Broken: Flirt New Adult Romance

by Lauren Layne

  I risk a sidelong glance at her, and the relief on her face at my father’s offer of a day off is obvious. “Thanks. I’d like that.”

  And suddenly, just for a moment, I hate her. I hate both of them.

  “Enjoy your day off,” I say, idly tapping my cane against my foot. She turns her eyes to me then, and I go for the kill. “You know, since you have some time to yourself, maybe you should catch up on the social life you left back in New York. Maybe call some old friends? What’s Ethan up to? I bet he could use a little dose of your special TLC.”

  I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. I may not know what the hell happened with her and Ethan, but I know it’s a painful topic, and I very deliberately dumped salt into that wound.

  I’m no stranger to being mean these past few years, but I’m pretty sure I just hopped over the line into barbaric territory. I deserve a slap, but the flash of raw pain in her eyes is so much worse. She’s out the door before I can apologize.

  All of a sudden, everything hurts. Leg, nose, head. Heart.

  “What was that about?” my father asks, looking nervous. I wonder if he’s starting to realize that his conniving plan to “fix” me using a blond princess might be doing more harm than good.

  “Nothing,” I mutter. Just me being a monster, as usual.

  My father leaves that afternoon. I don’t know why he bothers coming at all. It takes him longer to fly from Boston to Portland than it does for him to dole out whatever gloomy, sanctimonious message he’s feeling I need at the moment.

  I grunt out some half-assed agreement that I’ll “think twice” before going to Frenchy’s in my “condition.” I don’t bother to tell him that walking into that bar after years of solitude was the most human thing I’ve done in a long time. I certainly don’t tell him that I worry it had nothing to do with the bar and everything to do with the girl waiting in the bar.

  I don’t see Olivia for the rest of the day. I keep the door cracked so I’ll know if she goes out, but as far as I can tell, she doesn’t leave her room.

  My dad texts me from the airport. Don’t forget I gave Olivia the day off. You’re on your own for dinner.

  I snarl. Why is it everyone seems to think that I was once fit to defend the country, but now I’m unable to make a sandwich?

  I think about telling Olivia about Amanda and Lily. I think about telling her everything: about the war, about how Alex is dead because of me, about how his wife and daughter are all alone . . . But if I tell her now, it’ll sound like an excuse. A sympathy ploy.

  And nobody knows about those monthly checks to the Skinners. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. I don’t want Olivia thinking I’m a hero. She’ll only be disappointed.

  I’m not much in the kitchen, but I throw together a sandwich and open a can of soup. For the first time since Olivia’s come to Maine, I eat dinner by myself, a sad, lonely affair at the kitchen counter.

  After I clean up my dishes, I pour the rest of the soup into a bowl and make another sandwich. Turkey, no mayo, lots of cheese, the way I know Olivia likes it, as well as a bottle of water.

  As far as peace offerings go, it’s pathetic. I take the sandwich upstairs anyway. The closed door doesn’t bother me.

  But the sound of soft sobbing nearly kills me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Olivia

  Paul and I don’t talk about what happened.

  It’s been nearly two weeks since his father visited. Two weeks since he lost control of his inner bully and my inner patheticness fell victim to it.

  Things are weird. I know he thinks I’m mad at him. After so many years in a relationship with Ethan, I can read the signals. There’s a carefulness in the way he talks, as though he’s bracing for me to lose my shit and call him out on something long past.

  But while the signals Paul’s giving off are pretty standard guy, this is different from any spat I ever had with Ethan about how he talked to that super-flirty girl with the huge boobs for twenty minutes longer than necessary, or how he was late to pick me up because he and Michael were playing Call of Duty—again. With Ethan, it was as though he was always bracing for a fight. We both knew a mini-explosion was coming and were putting our respective boxing gloves on.

  With Paul . . . there’s a haunted quality to his wariness. Like he’s not just expecting me to lose my shit and throw my eyelash curler in a fit of righteous female rage. No, Paul is braced for something else.

  It’s like he’s bracing for me to leave.

