Meant to Be Broken

by Brandy Woods Snow

  At the far entrance, Preston’s Mustang darts in and whips around to the curb in front of me. By the time he makes it to my side, I’m laughing hysterically. His eyebrows scrunch together like he’s deciding if I should be committed.

  “Preston, I had a panic attack.”

  “What? That’s not funny! Are you okay?”

  “Ask me where,” I say through the giggles.

  “Where?”

  “Aisle three! Now ask me what I was buying.”

  “What were you buying?”

  “Mayonnaise!”

  He stares at me, stunned for a minute, before erupting. We laugh together, our shoulders shaking in unison. He grabs either side of my face and smirks. “You are your mother’s daughter.”

  I nod. I am, and for the first time in my life, I’m completely okay with it.

  Chapter 42

  Gage

  I

  step under the shower head and let the hot water run down me, taking the opportunity to close my eyes and soak in the silence.

  “Gage!” Rodriguez steps inside the bathroom door and slaps his hand on the tile wall. The loud wham echoes around the space and my heart jumps into my throat. “Hurry up. Overnight pass starting in 30 minutes. You, me, and Porter are getting off this Post tonight.”

  I turn off the water and grab my towel, wrapping it around me as I try to steady my breath. “And do what?”

  “That’s a surprise.”

  So not trusting that. I push past him and walk to my locker. The best thing about passes is getting to wear civilian clothing instead of uniforms for a change. My standard black T-shirt and jeans are folded on the shelf.

  I’ve missed you, old friends.

  Rodriguez follows behind and joins Porter who’s already standing by my bed. Both are fully dressed and ready to go. I shake my head and laugh. Two guys couldn’t be more different, but their friendship is bone-deep. Alex Rodriguez hails from California, was raised by his grandmother, and loves surfing. He’s all of 5’5” but stacked like a brick house. The girls forgive his shorter stature once they get a quick glimpse of those abs.

  Then there’s Jason Porter from Wisconsin. The product of a dairy farmer, he was raised with six brothers and sisters and several hundred cows. He’s 6’5”, about 170lbs soaking wet, and wears Army-issued thick-framed glasses—also known as Birth Control Glasses or BCGs—for his near-sightedness.

  They’re the weirdest, most unlikely friends. And they’re two of the greatest battle buddies I have. That’s why I always fold when they start yammering about a pass. Who can say no to these two?

  I pull the t-shirt over my head. “Ok, I’m going, but first you have to tell me the plans.”

  “We’re taking you out for your birthday,” Porter says. “Time to celebrate your last teen year.”

  “I haven’t felt like a teenager in months,” I say, fastening my belt.

  Rodriguez grabs my chin and gives it a shake. “All the more reason to enjoy tonight. Now come on, our ride’s waiting.”

  They bolt out the door side by side with me following on their heels. “Our ride?”

  Rodriguez turns with a wink. “You’ll see.”

  Uh-oh. That wink slides us squarely into the danger zone. It means he’s been planning, and Rodriguez’s plans are known for going… astray.

  Awry.

  Okay, getting totally screwed up.

  In the blacktop parking area outside the dorms, a tan Suburban with a South Carolina license plate idles in the far space. As we approach, the doors on both sides swing open, and three girls walk around to the back bumper. Two I recognize immediately. One I don’t.

  “Happy Birthday, Cousin!” Taryn and Farrah shout in unison, throwing rainbow-colored confetti in the air. It rains down on top of us, leaving little metallic pieces in everyone’s hair. They pull me into a group hug then step back to introduce their friend.

  Her name is Clara Jean Riley from Mount Pleasant, right outside of Charleston. She smiles a lot, awkwardly like she’s not quite sure what to say, and shifts from foot to foot. A strand of her straight brown hair, which she habitually tucks behind her ear, refuses to stay put and two seconds later swings back in her face.

  I glance at Rodriguez and Porter, their million-dollar smiles evidence enough of their involvement.

  “How’d y’all do this?”

  “Just call me the master,” Rodriguez says, scrubbing his nails on his button-down. “Now, let’s blow this joint.”

