by Kami Garcia
I catch a glimpse of Grace and Cam in the hallway. He whispers something in her ear, and she smiles at him. I’ve never seen him look so relaxed. And happy. I wish Owen was here, too. But he’s talking things out with his mom.
“Hi, y’all,” Grace says as she walks into the kitchen. Cameron is next to her, with one of his fingers looped around one of hers. She looks nervous.
“Want some coffee?” I ask.
She yawns. “I could drink a whole pot.”
Christian looks over, and Grace lets go of Cameron’s finger. She wraps her arms around herself and walks toward the counter tentatively.
My uncle gets up from the table. “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna call and check on Sissy.”
Grace waits for Hawk to leave and turns to Christian. “I just…” She hesitates. “I just wanted to make sure that you’re okay with me and Cam.” She looks over at Cameron, who’s smiling at her.
I wait for Christian to laugh it off or make a joke. Instead, he gives her his sad puppy face. “I’m not saying it’s easy to see you with someone. But if you and Cameron are happy together, that’s what counts. So I’m good with it.”
Christian winks at me.
“Thanks.” Grace beams with pride and walks back over to Cam.
Christian says, “Let’s get back to the eggs. Exactly how much butter are we talking about?”
Just when I think I have things all figured out, life throws me for a loop.
CHAPTER 44
Happily Even After
THREE MONTHS LATER …
I WAKE UP in the hospital for the third day in a row. Every muscle in my body aches from sleeping in a chair, but I’ve never been so happy to feel like crap. And I know Owen must feel worse.
I lace my fingers between his and rest my cheek on his leg. The first two days in the hospital, he was so out of it from pain meds that I wasn’t sure if he knew I was here.
His fingers tighten around mine for a second, and he stirs in his sleep.
I end up falling asleep, too. I have the best dream. Owen running his fingers through my hair, smiling at me. The dream feels so real that I don’t want to wake up.
“Peyton?” He’s calling my name, and I love the sound of his voice.
I rub my eyes and feel Owen’s hand sliding through my hair.
I lean over him. “How do you feel?”
“Good enough to do this.” He catches me around the waist and pulls me closer. He coughs, and I pick up the giant plastic cup on the table. It’s full of crushed ice and water.
“Here.” I bend the straw so he can take a sip. “Are you all right?”
“My throat is just scratchy. Come here.”
I lean over him. I can’t believe how happy I am that he’s awake.
“Closer. I can’t see you,” he says.
I lean in a little more. “How do you feel? Seriously?”
“Like I got run over by a truck.”
I laugh as a tear runs down my cheek. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“Remember what you promised me before I went into surgery?”
“Which thing?”
“The one about how I can have anything I want afterward?”
To prove how confident I was that he’d make it through the surgery, I promised Owen that I’d give him anything he wanted. “So what do you want? Since you get to pick anything.”
“I don’t know what the rules are about going in the pool now that I’ve got an Arc Reactor implanted in my chest.”
“Iron Man jokes? Seriously?”
“It sounds cooler than shock box.”
Owen gave up so much when he decided to have the surgery—just to give himself a chance at having a life. Something most of us take for granted.
The surgeon implanted an ICD—an implantable cardiac defibrillator—in Owen’s chest that will shock his heart if it stops. Like most people, Owen calls it a shock box and he knew that getting one meant he’d never be able to fight again—or play any contact sport. His whole life would change. “At least I’ll have a life,” he said.
The day of the surgery, Owen was more worried about his mom and me than about himself. I know he was scared, but he still went through with it.
Owen touches my sleeve. “What are you wearing?”
I have on my uniform. “Oh, I have a game. But I’m gonna skip it. I have someone who can cover for me.”
“No.” Owen shakes his head. “It’s bad luck if you skip it.”
“Now you’re superstitious?”
“You have to go. I’m pretty sure an army of nurses will show up any minute to start poking at me and taking my temperature.”