  We’ve both done our best to pretend that afternoon never happened. We pretend he didn’t belittle my very existence in front of his dad, as though he didn’t say outright that I was a fluffy piece of ass with absolutely zero value to him. I pretend not to care. He pretends not to care that I don’t care.

  But like I said, things are weird. Strained. Awful.

  Lost in thought, I rinse the lunch dishes and put them into the dishwasher.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Startled, I almost drop a water glass. “Lindy! Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

  The older woman sniffs. “Probably because you’ve been avoiding me. And Mick.”

  I don’t bother to deny it.

  “So that’s a no on the talking about it, then?” she asks.

  I shrug. We’re silent for several seconds as she goes through the now familiar routine of setting up her KitchenAid mixer and pulling out flour and sugar.

  “I’m in a baking mood,” she says. “You pick.”

  She doesn’t have to twist my arm. “Chocolate chip?”

  Lindy rolls her eyes but smiles. “Boring but easy. Back when I used to let Mr. Paul pick, it was always some complicated tart, or a cake with three different fillings.”

  “Really?” I ask, struggling to reconcile the guy who seems to exist on sandwiches and whisky with someone preferring elaborate sweets.

  “Yes, well, that was before he went away,” she says, her smile fading a little. “I’m not sure he’d even notice if I made him a cake now.”

  She looks so sad. I wish I could comfort her, but there’s not much to say beyond He’s an ass.

  I take up my usual perch at the counter, and we sit in silence for several minutes. Lindy doesn’t reference a recipe as she makes the cookies. The process of measuring flour and sugar and salt seems as natural to her as brushing our teeth is to the rest of us.

  “Hey, so I never asked,” I say, reaching out a finger to trace through a pile of spilled flour. “How was your and Mick’s vacation?”

  She lifts her eyebrows. “It’s taken you two weeks to ask?”

  Busted. “Sorry. I’ve been sort of wrapped up in my own stuff, I guess.”

  “It happens,” she says, letting me off the hook. “But our vacation was nice. Really nice.”

  This time it’s my eyebrows that lift at the inflection in her voice. I lean forward a little, and now it’s my turn to ask: “Want to talk about it?” Then I stifle a laugh, because Lindy actually blushes.

  “So it’s like that, then,” I say.

  “Like what?”

  “No separate rooms, I take it?”

  “Do I ask about your love life?” she says primly. Nice. Turning the tables.

  “I don’t have a love life.” Not a healthy one, anyway.

  “Don’t you?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Nope.”

  Is it my imagination, or does she look disappointed?

  Curiosity gets the best of me. “Hey, Lindy, did you know before I came that I was younger than the other caregivers?”

  “You mean did I know you were young and pretty?” She shakes her head. “Nope. Mr. Langdon is a good, fair boss, but he’s not the chatty, confiding type. Mick and I don’t get more information than is strictly necessary. A name, arrival date, et cetera.”

  I nod. I figured as much. We’re silent as she cracks eggs into the batter, but she studies me as she lets the mixer do its blendy thing. “What happened
that weekend while we were gone? Mick was appalled that Mr. Langdon drove himself here from the airport, but he’s never come without warning before. . . .”

  She trails off, leaving room for me to fill in the blanks. I fiddle with my earring. “I’m not sure it’s my story to tell.”

  “Ah,” she says. “So there is a story.”

  Isn’t there always?

  Lindy opens the bag of chocolate chips and surprises me by popping several in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully before offering me the bag. I take out a few myself, eating them one by one as we study each other.

  “I’ll tell you if you tell me,” I say, the words coming out in a rush.

  Her chewing slows. “What is it you think I know?”

  “What happened to Paul. I mean, what actually happened to him while he was over there. I’m not an idiot. His leg’s not that bad, and his scars aren’t debilitating. All of the other caregivers and I aren’t brought here to care for him physically. The damage is all up here.” I tap my temple.

  “I see. And I’d be giving you this information in exchange for what?”

