Until We Break

by Jamie Howard

  The crowd parts for us, everyone staring. So much for the rumors about Sloane and me dying down. By the time she leaves this summer, her reputation will be in shreds. Not that it really matters. In the big scheme of things, Briscoll Bay will be a small blip on the radar of her life. We pass Randy/Mandy and she gives me a disgusted look, shaking her head as she walks away.

  I lay Blaire down gently in my backseat, doing my best to wrap the seat belt around her. I take the drive nice and slow, careful not to make any sharp turns that will dump her onto the floor. When I pull up in front of their house, I hoist Blaire back up into my arms and carry her inside. Sloane holds open the bedroom door for me, and I lay Blaire on the bed.

  As I lounge in the doorway, Sloane pulls off Blaire’s shoes and tosses them to the floor. Throwing a fleece blanket over her, she drags a nearby trash can to the head of the bed. Smart girl.

  Motioning me ahead of her, she walks with me back out to the front door, pausing at the threshold. The light from Bunny’s TV flickers through the crack underneath her bedroom door, providing the only speck of lighting inside the house. Sloane flips on the porch light for me, instantly drawing a cloud of insects to it.

  I should probably say something, apologize for kissing her, maybe. But I’m not really sorry about that. Her fingers fiddle with the doorknob as she stares at her shoes. The sound of crickets is almost deafening in the silence between us.

  Our words collide as we both decide to speak at the same time.

  She laughs. “I want to thank you for tonight. I really appreciate you helping me out.”

  “Anytime,” I say with a smile. Seriously, anytime.

  “I guess I’ll see you around?”

  “Sure.”

  “Wait.” Slipping off my jacket, she hands it back to me.

  I drape it over my arm. “Thanks.”

  Stepping back, she starts to close the door, then pulls it back open a few inches. “Oh, and Luke?” Her gaze drifts up to mine, gluing my feet to the spot where I’m standing. “For the record, I was wrong about you.” The corner of her mouth kicks up in a smile, but she closes the door before I get the chance to ask her: wrong about what?

  Chapter 20

  Sloane

  Napkin, knife, fork, spoon, and roll. Then repeat. Like a million times. I’m always rolling silverware.

  “There,” Blaire says, tossing the towel on the counter. “All the dishes are clean.”

  I reach for another napkin. “I’m almost done with the silverware.”

  “So,” she says, “I was thinking maybe we should do something tonight.”

  I keep my eyes focused on my task as I answer her. “Are you lifting your self-imposed hiatus on going out? What’d you last—a week?”

  “About. Which is exactly how long it takes to get that much vodka out of your system, in case you’re wondering.” She shudders.

  “I’ll keep that in mind for future reference.”

  Folding the towel, she moseys over to the kitchen door and peeks through the window. “Who’s Gran talking to?”

  I crane my neck back to try to see. He’s wearing a blue uniform, and a gold badge is pinned to his chest, a tray of to-go coffee cups in his hand. “Looks like a cop.”

  “Hmm,” she says. “I wonder what that’s about.”

  “No idea. Probably nothing.” I grab the last handful of utensils. “There, done.”

  “C’mere.” She flutters a hand at me while keeping her eyes glued out the window.

  Standing next to her, I follow her gaze. The policeman is gone, and Gran’s sitting at the counter staring into her cup of coffee. Something glistens on her cheek.

  “Is she … crying?” I ask.

  No sooner are the words out of my mouth than Blaire is shoving open the door and hurrying toward her.

  “Gran, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?” Blaire asks, reaching her side in seconds and gripping her hand so tightly that it bleaches her knuckles white.

  My brain goes into overdrive. Is it Mom? Dad? What happened?

  Her lip trembles as she looks up at me, tears streaming down her face unheeded. When she finally speaks, her voice is raw and husky. “It’s … oh, God … it’s Cash.”

  The floor drops out from underneath me. “What do you mean? What about Cash?”