“I don’t know about that, but your mom will be here any minute. She won’t leave unless she knows I’m here.”
“She’s a good mom.”
The door opens a crack, and Owen’s mom pokes her head in. “You look great today, sweetheart.” She smiles. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her smile.
“You have to go,” he tells me. “I’ll hang out with my mom.”
I don’t want to leave.
This feels like the beginning of something, and I don’t want to miss any part of it.
“Okay, but I’ll be back as soon as the game’s over.” I kiss his forehead.
“I think you missed.”
“What?”
“I think you missed my lips,” he says.
I have no idea what the rules are about kissing after heart surgery, but I don’t want to test the boundaries. Plus his mom’s standing right across from me. I kiss him gently, our lips touching just enough.
“Come here. I want to tell you something,” he whispers. I bring my ear closer to his lips. “I decided what I want.”
“Your mom is here,” I remind him.
“It’s not about going to the pool.”
“Okay. What do you want? You get to pick anything.”
“Look at me.” The way Owen says it reminds me of other times he said it.
“Are you finally going to tell me?”
He gives me a half smile. “I want to be more than just friends.”
My heart melts.
I kiss him again. “Done.”
As I walk out, Owen’s mom calls after me. “Good luck.”
I’m practically flying by the time I get to the soccer field.
Owen is awake and he’s mine. And he’s going to be around for a long time. That’s what my little voice is telling me, and I trust it again.
I strap on my athletic brace and tie my cleats. I jog onto the field, slow—not striker speed.
A dozen fourth-grade girls swarm me.
“Who’s starting?” one of them asks.
“I don’t know. Let’s look at the list. Whose turn is it?”
They crowd around my clipboard and read over my shoulder.
My knee still isn’t a hundred percent. It’s not even eighty. There’s no way I can play this season, but UNC let me defer until next year.
By then, I think my knee will be completely healed.
And if it’s not? I’ll figure something out.
I used to believe that everyone gets one perfect day sometime in their lives—if they were lucky. But I had it all wrong. We don’t get one perfect day. We get a lifetime of imperfect days, and it’s up to us to decide what we want to do with them.
Some days are hard, and they leave us feeling like we just got our asses kicked. That’s the way I felt after Reed pushed me and wrecked my knee—broken and battered, with a life that would never be as whole as the one I had before.
But broken and battered can become broken and beautiful.
I’m working on that part now, and I’m okay with it.
I’m not looking for a happily ever after.
I want a happily even after.
The kind of happiness you have to earn. The kind you find after a broken heart or an injured knee. After a mistake that feels impossible to fix.
It’s the even after part that matters.<
br />
I already have the happy part.
Author’s Note
THIS WAS A difficult book for me to write. It dredged up a lot of painful memories. At one point in my life, I found myself in a situation like Peyton experiences in Broken Beautiful Hearts. I was dating an athlete who had started doping and I had no idea. Like Peyton, I broke up with him as soon as I found out. And like Peyton, I paid a price when the guy flew into a rage.
My inner circle of friends believed me when I told them what happened. But the mutual friends my ex and I shared did not. He was protective of me and he always stepped in if a girl was in trouble. He was that guy. He also adored me and everyone knew it. People couldn’t believe he would hurt me. I must have just misinterpreted the situation … right?
Wrong.
I knew exactly what happened and I stuck to my story. But some people still didn’t believe me.
Looking back now, there are things I didn’t do that I should have done:
• I did not report the incident to the police.
• When my ex-boyfriend started stalking me, I didn’t file a restraining order because, like Peyton, I thought it was “just a piece of paper.” But a restraining order is more than that. Even if it can’t stop the person from hurting/stalking you, a restraining order establishes a pattern of behavior that might help you later.
• I also didn’t reach out for help.
If you are ever in a situation like this, please reach out for help. You deserve to be heard—and believed.