  “Why Harry Langdon showed up out of the blue that Saturday. Why Paul and I have been on eggshells since then.”

  Lindy gives me a look. “I admit I’m curious as to why you and Mr. Paul have lost that easy camaraderie you were just starting to build, but that’s hardly a fair trade.”

  She has me there. The story of Paul’s bar fight is hardly on the same level as figuring out what happened to Paul in Afghanistan.

  “Worth a shot,” I say, giving a sheepish little smile as I scoop a fingerful of cookie dough. And then I proceed to tell Lindy the story anyway.

  I tell her about how I naively thought it would be a good idea for Paul to get out of the house and see some real people, especially Kali. I tell her about the jerks from the bar, and the fight, and the name-calling. I skip the part about the kiss, obviously. And then I tell her about walking in and hearing Harry chastise his son for going out in public and exposing himself to ridicule.

  I mean to stop there, but then I hear myself repeating Paul’s words: You might as well have bought me a puppy or a hooker, for all the use she’s been.

  And then, because I really don’t know when to shut up, I mention the fact that he threw Ethan in my face.

  Her brow wrinkles in confusion. “Who’s Ethan?”

  “My ex.”

  “Ah,” she says, her tone full of something I can’t identify.

  “You seem to have gotten an awful lot of information from those two words,” I say.

  “I was married, twice, and divorced, twice. I know my way around exes. I take it things didn’t end well?”

  “Eh, let’s just say I’m still getting over it.”

  Lindy surprises me by laughing.

  “What?” My tone is a little testy.

  “That bothers him.”

  “What bothers who?”

  Lindy pauses in dropping balls of dough on the cookie sheet. “It bothers Paul that you don’t feel good about your breakup. It bothers him that you’re still hung up on this Ethan guy.”

  “I didn’t say I was hung up on Ethan. But even if I were, that wouldn’t bother Paul.”

  “Uh-huh,” she says, licking dough from her finger. “Don’t you dare be that girl who plays dumb. You know what I’m talking about.”

  Oh gawd. She knows. “So you, um, know that things haven’t been entirely professional?”

  “You mean, have I been alive long enough to know when two attractive twentysomethings are setting off enough sexual sparks to burn down the house? I do, yes.”

  “Awesome,” I mutter. “Do you think Mick knows?”

  “Definitely.”

  Shit.

  “Mr. Langdon?”

  “Probably.”

  Double shit.

  “Well,” I say, pushing back from the counter, “good talk. I’m going to go drown myself now.”

  She wiggles her fingers in a sassy little wave, looking way too pleased with herself. “Cookies will be ready to eat in fifteen. Oh, and Olivia?”

  “Yah?”

  “I’d tell you, you know. About Paul. If I knew.”

  It takes my brain a second to catch up. “About Afghanistan, you mean?”

  She nods. “I know about the effects, of course. The leg. The scars. The nightmares. But I don’t know what actually happened. I don’t know that anyone does.”

  Huh.

  “What does he say when people ask?”

  She gives me a funny look. “They don’t.”

  I come to a halt in the doorway as the implications of that roll over me. “Nobody? Nobody’s asked?”

  “Well, I’m sure plenty of people asked him right after it happened, but he was too messed up to talk about it. For the last year or so, I think we’ve all just given him his space.”

  I chew the inside of my cheek as I think about this. Maybe there’s such a thing as too much space. Maybe getting real crowded is exactly what he needs to heal from the inside out.

  I’ve been avoiding him lately because I need the distance. But it’s time to remember what I’m doing here. I’m here to fix Paul, first and foremost.

  And despite what he thinks, distance isn’t what he needs.

  The prospect makes me almost giddy. Brace yourself, Paul Langdon. Shit’s about to get real messy for you.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Paul

  It’s official: I don’t get women.

  Olivia should be pissed at me. Just a few hours ago, I would have sworn that she was. But now she’s changing it up, and I don’t like it at all. I don’t trust forgiveness I didn’t earn.

