Love Me Broken

by Lily Jenkins

  “You should give me your number,” I say. “So I can call you.”

  A smile erupts on her face, and even her posture becomes straighter. “Yes,” she says eagerly. “Yes, I’d like that.” She pulls a phone from her pocket, and I start to ask for her number, but instead she delicately takes the phone from my hand and hands me hers so that we can enter our own numbers into each other’s phones.

  I’ve started to press the keys when I realize I’m putting in my old number. I don’t have that phone anymore.

  I don’t have that life anymore.

  “Damn,” I say, erasing the digits, “I don’t actually have my number memorized. New phone.”

  She’s done with her number and hands me the phone. I page through the menu until I find my new number, then I hold it out for her to punch into her device.

  “There,” she says, “got it.”

  We put our phones away.

  We look at each other.

  “So,” she says. “You’ll call me then?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  Neither of us wants to say good-bye.

  A door opening breaks our eye contact, and we look up to see her father coming out the front door.

  “Oh shit,” I mutter, instinctively searching the man’s hands for a shotgun. “All right,” I say to Erica, “I’d better go.”

  “Okay,” she says, and starts to walk up toward her dad. I jump on the motorcycle and am about to pull away when I notice her running back toward me. I look up, and before I can react her mouth is on mine. It’s a short, sweet kiss but it’s left me slack-jawed in amazement.

  “Call me,” she says, hopping back up the path to her porch.

  I blink. “Yeah,” I mouth, and then start the bike down the street before her father has a chance to kill me.

  Dad looks stunned. I walk up the path to the house, trying to keep the smile from my face. When I get close and start to enter the house, he turns toward me and I stop.

  “Long night?” he asks. I can’t tell if he’s mocking in a good way or a bad way. The idea of being in trouble seems ridiculous. I’m eighteen, after all. And he hasn’t cared about what I’ve been doing in months. Who cares if I’ve been out?

  He must see these thoughts on my face, because he puts up a hand. “I think it’s healthy,” he says. He looks back toward the house. “I wish we could all start moving on. Nothing will ever be the same, I know, but it can be better than this.”

  I’m speechless. For this brief moment, he’s talking to me again. Like we used to talk. Like father and daughter. Like family.

  His eyes are on me, and when I don’t respond, something in his expression dies. His muscles seem to give up, and it’s like his eyes go numb. He makes a gesture and opens his mouth slightly, like he’s going to say something more. Then his hand falls. He shakes his head slightly and starts to turn toward the driveway.

  I stand in the doorway watching as he climbs inside his car and backs out into the street.

  It’s Sunday. He doesn’t work on Sundays. I have no idea where he’s going.

  To be honest, I have no idea where he’s been.

  But that moment—did I imagine that? For a moment it was all better. Was that real? Are we getting better? Or was our interaction like the brief moments of clarity that people with Alzheimer’s may get before slipping back into the void?

  I close the front door. Now in the darkness of the house, I realize how tired I am. Staying up all night hits me at once. I turn to the stairs and have my hand on the rail when I stop.

  Prickly Pete.

  I get some cat food out of the kitchen, pass my mom asleep on the sofa, and set out the food in the middle of the garage. I don’t see the cat. I’m too tired to care about his rejection right now, so I go back inside and up to my room. I barely have enough energy to toss my purse to the floor and pull off my jeans before I slip into bed.

  I’m only conscious for another second or two. Enough time to feel the weight of the day’s events on my muscles. But not enough time to think about any of it.

  *

  I know that for my parents, part of what is hardest for them is the life that Conner will never have. He’ll never grow up. He’ll never go to college. He’ll never get married, have kids, a career. I guess because they’re older than me and have done these things themselves, they can feel the life he’s lost more concretely. He’ll never become an adult like them.