  She takes in a shuddering breath and then lets it out slowly. One blue-veined hand skims across her face, wiping away the wetness. When her eyes meet mine, they’re full of heartbreak. “He’s dead.”

  The breath rushes from my body in one fell swoop. I stumble backward toward a booth and collapse into it before my legs give way. I’m shaking so badly that even when I clasp my hands together, it doesn’t stop.

  It’s only as everything around me turns into large colorful blobs that I realize I’m crying. “What … what happened?”

  She wraps her hands around her coffee mug, and she’s squeezing so hard I think it might shatter in her hands. “A car accident. They found the car abandoned on Miller Road wrapped around a tree. She just left him there.”

  In a fit of rage, Gran picks up her mug and heaves it against the wall. Coffee splatters everywhere, the dark brown liquid cascading down the white walls. Even the walls are weeping now.

  “Evelyn?”

  “They found her purse in the car, but she’s gone. I doubt they’ll find her, either. I hope she crawls into some deep, dark hole and dies there.”

  My heart is beating so hard that it hurts. I press my hand against my chest as if that might actually help. It doesn’t. My mind is whirling so fast, too fast. Oh, my God, Cash. He can’t be gone. It’s not possible that I’ll never see him again. That he won’t look at me with those guileless blue eyes as he giggles and eats whipped cream from the can.

  Those blue eyes that are identical to Luke’s.

  “Luke!”

  Gran shakes her head. “I’d leave him be for now. He’s…” She shakes her head again. “Archer took him home this morning and is staying with him.”

  Every cell in my body screams at me to go see him. He must be devastated. “No, he’s been alone enough. He needs…” He needs someone who cares about him, I finish in my head. Somehow it doesn’t surprise me that I want that person to be me. Despite my best efforts, I care about him, more than I want to, more than I should if I’m trying to avoid more disappointment. I snatch my purse from behind the counter. “I’m going.”

  Blaire grabs at me, her fingers biting into my arm. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

  I wrench my arm away, shooting her a scathing look. She doesn’t understand. It’s not her fault; I never let her in on half the things that went on between Luke and me. I didn’t want her criticisms. I didn’t want to hear her tell me how stupid I was for crushing on a guy like Luke. I’ve heard that enough from myself already.

  My first instinct is to lay a line of rubber in the parking lot in my haste to get there, but the absolute last thing I want to happen is another accident. I stick to the speed limit, hating every second I’m wasting to get there.

  When I pull up out front, I see Archer’s car parked in the driveway, but other than that, there’s no one else here. The sadness of it all—the cruel loss of Cash, the absence of anyone here besides Archer—swallows me, and I take gulping breaths, trying to reel myself in. I press the heel of my hands into my eyes, blocking the tears from spilling out. I have to pull it together.

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I’ve got this. For Luke.

  My hand trembles for an instant when I raise it to knock on the door. I hope I didn’t make a huge mistake in coming here.

  Seconds later the door swings open and Archer pokes his head out. The edges of his eyes are so raw and pink they’re painful to look at. “Sloane,” he says on an exhale. “God, I’m so glad you’re here. Come in.”

  I slip through the door and he closes it behind me with a quiet click.

  “Is he…?” I let the end of my sentence trail off, not even knowing what to ask. I already know he�
�s not okay, so there’s no use asking it. I change my question. “Where is he?”

  “The couch,” he says, gesturing toward the living room. “He’s out cold. Would you mind sitting with him a few minutes? I need to run home, get a change of clothes and my phone charger, touch base with my mom. I know he doesn’t need someone to babysit him, but I don’t want to him to be alone, ya know?” His last sentence barely makes it out, the end of it rushing between his lips so that he can clamp them together. Tears well in his eyes, and he tips his head back to stare at the ceiling, giving his head a hard shake.

  I don’t know Archer that well—we’re just casual acquaintances—but Luke connects us, making us somehow more than that right now. I wrap my arms around his middle, and he hugs me back just as tightly, squeezing so hard that my ribs groan under the pressure. He draws in a deep, shuddering breath and steps back.