  He stole her email address. That’s how he pulled it off. I’m in the middle of scarfing potato skins when I remember Rodriguez looking over my shoulder at an email from Taryn then scribbling something on his notepad a couple weeks ago. Sly dog.

  I wipe my mouth with a napkin and lean over to his ear. “I figured it out. You jacked her email address and set this up, right?”

  We’re the only ones still eating. Everyone else is finishing up a game of pool on the table by the windows. He says nothing, responding only with an exaggerated shrug.

  Guilty.

  He’d seen several pictures of Farrah on some texts Taryn sent and commented on her “hotness.” Looks like this birthday surprise has a few perks for him as well.

  “So, this… party… was all for me? Nothing in it for you?”

  “Are you doubting my friendship?” He slaps his hand across his chest, slack jawed. “A true friend would see I only wanted you to have a terrific birthday. In the meantime, if I happen to hit it off with your cousin, then a true friend would be happy about that, too.”

  “I thought as much.” I finish chewing and take a swig of my sweet tea. “And did you happen to arrange this other girl coming with them as well?”

  “Clara Jean? She’s cool, man. You should talk to her.”

  No. I don’t want to talk to her. She’s incredibly nice and pretty in a wholesome Americana sort of way. But I’m not ready for all that.

  “If I wanted to talk to a girl—any girl—I would.” My voice’s hard edge catches Rodriguez off guard, and he jumps in his seat. I narrow my eyes. “Taryn approved this set-up business?”

  “Taryn said it was a bad idea, okay? But Farrah, Porter, and I think it’s great.” He exhales and steeples his hands to his chin. “Dude, you’re pining over a picture. Every night, you get it out, stare at it for like, five minutes, then put it back up, turn over, and go to sleep.” He turns catty-cornered in his chair to face me, shaking his head. “It’s not healthy. Not right. We’re in the prime of our lives, man, and you’re giving it up for what? A picture?”

  A picture. If he only knew everything that’d happened. But he doesn’t. Because I haven’t told anyone. It’s something I can’t face—the shame bites me every time I see her staring back at me from that flat piece of glossy paper. The knife that fillets my heart every time I realize I left her when all she wanted me to do was stay.

  “You… you don’t get it.”

  “Maybe I don’t know everything that went down, but I do know one thing. You’re my friend, and you almost never smile. Put yourself out there, man. Open up to the possibilities.” He glances up and nudges my elbow as Clara Jean saunters back to the table. “Speaking of which…”

  Rodriguez jumps up and points to his empty chair. The one 6 inches from me. “You may have my seat, lovely lady. I promised Farrah a one-on-one match.”

  She greets him with a gleaming white smile and walks beside me. He slides the chair under her.

  What a gentleman. I roll my eyes.

  “Hi,” she says in her honeyed Southern accent. “How’s your birthday so far?”

  “Good,” I mumble, staring at my plate and the half-eaten potato skin covered in bacon.

  “Farrah said you were living with your grandparents in Charleston before you joined the Army. You gonna go back there when you’re done here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, if you do, I’d be happy to show you around, and we�
�”

  My stomach grips my backbone. “Look, I don’t know if this was planned as some sort of set-up, but…”

  “You’re not interested?” She crosses her arms, sitting back in the chair. “I know that look. Faraway eyes staring at nothing, bottom lip all poked out, shoulders slumped.” She sighs. “It’s the look of getting over someone.”

  I laugh and look her in the eyes for the first time. They’re an icy blue, and the thought floats through my mind that if I’d met her a year ago, I would’ve thought her pretty. I might’ve even been tempted to ask for her number. But now, she’s just a face. A face that isn’t Rayne’s. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Kinda. But I know it well. From personal experience.”

  “Sucks doesn’t it?”

  She reaches over and grabs my hand. Hers are warm and soft but every muscle in my body turns to steel, and I fight the urge to yank my fingers away.

  “Completely. But over time… you’ll notice a difference,” she says. “And from there, it’ll only get better, until one day you’ll look around and discover you’re okay. Fine. Good as new.”

