Meant to Be Broken

by Brandy Woods Snow

  Gage always had my back, but when the tables turned, he never gave me the chance to prove myself to him. He left and took it all away. Except my love for him, which at this moment is growing in a very real way in the depths of my body. “I miss him.”

  Preston reaches over and pats my knee, my pain mirrored on his face. “I miss him, too. I guess that’s why I’m here. I thought being near you might help me feel closer to him. I didn’t know… he’d ended things…” He exhales and leans his head back against the wooden slats.

  “He may have walked away, but he left a piece behind.” I rub my belly. “I have to believe that’ll lead him back. One day.”

  Preston leans up and nods. “Until then Rayne, let me be here for you. As a friend. Let me do this for my brother, since I can’t apologize to him in person. It’s the only way I know to make this right.”

  How can something feel so wrong and so right all at once? Again, I find myself in a proverbial Howard brothers sandwich, albeit this time not some crazy love triangle. Being with Preston did make me feel closer to Gage. And I need someone to talk to. Someone I can trust. Before he’d shown up today, I had no one, and if he leaves, I’ll be alone again. I can’t shoulder this by myself. I reach out and grab his hand. “I could really use a friend.”

  Chapter 38

  Gage

  I

  smash the pillow across my face, tugging the ends over my ears. Every night—for 22 nights now—the cicadas and katydids duke it out in a head-to-head match for “most annoying sound” domination. It’s a tie. They both suck.

  While they’re an obvious scapegoat for my inability to string more than two hours of sleep together in the last month, it’s a convenient excuse to keep the grandparents out of it. Not that I want to keep my distance from them. I’m just not ready to rehash the past or the love I walked out on.

  The one thing I’ve learned about Nana already is that she’s a “fixer.” Even with broken messes that don’t want to be fixed.

  Or can’t be.

  It’s in the way she looks at me over bacon, eggs, and biscuits every morning. Eyes squinting and roaming, head tilting, teeth chewing her inner cheek. Like I’m her project, and she’s searching for that linchpin fix that’ll make it all better. Problem is, so much stuff’s cracked, there’s not enough happy mojo in the world to piece it back together.

  Grandpa, on the other hand, embraces my loner-hood in the grief and wallowing department. He is, after all, the original. He doesn’t try to fix anything. His motto is “Suck it up, buttercup,” and forge ahead.

  On the mornings her exuberance gets the better of the conversation and she ends up barraging me with questions about the life I left behind, Grandpa utters a loud harrumph into his forkful of scrambled eggs and says, “Mags, let the boy be.”

  There’s comfort in their consistency, and always knowing where I stand in the scheme of things. Never wondering what shit-storm is lurking next. But while the breakfast routine is established, so, unfortunately, is the nighttime self-torment-fest, the minutes ticking by like refrigerated molasses. The darkness is a heavy blanket of memories, and the annoying insect serenade threatens to push me right over the edge of sanity.

  I miss Rayne.

  God, I love her so much. More than I did before, if that’s even possible.

  Every night starts the same. I slide beneath the covers, shut my eyes, and pray for sleep. Instead, strings of images flow in sequence. Rayne and I dancing by the river. Our first kiss under the bleachers. Edisto. Sometimes those lull me into unconsciousness before the sweet images turn to vivid dreams of Rayne crying, holding on to my shirt, getting smaller in her driveway until she vanishes all together. I come to, in a tangle of sheets and sweat, with absolutely no resolution to the throbbing hole in my chest.

  Tonight’s been no different. I lean over the edge of my bed and grab the phone, punching in *67 and the rest of the digits before my rational brain can stop this self-destructive torture. I’ve only succumbed to the temptation a handful of times, but when her voice comes on the line, it’s like being stabbed repeatedly in the chest. The alarm clock’s red numbers say 2:38 AM.

  This is stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  “Hello?”

  Her voice, so soft, shoots chills down my spine. The stifled screams burn in my throat. It’s me, Rayne. It’s me, and I love you. But the voice dies inside me.

  “Gage?” She whispers into the phone. “Is that you?”

  I slam the receiver down. I’m an asshole, trying to get a quick fix while twisting the knife further into her back. No, this masochistic shit has to stop. There has to be a way to take myself completely out of the picture, and I’m going to find it.