  But for me, when I think of Conner, I think of the past. I remember all these little details from when we were kids. Easter egg hunts and that time we built a fort in the garage, and then got scared because we found a spider in the tent. I remember when we were small together. All of my earliest memories include Conner. He was always in my life. I think this is why it’s different for me than for my parents. They had lives before him. I didn’t. And now with him gone, it’s like I’ve lost this part of myself. It’s like I’ve lost all those memories from when we were kids, all those private jokes, everything we shared. There’s no one to remember with anymore.

  And all those memories, now they’re tainted with sorrow and guilt and anger. They don’t bring me joy anymore. And I feel like I’m betraying Conner in some way, by not wanting to think about the good times we had. Like how on summer breaks we’d have Disney movie marathons, or that time we found all our Christmas presents in our parents’ closet, unwrapped and unprotected. And how we had to act so surprised when we finally got them.

  I miss him. I miss us. I miss the me that I was around him.

  And it hurts because no matter how much I heal, no matter how much I move on, that is never coming back. He is gone forever. And it still feels like it’s all my fault.

  *

  When I open my eyes, the light feels too bright and wrong. I try to sit up but my body is stiff. I groan, stretching, and glance around the room for my clock.

  It’s three in the afternoon.

  I blink and yawn, throwing my legs over the side of the bed. Then I remember the night before, and sitting here in my room now, it doesn’t even feel real. I am actively worried I imagined the whole thing: the motorcycle ride, Nicole’s party, the pier, Adam, the kiss…

  My jeans are on the floor and I rummage through the pocket to find my phone. There are texts from Nicole, and I scroll through without reading them. I tell her that I’ll see her at the coffee shop in half an hour, then drop the phone on the bed and make my way to the shower.

  After, I feel like a new woman. The weather looks terribly bright outside, so I choose a teal blouse and a pair of jeans with a flower embroidered on the hip. My eyes still look kind of bleary, so I take the time to put on some makeup to make myself presentable. I don’t bother to blow-dry my hair, but I do comb it out some before I head downstairs. I switch out the empty tin of cat food in the garage with a fresh one, and then stop by the front door to check in the mirror.

  I haven’t looked at myself like this in a while. To my surprise, my immediate reaction is that I look so young. I guess all the sadness and grief has made me feel so weighted down over the past year that it’s a surprise to see that, on the outside at least, I’m still a normal teenager. My complexion is smooth and clear, my eyes look bright, and my auburn hair complements my top in a flattering way. I’m impressed. All this time I thought Adam was crazy to even notice me. But I’m not the broken-down old thing I had felt like. I’m still young. And Adam…

  Now fully awake, my thoughts of him become more vivid. I can practically feel his lips on mine, the heat of his body, his arm around me. I smile, and the sight of myself smiling in the mirror almost shocks me. How am I happy? I’m still miserable, I know I am, but for some reason I’m happy too.

  On my way out, after I lock the front door, I go up to my mom on the front porch. She’s staring off into space, as per usual, but I kiss her on the cheek anyway.

  “I’m heading out, Mom,” I say. My voice is bright and harmonious, and she turns to me, looking at me with surprise. It’s like she’s forgotten
who I am for a minute. She stares at me, and then something falls into place. She gives the tiniest nod, and then turns back toward her memories.

  My flip-flops clap against the sidewalk as I make my way down toward town. The water stretches before me in the distance, and I take in the immense cargo ships on the Columbia River and the steel bridge spanning across, connecting Astoria with Washington state. Seagulls are circling in the air below, and the breeze feels fresh and invigorating.

  I feel absolutely wonderful. Could I have gotten better this quickly? Just one kiss and I’m cured of my depression? I search my feelings.

  No, the sadness is still there, like a weight in my pocket. It hasn’t left. But now it seems possible that I might be able to coexist with it. And the thought of that has so much relief in it that I feel light in my step.

  Everything seems too good to be true—and then, as I’m approaching the waterfront shops, marveling at the sunshine, I stop at a street corner and a car skids to a halt not more than five feet from me. Its horn blares, and I jump, my eyes closing. When I land, my knees feel weak. I grab a lamppost for support and turn away from traffic.