Resources
BREAK THE CYCLE
Break the Cycle inspires and supports young people ages 12–24 to build healthy relationships and create a culture without abuse.
https://www.breakthecycle.org/learn-about-dating-abuse
LOVEISRESPECT
Loveisrespect’s purpose is to engage, educate, and empower young people to prevent and end abusive relationships.
http://www.loveisrespect.org/
Text loveis to 22522*
Call 1-866-331-9474
THE NATIONAL DOMESTIC VIOLENCE HOTLINE
Operating around-the-clock, seven days a week, confidential, and free of cost, the National Domestic Violence Hotline provides lifesaving tools and immediate support to enable victims to find safety and live lives free of abuse.
http://www.thehotline.org/
1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
RAINN
RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) is the nation’s largest anti-sexual violence organization. RAINN created and operates the National Sexual Assault Hotline.
https://www.rainn.org/
1-800-656-HOPE (4673)
Acknowledgments
This book would not exist without the support and hard work of these Beautiful people.
Jodi Reamer, my amazing literary agent—for listening to my crazy ideas and encouraging me to see where they lead, and shepherding my books into the world.
Erin Stein, my publisher and editor at Imprint—for pushing me to take chances in my novels instead of letting me play it safe. Your unwavering belief in my characters and my ability to bring their stories to life on the page keeps me going.
Natalie Sousa and Ellen Duda—for designing a book cover that exceeded my expectations and included a heart that doesn’t look cheesy.
Christine Ma, my copy editor—for catching my mistakes and for loving Owen from the first read.
The whole “Beautiful” Team at Imprint: Nicole Otto, Natalie Sousa, Ellen Duda, Jessica Chung, Rhoda Belleza, and John Morgan. And the “Beautiful” team at Macmillan: Jon Yaged, Angus Killick, Allison Verost, Molly Brouillette Ellis, Kelsey Marrujo, Kathryn Little, Ashley Woodfolk, Lucy Del Priore, Mariel Dawson, Julia Gardiner, Gaby Salpeter, Teresa Ferraiolo, Jennifer Gonzalez and her sales team, Melinda Ackell, and Raymond Ernesto Colón.
Writers House, my literary agency—for representing me and Broken Beautiful Hearts. Special thanks to Cecilia de la Campa and Alec Shane.
Kassie Evashevski, my rock star film agent—for your intelligence, creativity, and passion. But most of all, for championing this book and everything I write.
Holly Black, Carrie Ryan, and Danielle Paige, my friends and extraordinary YA authors—for reading this book so many times, giving me notes to make it better, and for all the supportive texts and calls.
Dhonielle Clayton, my friend and an über-talented YA author—for taking the time to sensitivity read this book—and for giving the book such a wonderful quote.
Sarah Weiss-Simpson, my assistant—for organizing my life so I have time to write and for being a great friend.
Chloe Palka, my social media manager—for your expertise and creativity and for typing my messy handwritten chapters. You are the coolest.
Erin Gross and Yvette Vasquez, my BFFs—for always having the answers, cheering me on, and yelling at me when cheering doesn’t work. You are two of my best friends.
Cora Carmack, Dhonielle Clayton, Abbi Glines, Elle Kennedy, Katie McGarry, Danielle Paige, Jennifer Niven, and K.A. Tucker, a group of authors whose novels I admire—for giving Broken Beautiful Hearts such amazing quotes. There aren’t enough cupcakes in the world to show my appreciation.
Sargent Rudolfo “Rudy” Reyes, 1st Reconnaissance Battalion, Team Leader OEF/OIF, United States Marine Corps; cofounder of FORCE Blue; my friend; and a tireless warrior with a new mission—saving and improving the lives of veterans—for sharing your knowledge and experiences with me so I could bring Hawk and Peyton’s dad to life on the page. And for helping me come up with a realistic (and scary) scenario for Peyton’s dad’s death.
Dr. Stephanie Jacobs, MD, cardiologist—for coming up with a heart condition that met my long list of criteria and then explaining it to me.