  Nana sits at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading the Lifestyle section of the newspaper. Two dirty plates and two sets of silverware are stacked beside her while a single unused place setting waits at my usual spot.

  I glance at the wall clock above the French door. A few minutes after seven. “Am I late?”

  The paper crinkles as she folds it over and tosses it in the chair beside her before smiling up at me. “Grandpa and I were just a little early this morning. Your bedroom door was still closed, so I didn’t want to disturb you.” Her chair scrapes against the tiled floor as she pushes back from the table. “Here, let me get you—”

  “Stay where you are. I’ll get my food.” I grab my plate off the table and walk to the stove, scooping up a small pile of eggs and a couple strips of bacon. When I sit down, she picks up the carafe and pours coffee in my cup. Wisps of steam curl into my nostrils as I pull it to my lips, relishing the nutty bitterness on my tongue and secretly praising the morning gods for the supply of caffeine to get me through another day.

  Nana’s eyes cut through me like x-rays, the hairs on my neck bristling under her stare. I pause, fork in mid-air, and look back.

  “Are you sleeping well?” She leans forward as she says it, an invitation to tell her all my secrets.

  “Sure,” I mumble and shove the fork in my mouth.

  “It’s just that…” she pauses and blows out a loud breath. “I got up around 2:30 to use the restroom and your light was still on, and there was some noise, like you were tossing and turning?”

  “I fell asleep while reading, and you probably just overheard me readjusting or something.”

  “Right.” She pinches her lips into a flat line and nods, relaxing back in her chair. “So, I was thinking maybe what you need—”

  Heavy footsteps echo on the back staircase. Grandpa steps into the kitchen, two shotguns and two boxes of ammo in hand. “What he needs is for you to leave him be, Mags. Besides, he’s got plans—a day with Grandpa, an old Army codger, and some clay pigeons. Finish that bacon, and let’s hit the road.”

  An hour later, we turn out across a low-lying flat of grass toward the swampy banks of a canal, the terrain no match for my Scout, which Grandpa insisted we drive. He said something about his pick-up truck needing air in the tires, but I checked. They’re fine. Just another one of his sly tricks to get me behind the wheel and perk me up.

  A two-tone green 1950’s model Chevy truck is already parked catty-cornered beside a short palm dripping with Spanish moss. A tall man, with skin the color of burnt umber and white hair cut in a military “high and tight,” gets out of the cab, shotgun in hand, as we approach. Grandpa’s referred to him as “Boomer” for the duration of the trip. Apparently the nickname came from some sort of bomb joke that clearly went over my head.

  I shift to neutral and pull the parking brake as Boomer walks over and pats the hood of my Scout, then pulls his free hand into a salute, lips and eyes frozen in the no-expression position. The thought of being around this guy with a gun all day shoots chill bumps down my arms.

  Grandpa leans in close. “Don’t let him intimidate you. He’s an old drill sergeant, ornery and crabby as they come. Smells fear.” My breathing quickens, and I swallow a few times as Gra
ndpa cracks a smile. “But don’t worry, he won’t hurt you.” He opens the door and slides off the seat, darting his head back in as I’m undoing my seatbelt. “Oh yeah, almost forgot. Don’t call him Boomer to his face. He hates that shit.”

  I slam the door and walk around to the front of the Scout where Grandpa puts his arm around me, pulling me into their circle. “Gage, this is Talmadge Anderson, retired Sergeant Major, US Army. Anderson, this is my grandson, Gage Howard.”

  His stark expression cracks, lips parting over two rows of perfectly white teeth. “Gage Howard, nice to meet you.” He reaches out and shakes my hand vigorously. “It’s about time your Grandpa got some testosterone in that house. You shoot?”

  Preston and I’d been hunting a few times before on Barrett’s grandparents’ land. “A few times.”

  “That’ll do,” he nods, chuckling.

  As he turns, walking out toward the canal, Grandpa hands me a 12-guage and a handful of shells. “Let’s see what you got.”

  Ping. The first clay spins through the air. The gun weighs a million pounds, and it’s like a game of cat and mouse. And I’m the cat, always just a little bit behind. Shit.

  Ping. The second clay fires. Where the hell is it?