  I nod and take a long pull of my tea. I don’t want to be good as anything. That implies there’s a replacement comparable to the original, and that’s impossible. No one can be to me what Rayne was.

  Is.

  What Rayne is.

  Because she’s still everything to me.

  Chapter 43

  Rayne

  “E

  arth to Rayne.” His voice is soft in my ear, broken only by his fingers snapping in my face. “Where are you?” He’s leaned across the counter, next to the doughnut case directly across from where I’m restacking the coffee creamers and straws. It’s hard to feel pissed off when his brown eyes sparkle like that. Like he’s happy. Excited.

  As I should be.

  I shift my eyes to the table in the corner and Preston turns to see. Jaycee’s holding court, Ainsley and Mallory at her side. Umpteen college pamphlets clutter the table, and snippets of conversation, punctuated by Jaycee’s shrill voice, float in the air—frat parties, sororities, football games, and new roommates from different states. I want to shove napkins in my ears so I don’t hear, because hearing it makes me jealous. And I never want to be jealous of Jaycee. At least I’m working the counter and don’t have to wait on their table. Thank God for small miracles.

  “Forget her. She’s stupid and will fail-out before Christmas break,” says Preston. I smile. I’d regret wishing for anyone else’s failure, but Jaycee deserves it. And more. “We’ve got more important things to do. Are you ready? Get your stuff and let’s go.”

  The tissue paper covering the reclining chair crinkles underneath me. Preston swivels a round stool to my side, looking all eager-beaver. I press hard into the headrest, studying the ceiling tiles as if they might unlock the great mysteries of the universe. Anything to take my mind off the fact that as much as I adore Preston, I’d rather have Gage sitting on that stool as we see the first glimpses of our baby. No more wondering about who this little person might be. Now, I’ll have an actual picture.

  A chubby woman in scrubs plods in the room and to my side, and without a word, pulls down my elasticized pants panel and yanks up my shirt to fully expose the bump. She pushes her fingers into my sides, poking from one side to the next. When I shrink back, she looks up at me. “Just getting your little one good and awake.”

  She takes a seat beside the ultrasound machine and pulls out a clipboard. “Just need to confirm before we start. Name—Davidson, Rayne?” I nod. “Gestation at twenty-one weeks, three days?” I nod again. “We’re checking measurements and functions. Are we finding out gender?”

  Preston’s grin threatens to swallow his face, but I squelch his excitement. “No. I want to be surprised.”

  Preston immediately gears up to bombard me with the perks of finding out. “But…”

  I turn toward him, stoic and unsmiling. “I said no.” His shoulders slump and the corners of his mouth droop, and all I can think is how much harder it would’ve been if I’d told him the whole truth. I want Gage to be with me when the gender is revealed. I’m saving that for him.

  “Very good. Here we go.” The technician squirts warm jelly across my stomach and pushes it around with the wand. Through the wispy clouds on the screen, a profile emerges with little ears, a little chin, and a nose, wide across the bridge with just a smidge of an upturn at the tip, that could’ve come from no one else but Gage.

  Preston grips my fingers, squeezing them together to his lips. This should be one of the happiest days of my life, but it’s more like a knife to the heart. Sharing this with Preston could easily be any girl’s dream, but how can I be okay with it? Especially now with Gage’s nose staring me in the face, taunting me from the screen like a ghost from the past. If I can barely handle looking at the grainy 3-D image from a screen, how can I do this every single day of my life? But as much as I hate it, I also love it. Love at first sight meant nothing until now. I’m in love with that nose, with that face, with that little person that’s a fifty-fifty split of me and Gage. Our baby. Our love. Alive and well.

  “Let’s check some functions.” She swipes the wand around the side of my abdomen, and the screen lights up in blues and reds with blood flow patterns. The heart, like tiny palpitating butterfly wings, beats in perfect rhythm. “Let’s have a listen,” she says and with a flip of a switch, a crackle of white noise gives way to another much more incredible sound. Woosh-woosh-woosh-woosh echoes rhythmically in the room.