  “Thanks, Sloane. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

  “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

  With one last nod of thanks, he hurries through the door, closing it behind him. Moving slowly, so as not to make a sound, I peer into the living room. My heart catches in my throat at the sight, and I lift a hand to cover my mouth where it’s starting to wobble.

  I steady myself with another deep breath.

  Luke’s sprawled across the couch, his feet dangling off the end, one sock on, one sock off. He’s got one arm bent up and around his head so that it’s laying on the armrest, and his head is turned to one side, his mouth hanging slightly open.

  Even standing where I am, I can smell the stench of whiskey. Any minute now, I think the stuff might start oozing from his pores. I let out a deep sigh, my heart aching for him. Circling to the end of the couch, I slip off the lone sock and toss it on the ground.

  I go off in search of a blanket but find nothing in their linen closet besides a few towels and a vacuum that’s managed to survive from the eighties. Luke’s bedroom door is shut, but I open it anyway, at the moment not really caring if I happen to be invading his privacy.

  The room is small, just big enough to fit a twin bed and a dresser with a comfortable amount of room to walk between. Like the rest of the house, the walls are bare but painted a warm gray. Grabbing the navy comforter in my fists, I pull it off, bunching it into a ball in my arms.

  As I’m turning to leave, my eyes catch on a picture frame sitting atop his dresser. It’s about the only personal touch to the room. Brows drawing together, I walk over, taking in the dull gleam of the gold frame, the small dent along the top edge.

  Something warm and wonderful curls in my stomach, and I trace my fingers softly across Luke’s face, right where it’s pressed up against mine. Was it only a few days ago that I gave him a copy of this print from the night on the beach? I had run into him for just a minute, the picture burning a hole in my pocket. Before I could let myself overthink it, I’d thrust it into his hands, mumbling something about good memories. I assumed it’d probably end up going through the wash at worst, shoved into a drawer at best. But here it is, sitting in a frame on top of his dresser.

  Tucking the trailing ends of the comforter back up in my arms, I head back into the living room. I drape it over him, pulling it up to his armpits and tucking it down around him. He doesn’t move a muscle; only the steady rise and fall of his chest assures me that he is, in fact, alive.

  I sink down onto the couch next to him in the few inches of space between his body and the edge of the cushion. I rest my hand over his heart, finding strange comfort in its steady ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum against my palm. Sleeping like this, his features are untouched by grief, unmarred by the senseless loss of the person he loved best.

  I run a finger along his cheek hesitantly, unsure how far gone he really is. When he doesn’t stir, I let my fingers sweep up to his hair, brushing it back from where it falls haphazardly against his forehead.

  My heart squeezes painfully in my chest, and I turn my chin into my shoulder, letting my tears leak silently down my cheek, soaking into my T-shirt.

  I don’t hear him come in, but suddenly Archer’s there, his hand squeezing against my opposite shoulder. “We’ve got him.”

  I nod, running my tongue across my lips and tasting salt. “We’ve got him.”

  Chapter 21

  Luke

  I feel nothing.

  Sometimes there are people here, but I can’t focus on their faces. They’re all just blurry, indistinct bodies with blobs where their faces should be. It’s like I’m trapped in a horror movie.

  They talk but their words wash over me. Their voices sound like they’re coming to me from underwater. I never answer them.

  The guilt eats at me, gnawing a gaping hole through my heart every second that I’m awake.

  If only I had been home.

  If only I had gotten my phone fixed.

  If only I had been a better brother. A better human being.

  If, if, if.

  Sleep is my only escape, but my dreams are only of Cash.

  The first time I held him, so strong and small in my arms.

  The mornings I’d wake to find him hogging my bed, his legs sprawled over mine.

  The way his eyes sparkled when I took him to ride in go-karts for his last birthday.

  There won’t be any more birthdays.

  No more memories.

  Nothing.