  “No,” I mutter. “I’m fine now. I thought I was fine now.”

  But I’m not. As I listen to the cars driving by when the light changes, I know that I’m not. I take out my phone and text Nicole that I can’t make it. Before I can turn around, the phone is vibrating. She’s calling.

  “Where are you?” Nicole asks.

  I tell her the cross streets.

  “Okay,” she says, and hangs up. Less than five minutes later, she has me by the hand and is walking me to the coffee shop.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as we head inside. “The last few days it’s been better. I was feeling fine this morning, and then—”

  “It’s fine,” she says, and I look at her.

  Nicole’s been crying.

  “Chad?” I ask.

  She nods, and we take a seat by the window. “I know it’s stupid. He was a jerk, last night and really all the time. And he wasn’t even good in bed.”

  I take her hand across the table. Her misery proves a good distraction from my own, and I listen as she talks about how she returned a box of his things this morning and left it on his doorstep. Then she realizes we don’t have drinks, and goes behind the counter to make us some. It’s her day off, but I guess it’s weird to have your coworkers serve you. She slides over an iced caramel latte for me and takes a sip of her own.

  “So,” she says, “tell me about your night.”

  I look at her. “Are you sure you want to hear about this? With everything so fresh for you?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m fine. Besides, I need the distraction.” She smiles. “Or should I say, dick-straction?”

  I fold my arms. “None of that to report, I’m afraid. But…” I smile too, thinking about it. “We did spend all night together.”

  Nicole nearly drops her drink. “No way!” she shouts, and then realizes her volume. She leans in close and whispers, “What happened?”

  I tell her about how we left the party. The pier that we found, and then how we found ourselves in each other’s arms. I start to tell her about his game of the perfect world, but this feels too personal for some reason. I don’t tell her that I told him about Conner either. I just don’t want to talk about it again. Not here.

  “Is he a good kisser?” she asks, and my wide-eyed nod makes her laugh.

  “This was something else entirely,” I say. “It was like, like my whole body was, I don’t know, flowering when he touched me.”

  “Flowering? Whoa. Must have been good.”

  I can only agree.

  “Well,” she says, taking a sip of her drink, “remember not to get too attached. You’re leaving, remember? Summer fling.”

  My breath catches. I force a smile like I don’t care. I don’t want to admit how much I feel for Adam. “I know,” I say. “He’s leaving town too.”

  “That’s perfect then.” She looks around, then leans in close. “Anonymous sex is the best anyway. You can be as dirty as you want to be when you’re not going to see them again.”

  I nearly spit with laughter. “Like that’s ever stopped you,” I joke.

  “I’m serious. When you know you’re not going to see someone again, there’s this… pressure, like an immediacy to things. You have to get it all in while you can, you know?”

  “Is that what you tell them?”

  “Oh, hush. You’ll see what I mean.” Then she looks down at her drink and her smile falls. “It’s better that way sometimes. That way you don’t get too attached.”

  She’s starting to get mopey again, so I suggest she come over to my place for a continuation of our Sex and the City marathon. Nicole squeals, forgetting all about Chad, and for the remainder of our coffee date she prattles on about New York and how excited she is to visit me there and how, even though I don’t like Facebook, I have to promise to take pictures and keep her updated about everything.

  I agree.

  But as I listen, I keep checking my phone.

  He hasn’t called.

  *

  When Adam hasn’t called by the next morning, I try to tell myself that he’s probably as exhausted as I was. Plus he has a job. Yes, a job. He can’t very well call when he’s at work.

  I tell myself this, and go about my day. I skip breakfast. My dad is downstairs getting ready for work, and I am afraid he’ll ask about the “guy on the motorcycle.” Besides, Nicole has an early shift on Mondays, and I could spend the day with her instead of eating at home. Anything to keep my mind off the fact that Adam hasn’t called. And that it’s too early for me to call him. Or is it? I make a mental note to ask Nicole.