Vania Stoyanova, my friend and photographer—for making me look cool in my author photos, especially the one in this book.
Lorissa Shepstone of Being Wicked, my graphic designer—for designing my amazing new author website, along with postcards, bookmarks, business cards, and swag.
Benjamin Alderson, Caden Armstrong, Katie Bartow, Yvette Cervera, Bri Daniel, Andye Eppes, Jen Fisher, Vilma Gonzalez, Kristen Goodwin, Erin Gross, Sara Gundell, Ruthie Heard, Mara Jacobi, Taylor Knight, Hikari Loftus, Caden Sage, Evie Seo, Tracey Spiteri, Amber Sweeney, Natasha Tomic, Ursula Uriarte, Lauren Ward, Jenny Zemanek, and Heidi Zweifel—for being my think tank and offering your insight, creativity, and support. It means so much to me.
Eric Harbert and Nick Montano, my secret weapons—for being the guys who watch my back.
Alan Weinberger, my rheumatologist—for making sure I don’t fall apart.
Librarians, teachers, booksellers, bloggers, bookstagrammers, booktubers, and everyone who helped spread the word about Broken Beautiful Hearts—your passion for reading and love of books is an inspiration. Thank you for everything you do and for reading my books.
My readers—for supporting me, sticking with me when I write new books and series, encouraging me on social media when I’m down, encouraging your friends to read my books, sending me letters and fan art, and sharing your stories with me. You bring my books to life.
Mom, Dad, Celeste, John, Derek, Hannah, Alex, Hans, Sara, and Erin, my parents, stepparents, siblings, and sisters-in-law—for your love and encouragement. Thank you for always being there.
Alex, Nick, and Stella—for your love and support. I couldn’t do any of this without you.
CHAPTER 1
PIECES OF ME
A police officer shines a blinding light in my eyes. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”
To ruin what’s left of my miserable life?
“Was I speeding?” I have no idea, but the swerving is probably the reason.
He knocks on the roof of the car. “I’m going to need you to step out of the car and show me your license and registration.”
Red and blue lights flash in my rearview mirror, and the dull haze that kept me from falling apart earlier tonight begins to fade.
I
don’t want to feel anything. Most of all, I don’t want to remember.
“Have you been drinking?” he asks when I get out.
I consider lying, but what’s the point? There is nothing he can do to me that’s worse than what I’ve already been through.
“Miss? I asked if you’ve been drinking,” he repeats.
I look him in the eye. “Yes.”
* * *
Riding in the back of a police car sobers me up fast, but not enough to pass a Breathalyzer test at the precinct.
“Your blood alcohol concentration is point one.” Officer Tanner, the cop who pulled me over, writes it down on a form attached to his clipboard. “That’s two points over the legal limit in the state of Maryland.”
I stop listening and watch the second hand on the wall clock click past the numbers. It’s 10:20 on a Tuesday night.
The old Frankie Devereux would be kissing her boyfriend good night in front of her house right now, or slaving over her Stanford University application. She didn’t have the personal essay nailed down yet. But she wasn’t worried. With a 4.0 grade point average, eight years of classical piano training, and two summers’ worth of volunteer work at Children’s Hospital, Stanford was well within her reach.
But the old Frankie died with Noah.
The girl I am now is sitting in a windowless interrogation room, staring at grayish-white walls the color of turkey lunch meat after it spoils. Not exactly how I thought the first day of senior year would end. Considering how badly it started, I should have known.
Of course Woodley Prep chose today to hold a memorial gathering in Noah’s honor.
I begged Mom to let me stay home, but she was more concerned about her reputation than my sanity. “How will it look to people if you aren’t there?” It only sounded like a question.
So after fifth period, our teacher marched us outside, where the rest of the senior class was already assembled in front of the English building.
Noah hated English.
They talked about Noah Wells. Captain of the lacrosse team. Blue eyes the color of the sky. The boy everyone loved, including me.