  “You do know the object is to actually fire the gun?” Anderson says as the heat rushes to my cheeks. He slaps my arm then grimaces. “No wonder. You’re tighter than a clam’s ass at high tide.”

  “Yeah.” I blow out a loud breath. “Not really a great time for me.”

  “Hogwash. If you wait until the time is perfect, you gonna wait forever. Harness whatever’s eatin’ you and make it do work instead.” Anderson steps behind me, physically repositioning my arms and legs into the appropriate stance. He then grabs the gun still in my hands and buries the butt of it into my shoulder. “You’ve gotta get control of it, or it’s gonna control you.”

  Grandpa stomps the pedal. Ping. Another clay flies in the air. I line up the shot.

  This is my life. I make the rules.

  My finger crushes the trigger. Ka-pow! A hundred shards fall to the water’s surface.

  “Feels good, doesn’t it?” He slaps me on the back with a smile. I smile back and nod at Grandpa to set off another. Then another. And another.

  When my shells are spent, I sit on the Chevy’s tailgate, reloading.

  “Somebody’s found his groove,” Anderson says and nudges Grandpa’s arm before he walks over to me. “You’re a pretty good shot. Maybe you should consider a career in the military? My son’s an Army recruiter at the office downtown. Go see him. Find out what the Army can do for you.”

  Grandpa slaps his hand over his eyes, shaking his head with a laugh. “Don’t come lookin’ for my help when Mags is on your ass.”

  “It’s in the boy’s blood. Look at him. Strong shoulders. Flat stomach. Military jaw.” He pats each of my so-called attributes with a firm hand. “And if he’s half as pig-headed as you, he’ll be perfect.”

  Grandpa grabs his gun and marches toward the canal, yelling back over his shoulder. “Ignore him. Everybody else does.”

  Later, after a million glory-filled war stories have been told and the sporting clays have been thoroughly destroyed, Grandpa says good-bye to his friend as I get in the driver’s seat and yank the belt around me, stopping long enough to pull the business card out of my back pocket before clicking the buckle into place.

  The Army. Where clueless boys become disciplined men.

  Yep, this ought to do it.

  “You did what?”

  Okay, so this isn’t the reaction from Nana I was expecting. Congratulations possibly. It’s your life, maybe. Not this. Immediately, her fingers prod her collarbone, searching for the strand of pearls. When she finds them and clamps down, I’m sure within seconds they’ll be pulverized to dust.

  “I thought you’d be happy.”

  “No, that’s him,” she says through gritted teeth. “I’m gonna beat your butt.”

  Grandpa reaches over to pat Nana’s shoulder, but she shirks his touch.

  “Hot damn, Mags. Give the boy a break. The Army is exactly what he needs.” He claps his hands then rubs them together as if preparing to dig into pile of barbecue ribs. “I’m proud as punch! Now, when do you report?”

  “The recruiter picks me up here tomorrow morning.”

  She releases the pearls. They slap into her skin as she jabs her finger in Grandpa’s face. “You did this, Benjamin Harrington!”

  Damn. That’s the first time she’s called him by his full name. She whips around, marches to the cabinets and pulls out a long casserole dish. She’s grabbing an apron out of the drawer when I intercept. Her shoulders are slumped, head down.

  “Nana, what are you doing?”

  She turns and looks at me, tears rimming her lower lashes. “Well, if you’re leaving tomorrow, we’re gonna give you the perfect sendoff tonight.” Her voice cracks just a bit, but then she clears her throat and lengthens her spine. “Now go tell that pain-in-the-ass Grandpa of yours to call your cousins. They need to be here by seven.”

  I’m still stuffed from Nana’s supper last night. She made enough for the Army itself, though there were only five of us. Ham, macaroni and cheese, dressing, green beans, and potato salad—it’s possible she believes I won’t eat again until I graduate from basic training. Hell, I may not need to. And from what Grandpa tells me about the PT requirements, I may not want to.

  I toss my duffle bag on the bed and stuff it with toiletries, rolled towels, t-shirts, socks, and underwear. The basics, and once again according to Grandpa, the only personal things that’ll remain with me over the nine weeks of Boot Camp hell. That, and the personal-sized Bible Nana insisted I include. It lies on the navy comforter, and I flip open the front cover.