  As I’m packing up to leave my room, my phone vibrates and I literally jump in the air. I fumble to get it out of my pocket, and don’t even look at the screen when I answer.

  “Hello?” I gasp. “Hello?”

  There’s a moment of silence on the other end. Then there is a deep sigh. It’s a female voice. I can tell that much, and I pull the phone away from my ear to look at the number. I don’t recognize it.

  “Hi,” she says finally. She sounds older but friendly. “I-I’m calling because I saw your posters.”

  I don’t get it. Then I do. “Oh! About—” I almost say Prickly Pete, and then catch myself. “—about the cat?”

  The lady makes a noise of agreement.

  I sit down on the bed. “That’s… great. Well, I was about to head out, but I could stick around if you wanted to pick him up now.”

  There’s another beat of silence. “It’s not my cat. I’m calling to tell you that I recognize it. At least, I think I do.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Do you know who it belongs to?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  I wait. This lady is even worse at conversation than I am. “Well?” I say at last. “Whose cat is it?”

  “The Johnsons’.”

  She says this like it’s supposed to mean something to me. “Is it possible,” I ask, finding myself growing annoyed with this woman very quickly, “to let them know I’ve got their cat?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I said,” speaking up, “is it possible to let them know—”

  “Afraid not. The Johnsons moved away last April. To Boston. I just thought you’d want to know.”

  I want to scream at this woman. I take a deep breath and tell myself it isn’t her fault the Johnsons abandoned their cat. “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Oh? Mmm-hmm. I left out milk after they left. Sweet little thing, that cat.”

  I can sense she’s about to end the conversation, so I say quickly, “Do you have a phone number to reach them at? Anything? Leaving a cat behind is—I’d like to tell them how much it sucks, if nothing else.”

  “No,” she says with a sigh. “I’m allergic, myself. Otherwise…”

  She doesn’t finish her thought.

  “Well, thank you,” I say. I try to keep my voi
ce from sounding too sarcastic.

  “Just thought you should know.”

  I end the call and stare at the phone. Who would move and leave behind their cat?

  Then I glance up from the phone to the scratches on my arm. And I think, maybe there was a reason.

  I shake my head and put my phone back in my pocket—though not before checking to see if I’ve possibly missed a call during that brief conversation. I stare at my desk a moment, thinking about this.

  Then I shake my head again. I guess Prickly Pete is mine now.

  I find my purse on the floor and head out to meet Nicole.

  Now that she’s single, I wonder if she’ll want a cat.

  Levi wipes his forehead. His face is sweaty and smeared with grease, and his eyes are bloodshot.

  “Damn,” he says. “I think that’s the last of it.”

  We’re at the shop, with the garage door open to let in some cool air to beat the afternoon heat. It’s been two days since the party, and I still haven’t called Erica. Part of the reason is that I’m still not sure what to think of the situation. I didn’t want a relationship. I can’t have one in my position. And she’s leaving too. What’s the point of it?

  The other reason I haven’t called is because we’ve been exceptionally busy at work.

  A big motor show is coming up in two weeks at Seaside, and every shop within a thirty-mile radius is overbooked until then. Everyone wants to get his bike fixed up and polished before the show. This was apparently a large part of the reason I was hired on for the summer, and even working overtime, Levi and I can barely keep up with all the appointments Old Man Watson has been booking. He must be serious about getting in what he can before retirement. When we’ve clocked out each night, I’ve passed out, exhausted. This routine is really hard on my body.

  I watch Levi wash off his hands, then I move toward the sink to lather up my own. He’s been teasing me about my black eye the last few days—it’s now a purple sliver on the bottom of my left eye—but he hasn’t asked about Erica.

  “You want to grab pizza for dinner?” he asks.

  I hesitate for half a second. If we get pizza, that means I probably won’t see Erica tonight. “Sure,” I say, although I feel like a coward.