  The weird thing is, I never used to be so clueless with girls. I won’t pretend that I’m a mind reader or anything, but of course I know that fine never means fine, and if you ask a girl if you can skip a date to go to a Red Sox game with your friends, she will probably say, “Go ahead,” which means you’re a dead man.

  I’ve had a few girlfriends. Only one was serious. Serious enough that we did the long-distance thing when I went to Afghanistan. When I got back, a well-meaning nurse told me that Ashley had come by to see me.

  Once.

  Honestly, I don’t blame her for not sticking around after she saw my mangled face. My scars are ugly now, but early on when the wounds were fresh, I was downright grotesque.

  My dad mentioned that Ashley got married to the son of one of his vice presidents and had twins. I don’t know if he meant it to be a wake-up call or what, but the truth is I didn’t feel much of anything when he told me.

  The point is, I used to know girls. But this thing with Olivia is a whole other ball game.

  Sometime in the past hour she’s gone from acting like I’m a ticking bomb to being, well, friendly. Which is not to say that she’s been unfriendly. In the couple of weeks since I basically called her a useless hooker and then threw her ex-boyfriend in her face, leaving her to cry alone at night (is there a gold medal for assholes? I’ve earned it), Olivia hasn’t done the prissy silent treatment thing, and I give her props for that.

  But even though she’s been perfectly civil, things have been different. Conversation is shallower. She never touches me anymore, not even accidentally. More often than not she avoids prolonged eye contact, and she’s taken to “reading alone” in the afternoons so she can concentrate.

  I should be thrilled. I accomplished my goal of distance quite easily. It’s supposed to feel like a reward. Instead, it feels an awful lot like punishment.

  I miss her.

  But that’s not to say that there aren’t alarm bells going off in my head right now. Because without warning, the old Olivia is back. And I’m way too relieved for comfort.

  Her long, slim fingers appear in front of my face and she snaps rapidly, three times. “Yo. Langdon. A toddler can do more squats than you. Focus.”

  See what I mean? Old Olivia. The sassy version who doesn’t treat me like an invalid. We’re in the g
ym, and she’s doing her tough-love physical trainer thing, which is both annoying and cute as hell.

  Her hair is pulled into a high, perky fountain, reminding me a little of a cheerleader, and she’s wearing purple instead of the usual pink. Except for the shoes. The shoes are still pink. She insists on wearing the old pink ones on days when she doesn’t run because she has a limit on how many days per week she’s willing to look like, and I quote, “a freaking hobo.”

  What she’s wearing doesn’t really matter, though. Because she’s got me right where she wants me.

  I’m doing squats.

  With weight. Not much weight, and nothing even close to what I was managing before the ambush. But the steady, repetitive bend-and-straighten motion isn’t something I imagined doing ever again in any capacity. My leg doesn’t even hurt. Much.

  I refocus my efforts, and with Olivia looking on, I finish the last set of reps.

  She grins, making it all worth it. “How’d it feel?”

  “Shitty,” I say, doing my best to resist her good mood.

  She takes a step closer. I step back, but I’m penned in by the weight machine. The little minx has me cornered. She scoots up nice and close. In other words, torment.

  “Liar,” she says. “It feels good, and you know it.”

  Christ. Is she talking about the exercise or her nearness? Because one felt great, but the other is bittersweet agony.

  Her eyes flick to my lips just briefly before she takes a step back.

  My eyes narrow. She’s up to something.

  “I don’t suppose I could talk you into doing my yoga routine with me?” she asks, rolling her shoulders as though to loosen them.

  “Hell, no,” I mutter. “I’ve got nothing against yoga. It’s just that watching you do yoga is a good deal more interesting than participating.”

  Her eyes go dark, and I smile in satisfaction. Two can play at this game.

  But by the time she unrolls her yoga mat—pink—and starts with the now familiar poses, it’s clear that she’s winning. Watching Olivia do yoga is in fact interesting, but it’s also torment. Is it just my imagination, or is she holding that downward-facing dog position just a second longer than necessary? And I’m pretty sure I don’t remember that position where she arches her back quite like that from previous days.