  Rayne.

  The homecoming picture of the two of us her Mama gave me, the ends now slightly dog-eared from all the nights I’ve laid in this very room, holding it up to my face, memorizing every detail. Remembering. Reliving. It’s shoved between the cover and the dedication page.

  She’s along for the ride, even if she doesn’t know it.

  Giggles echo in the hallway outside my door, and I quickly close the cover. My twin cousins, Taryn and Farrah, spent the night. Nana decided it was best since they were home alone anyway and could be here to give me the proper Harrington “see you later” this morning.

  My aunt Ruth Ellen and her doctor husband have been traveling abroad in Haiti for the last three weeks, doing mission work in the rural villages. They still have a couple weeks left. I met her briefly before they flew out, and the entire time, the urge to vomit clamored in my belly, the feeling obviously mutual. We moved around each other like orbiting planets, close but never actually touching. Cordial but nothing deeper. Her dark hair and angled jaw proved a dead-ringer for Mom’s pictures, and she kept saying how haunting my eyes were. Awkward. I guess a severe lack in communication skills might be another Harrington DNA anomaly.

  “There’s our cousin!” Farrah laughs, bouncing into the room, and then tousling my hair. “It’s so weird to say that. We’ve never had a cousin on Mom’s side before.”

  “Yeah, so weird.” Taryn saunters in, rolling her eyes, the sarcasm pouring off her tongue. “You almost packed?” She asks, turning her attention on me instead of her sister who’s pushed between me and the bed and is rifling through my bag.

  Identical faces, opposite personalities.

  “Think so.” I grab Farrah’s roving hand, removing it from my bag, which I pick up off the bed, inadvertently knocking The Bible to the floor. It lands with a thump, the photograph slipping out from the edge just enough to be visible.

  “What’s this?” Farrah scoops up the Bible and plucks the picture out between her nails, holding it up in the sunlight streaming through the window. Her blue eyes sparkle. “Is this your girlfriend?”

  Taryn shakes her head in disgust at Farrah’s obvious lack of boundaries, though
her own eyes linger on it as well. She then snatches the photo and slides it back under the cover’s safety. “Some things are private, Farrah.”

  She glowers at Taryn. “I was just asking! Besides…” she turns to me with a wink, “She’s pretty.”

  “She’s a girl I used to know,” I mumble, staring at my shoes.

  “If you say so,” Farrah sing-songs as she turns and struts out the door.

  Taryn stashes the Bible inside my duffle and slides the zipper closed. “Sorry about Farrah. She’s… special, delightfully ridiculous, a hair insane, and a pinch nosey.”

  I laugh. Farrah’s all that, and maybe a bit more. “It’s okay.”

  Taryn smiles back, pausing at the door. “I get there’s stuff in your past you’re not ready to talk about. It’s really hard to open up sometimes, especially when you’ve been hurt. Believe me, I know.” She swallows hard and continues, “But when the time comes, and you do want to talk, I’ll be here.”

  Beep! Beep!

  I press my nose to the glass. On the curb below, an Army van idles, my recruiter standing by the sliding back door. Taryn holds out her hand, wiggling her fingers. I hoist the duffle onto my shoulder and join her.

  We say our good-byes on the porch, Grandpa slapping me on the back then forcing a stern expression before walking abruptly inside, complaining about a “damn gnat that flew in his eye.” The girls kiss me on the cheek and follow. But Nana refuses to leave. Her arms circle me, fingertips pressing down into my skin.

  “I’ll be back, Nana. I promise.”

  She nods, tears streaking her cheeks, and palms both sides of my face, pulling me down to plant a kiss on my forehead.

  I walk down the steps, out the gate, and get into the van’s backseat.

  Behind me, Nana fades from sight. In front of me, my future awaits.

  Chapter 39

  Rayne

  I

  stare down at the informational guide in my hand. Your Baby and You: 8-12 Weeks Gestation. The tissue paper covering the examination table crackles underneath me with each move. At least my clothes are back on now while I’m waiting on the doc to wrap up. Nothing’s quite as uncomfortable as being naked as a jaybird with your legs in stirrups and your crotch exposed for all to see.