  I drink. I drink until the burn of the liquor is completely gone. Until the thoughts, the images, every damn memory is drowned in it.

  Every time I think about him, it’s like a black hole opens up inside me and tries to drag me in.

  I wish it would.

  Chapter 22

  Sloane

  Everyone from the Bay shows up for Cash’s funeral. We’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, spread out in a half circle around the pathetically small hole in the ground.

  Luke stands at the front with only Archer by his side. He’s got days’ worth of stubble on his jaw and deep, dark circles underneath eyes that are empty pools of blue. There isn’t even an ounce of emotion on his face. While the air around him is overflowing with heart-wrenching sobs, I haven’t seen him shed one single tear.

  It’s like he’s not even there.

  After being pummeled by the initial waves of shock, grief, and denial, numbness had been quick to follow. I wrap myself in it and wear it like a cloak. I use it to smother all the bright and vibrant memories that simmer right below the surface.

  The tears leak from me slowly, like a broken faucet. They course down my cheeks in warm rivulets, salting my lips, before rolling off my chin and pattering against the fabric of my black dress.

  When the service is over, everyone places a flower on top of his tiny casket until it looks like there’s a meadow growing there. A few people stop to offer Luke their condolences, but it’s like they’re talking to a statue. They don’t seem to mind, just patting him on the shoulder or squeezing his hand.

  It should be me up there on his other side. It would be if I knew he wanted me there. He’s my friend. If I thought it would help, I’d say something to him, but the crowd around him now is so thick and I have to go back to the diner with Gran to help her get ready for the repast. I’m just glad to be able to do something, anything.

  * * *

  The diner is filled to the brim with people. We even set up tables on the sidewalk so there would be room for everyone. My feet are screaming from standing so long, and there’s a nice blister forming on the back of my right heel. Serves me right for waiting tables in heels. I’d forgotten to bring a change of clothes and shoes, so I’m doing what I can in my funeral garb.

  Blaire looks as harried as I feel. Her normally perfectly styled hair hangs out in long strands from her ponytail, and there’s a dusting of powdered sugar coating her black skirt. Only Gran looks completely unperturbed, floating from table to table, making sure that everything is just right.

  Every time she passes Luke, she puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a
squeeze, but I don’t think he notices. His pristine black suit looks out of place in comparison to his haggard face. His eyes stare straight ahead without even a flicker of recognition at the endless number of people who stop to talk to him.

  With everyone content for the present moment, I take refuge in the kitchen. It’s at least fifteen degrees hotter in here since we’ve been cooking on overdrive, but at least no one will bother me for a minute or two.

  “Sloane?”

  I wipe a hand over my sweaty hair and groan. The door opens halfway and Archer leans through it. Spotting me, he walks in and closes the door behind him.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey yourself.”

  “I half expected that you’d swing by the house again to check on Luke.”

  He just wants to talk—good. I hop onto the counter to give my feet a break. “It’s not that I didn’t want to, but to be honest with you, I wasn’t sure if he’d want me there.”

  He slumps against the counter. “He would have, but I’m not sure it would have mattered even if you did.”

  I take a moment to size him up. From his slumped shoulders, to his drawn face—he looks nearly as tired as Luke does. “When’s the last time you slept?”

  “Me?” He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about me, Sloane. I’ll catch a good night’s sleep sooner or later and I’ll be okay. But Luke … he’s just … gone. I can’t get him to talk to me. He only sleeps when he’s so drunk that he passes out. He hasn’t even cried. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Why are you telling me?” I ask.

  He offers me a sad smile. “You’re the only other friend he has.”

  My heart clenches. “What can I do? Just name it and I’ll do it.”

  He rubs his eyes. “Talk to him. Maybe he’ll say something to you. And see if you can get him to eat. I don’t think he’s eaten anything in the past few days.”

  “Okay, I can do that.” I put a hand on Archer’s arm. “You should hang back here for a while, catch a breather or a nap. You’re a good friend to him, you know that, right?”