dream came from.

  I fumble off the mattress and slip on the pair of gray basketball shorts and navy T-shirt that are slung over the desk chair. The hallway is empty, the entire house quiet. Preston’s door is still shut. No doubt he’s asleep after that late night they all had by the pool. When his Mustang pulled out a few minutes before 11, I’d mistakenly thought that’d be the end of it. But Jaycee and Barrett stayed, moving back and forth between the shallow end and the attached hot tub, and within ten minutes, were joined again by a solo Preston. That’s where they all stayed until about 1 AM, when Mom and Dad came home and interrupted their private party. After that, it was finally quiet enough to fall asleep.

  I trudge downstairs and look into the garage. Dad’s car is gone. Usually one Sunday a month they get up early and head to the country club to have brunch with friends. Sometimes Mom enjoys a few spa services while Dad takes in a round of golf. And if that’s where they are then…

  I walk through the back hallway to the kitchen. It’s dark. Abandoned.

  Exactly what I thought. No breakfast.

  My stomach growls in protest so I grab my wallet and head out the front door. The weekend farmers’ market runs until noon, and lots of people talk about how much good food’s available. Here’s hoping they didn’t exaggerate and that the quick half-mile walk will be worth it.

  People crowd the pavilion, the monotonous hum of their voices creating an electrified static. Like bees buzzing in a hive. Occasionally, one of the old men gathered around the produce crates laughs out loud as a sort of punctuation mark to the whole back-and-forth. Vendors line the edges with coolers of free-range eggs and gallon jugs of fresh milk from the dairy. Bushel baskets of red tomatoes, strawberries, blueberries, and blackberries seamlessly merge with truck beds brimming with shucked ears of corn and green okra pods. On the outskirts of the crowd, food trucks serve a variety of hot foods and coffee.

  For a minute I almost feel as if I’m part of something good. Decent. Wholesome.

  Almost.

  Mrs. Knight, loving grandmother of four by declaration and gossiping old biddy by reputation, hunches over a tub of fresh-cut flowers, chatting with the lady by the cash register. “Why Preston Howard decided to date her is a mystery to most of us. I mean, she’s a sweet girl, bless her heart, but she ain’t…”

  The hairs bristle on my neck as I push through the crowd, heading for the briny sweetness of maple bacon floating in the air. I finally make it to the large chalkboard menu standing out front of the food truck when I see her.

  Rayne sits on the decorative fountain’s stone wall, cross-legged, eating a pile of biscuits and gravy. I walk over and take a seat beside her, ignoring the persistent protests gurgling from my belly.

  “You might want to feed that.” She smiles and points to my stomach. “He sounds angry.”

  “Very angry. Irate even.” The smile drops from my face. “Okay, I’m starving. There was no breakfast at home.”

  She pouts and traces her finger down her cheek like a tear. “Aw, poor baby. These biscuits and gravy sure are good, though.” She shoves another mouthful in, and then licks the fork up and down.

  “You dirty, dirty tease.”

  Her shoulders collapse as she blows out a loud breath, pretending to send up the white flag. “I guess I can share.” Without warning, she plunges a forkful of biscuits dripping with gravy in my mouth, and I have to slap my hand over my lips to keep it all in.

  She forks another bite, this time putting it in her mouth, and smiles as she chews. The morning sun glints off the strawberry blonde highlights that mix with her brown hair, which is pulled up in a messy bun. Unlike last night, she doesn’t have on a stitch of make-up and for the first time, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose is visible.

  This is a wild and wonderful girl. Most of the ones I’ve ever met would’ve licked the pavement before sharing a utensil with me, but then there’s Rayne, completely unfazed, scarfing down her breakfast like she’s perfectly comfortable sitting here with me.

  I swallow and clear my throat. “So, what’s the verdict on last night? Good first date?”

  She nods and presses her lips together in a firm line, the response a little more lackluster than I anticipated. “Yeah. It was… fine.” Most of Preston’s first dates ended with the girl all high-pitched and giddy, fawning all over him and asking about “next time.” But Rayne’s staring at me as if there’s a lemon lodged under her tongue saying the mother of all qualifying words. Fine.