  “Is that…?” A myriad of emotions swells in my throat, forcing its way up like a gigantic pressure behind my eyes.

  “A healthy heartbeat coming in at 145 bpm.”

  “That’s good? Normal?”

  “It’s perfect.” She smiles and pats my hand then goes back to clicking away on her keyboard with one hand, the other still roaming over my stretched skin with the wand. When finished, she prints out a long strip of still pictures from the ultrasound as a memento.

  That night, I unwrap a silver picture frame engraved with “Baby’s First Picture” I’d purchased days before. I comb through the printouts and select my favorite profile shot that outlines the baby’s silhouette, tiny bow-lips, and Daddy’s nose.

  Chapter 44

  Gage

  I

  lay in bed, not sleeping, but staring at the ceiling’s popcorn texture, creating constellations with each of the chalky nuggets. The white cotton sheet is pulled up to my chest, reeking of day-old bleach, incredibly sterile in contrast to the general mustiness of the housing quarters. We clean every inch of this place regularly, but somehow it retains the odor of moth-balls-meets-sweat. I guess that’s natural. Eight male soldiers smooshed in a couple hundred square-feet doesn’t leave much room for clean air.

  Or personal items.

  Between my bed and the metal wall locker, I have zilch space for anything non-military. But I don’t mind. It’s sort of the reason I’m here. To shirk off the past and become who I am.

  Not who anyone else tells me I am.

  Just Gage.

  Earlier the place had been a noisy concoction of man-sounds. Two beds down, Porter was snoring, each release sputtering like a sick horse being run over with a lawn mower. Across the room, Rodriguez was talking in his sleep, something he does every night. It was annoying as hell those first few nights, then over time became oddly comforting.

  Reliable and familiar.

  But now, in the wee hours of the morning, the quiet sets in. Still.

  The military is a funny thing. We spend so much time with our battle buddies, not just in training but in talking, sharing stories of us as kids and all our high school exploits. Laughing about what some idiot did in training that morning. Planning our next weekend pass. They become like brothers in that way—a sounding board for advice on shooting strategies, a shoulder to lean on when shit gets real, and a friendly face that reminds you life does e
xist outside the crap storm muddling inside.

  Funny you can know intimate details about other people, but when the night comes and the endless string of thoughts running through your mind are the only things left to keep you company, the loneliness sets in. And you miss home and the people left behind. Even if everything was, and is, a total wreck.

  Rayne. Preston. Dad.

  I wonder what they’re doing, and if they miss me. Can they forgive me for leaving? It wasn’t what I wanted to do. It’s what I had to do.

  I manage to shove the thoughts of them into a mental lockbox all day, but each night, they rear their heads and my stomach churns, waves of nausea sweeping over me and morphing into chills that run the length of my arms and legs, settling into slight tremors in my fingers and toes.

  Tonight’s the worst it’s been. Maybe that’s my subconscious way of knowing it’s time.

  I sit up against the concrete wall behind my bed and ease open my wall locker to retrieve the notebook and pen on the second shelf. One of the only two windows in the entire room is catty-cornered from my bed, and the beams of moonlight stream in just enough for me to see what I’m writing when I squint.

  Okay, Gage. Deep breath, and do this. I press the pen to the first lined row.

  Dear Dad,

  First and foremost, I’m alive. I’m sure few people would actually care, but I do know that you would be one of them. Secondly, my life is full of things I’m not quite ready to face, so your keeping this letter between us would be best. There’s still so much to say—so much to apologize for—to the people who were in my life, but there’s no going forward unless I start at the source.

  That would be you.

  So here goes.

  I met my grandparents. It’s accurate to say my blue eyes—Mom’s eyes—are a direct genetic tie to Grandpa Harrington. He’s tough-as-nails military, just like you found out in all those investigative reports, but a softer side lurks beneath. He never likes to show it, but it’s there. Especially when he’s dealing with Nana, who I think must be the source of Mom’s generous heart you mentioned so many times when you were telling me about her.