  Before I can ask, Mrs. McAlister interrupts us, sprinting toward Rayne, waving one hand in the air while clutching a plastic clamshell container of blueberries in the other.

  “Rayne?” She screeches. “Bless your heart, hun, I saw you over here with…” She pauses a beat and stares at me with dead eyes. “Preston’s brother… and I just had to tell you to tell your Mama to buy some of that stain cleaner in the purple bottle. It’s on the top shelf at the Piggly Wiggly. It’ll get that tea stain right outta the crotch of those—”

  “Thanks. I’ll tell her,” Rayne says, her eyes expanding to three times their normal size as she flits them between me and Mrs. McAlister. Pink swirls appear in her cheeks and reach down her neck.

  “Hey, isn’t that Mrs. Knight over there at the vegetable truck?” I butt in, pointing to the 1950-something black Ford that’s backed in on the pavilion’s far edge. “There’s a good deal on zucchini today—four for a dollar—and I heard her saying earlier she was going to buy him out.”

  She whirls around, grinding her fists into her hip bones, then blows out a loud breath to match her foot tapping. “That greedy hussy thinks the world revolves around her. She’s not gonna get all my zucchini.” With a quick glance over her shoulder to remind Rayne about the stain treatment, she stomps off in a quest for reasonably-priced veggies.

  “So…” I nudge Rayne’s knee with mine. “Fine, huh?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I have the time, if you have the biscuits.”

  Five minutes later, she’s re-enacted the entire tea-in-the-lap incident, demonstrating with frenzied hand gestures how everyone basically assaulted her crotch in an attempt to get it all cleaned up. In her words, a freaking fiasco.

  By the time she finishes the story, every biscuit crumb has vanished and my sides ache from doubling over in laughter.

  The entire time, I keep thinking how damn lucky my brother is.

  Chapter 11

  Rayne

  F

  eet to the pavement—my sweet escape. I plug my iPod into my ears, crank the music, and stare ahead of me, physically putting distance between myself and everyone else. It’s great for perspective. And after two weeks of classes, a quick Sunday afternoon run might do some good.

  It’s not that classes are hard. They’re so-so, about what I expected, though it’s different not having Jaycee with me most of the day. She’s my safety net, my conversation starter, my social conduit. Without her, the M.O. has become slinking in my desk and burying my nose in a book until the teacher starts. Funny thing—most of the kids in my classes are now my virtual friends even if they walk by me without a word in public. Only when Preston’s around am I suddenly a hot commodity.

 
I live for fourth period French. Jaycee’s beside me, Gage’s behind me, and for one sixty-minute segment, all is right in my high school world. Not that it’s particularly drama-free, especially with Jaycee’s vow to hate Gage eternally and his smart-ass responses to just about everything she says. I pretend it’s all a joke, but I think they really do hate each other.

  If Jaycee’s my best friend, Gage has become next in command, not only because of our French class but because nearly every date with Preston has somehow made our paths cross. Our personalities are similar, more than mine and Preston’s, and our friendly relationship has evolved around healthy competition. He’s one-upping me or I’m taking him down—and neither of us likes to lose. He’s easy on the eyes, too, but I’d never tell Preston that. No guy in the world wants to hear his girlfriend say his brother’s hot.

  By the time I round the corner onto Main Street, the sun is low in the sky and the September air swirls with a definite chill. I tuck my fingers under the sleeve hem to warm them. Up ahead on the opposite side of the road is the Howard house. I never run on the sidewalk right in front of their place because hello? Stalker. Preston’s hardly there anyway.

  Our first couple weeks of dating were awesome, seeing each other most every night even for ten minutes, but since his classes started, his schedule’s sketchy. Study groups and the internship take up a lot of time—time he’d been spending with me before. At least he calls and texts religiously. It just sucks I sometimes feel like I don’t know him as well as I should. Like we’re stuck in some sort of time warp where everything’s paused, and when we do get a moment, someone’s always crashing it.

  The corner gas station is my turnaround point where the sidewalk runs out. I jog in place, finger to my jugular to check the thump-thump-thump beneath it, then head back up the hill toward town. Usually I’m in a zone, but today something’s different. My peripheral vision homes in on something or someone paralleling me on the opposite side of the street.