Our Broken Pieces

by Sarah White

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he whispers, and I’m already shaking my head. I’m grateful he wants our first time together to be perfect, but where it happens won’t change that it was meant to be.

  “Maybe it was always meant to be like this.” I smile at him. “We’ve both seen each other’s scars, we’ve both been there when it mattered. I don’t think it needs to be flowers and candles. For us it just needs to be real.” He hesitates, letting his eyes drift back down over my curves. I step toward him, leaving the stream of water and pressing my soft body against the hardness of his. I close my eyes and squeeze the water from my hair, then twist it over my shoulder.

  His hands slip under the hem of my shirt as his warm mouth kisses the delicate skin just under my jaw. I feel the goose bumps tingle across my skin as he slides his hands over my ribs, peeling my wet shirt up my body. He separates his lips from my skin long enough to pull the shirt over my head and then they are back, trailing down to my shoulder as he tenderly undresses me.

  The water allows his hands to slip across my skin adoringly, turning on every nerve as he explores my exposed skin. I can feel the slight scratch of his jaw as he sucks on my neck, knowing perfectly how to make my heart beat seemingly just for him. The air escapes my lungs in a rush and I feel a wave of dizziness as longing floods my soul.

  I pull his shirt off and then let my hands run along his bare, moist skin. He’s warm beneath them and I slide my palms down his neck and across his shoulders before skating them across his pecs and descending to his abs. When my fingers slip beneath his waistband, his mouth stills on my neck, and he looks into my eyes. I can see so many things reflected back at me, and none of them could ever be expressed with words the way he is telling me with one look.

  My body feels heated, a hot flush reddening my skin as I listen to his breathing. I feel drunk on him. The world around us is fuzzy and I can’t seem to get close enough. I can see the slight redness on his cheeks and the way his eyes are as hooded as my own. The water is growing cooler now as it hits my lower back, making his hands feel hot when he touches me.

  “I’ve got you.” His rough voice vibrates in my chest as he wraps an arm around me. He’s holding me close, but my arms are wrapped around him too. He’s been holding up the world for awhile, but now he has me and I’m not letting him go.

  “Gabe.” His name slips from my lips, a soft plea to understand I’m here for him. Maybe this isn’t the perfect chapter in a fairy tale, but it’s perfect for us.

  I’m breathing in his breath and he is breathing in mine, making this connection feel deeper than any before. He pulls back slightly so that he can watch my face.

  I can see so many things in his beautiful eyes, the way he wants me, the way he needs me, and the way this act of tenderness has managed to push the pain from before aside.

  His eyes dip down to my lips a second before he softly kisses me. I feel my heart grow and press almost painfully against the walls of my chest. Sharing this with someone is a huge step, but I know no matter what comes of this thing between Gabe and me, I’ve never trusted anyone more with my heart.

  twenty-six

  THE MOST AMAZING feeling of floating keeps us tangled in each other’s arms until our breathing is back to normal. I wait for Gabe to step away and leave me, the way Brady always did, but he doesn’t. He closes the distance between our mouths and kisses me long and delicately, his tongue lightly meeting mine, our lips, slightly swollen, gently tugging at each other. He slowly sets my leg down, but doesn’t make any movement to separate us.

  When he finally moves his face away from mine, his eyes look different somehow. I can still see the red outlining them, but the pain seems to be dulled for the moment, replaced with adoration. His hand slides up the side of my face, his fingers moving through my hair as his thumb brushes across my cheek. I can still hear the water running in the background, but it seems so unimportant against the sound of his breath.

  He pulls my mouth back to his for one more toe-curling kiss before stepping back from me and pulling me under the stream of water. He steps out of the shower for a second and returns when he’s taken care of the condom. The water is almost cold now and we quickly soap our bodies and rinse off before stepping out and grabbing towels. The steam from earlier has all but cleared as we finally emerge into his room.

  Gabe tosses me a pair of boxers and a T-shirt before slipping into a pair of workout shorts. The eerie quiet of the house reminds me of the serious reason we are here alone right now. He opens his bedroom door and turns on the light in the hall just outside his room. I feel grateful; suddenly the dark had seemed to roll in around us, bringing with it the emotional darkness of this afternoon. He walks over to me and I feel the lump in my throat return when his sad eyes meet mine.

  “Stay with me a little longer?”

  We climb into his bed and he tucks his pillow under his head, extending an arm next to him so that I can lie on his chest. I close my eyes when my cheek rests against his warm skin. I can hear his heart beating as his arm wraps around me, hanging on so that I’m tucked as closely to him as possible. His free hand swipes across my forehead, brushing my hair back and smoothing it down until his fingers capture just the tips. He weaves the ends between his fingers.

  “How long will she have to stay there?” I ask softly. My head rises with his chest as he inhales in a large breath.

  “It depends.” I think maybe that is the only answer I’ll get, but a few seconds later he continues, “She isn’t actively a threat to herself or others like before, so I think maybe just long enough to get her meds back on track and make sure she’s stable.”

  I nod my head against his chest. His fingers, still playing with my hair, pause in their twisting.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course,” I answer. “Anything.”

  “What do you write on that paper you always tuck in your books?”

  I’m curious about the shift in our conversation, but I imagine he wants to talk about something other than his sister right now.

  “Homework my therapist gives me. Sometimes she has me keep a log of my negative thoughts and asks me to replace them with more helpful ones.” I bring my hand up to his chest and absently draw circles with my fingers against his skin. “We’ve been working on my ‘staircase of fear.’” His hand resumes its weaving.

  “What’s that all about?” His hand at my back splays out across my skin, the warmth quickly seeping into me and giving me comfort.

  “It’s a progression, like a staircase, of little scary moments that build up to the worst one. I had to pick my biggest fear and work backward.” I wonder if he’ll think it’s stupid. I haven’t told anyone else about the assignment because it seemed too private to share.

  “Will you tell me what your fears are?” He presses a kiss to the top of my head.

  “I feel a little silly now. Some of them don’t really seem that scary anymore. It’s more like each is a step on the way to closure and letting go. Let’s see, should I start from the lowest step or the highest?” I have them memorized. I feel him shrug below me and I rest my palm flat against his chest. “I’ll start from the bottom and work my way up. Please keep in mind that the steps might seem ridiculous to you, but at the time I wrote them they were more about grieving what could have been than actual fear. I was just afraid to live the moments because I knew they would hurt and no amount of preparing seemed to make any difference.”

  “You could never be ridiculous.” His tone is serious and I appreciate that. I nod and snuggle up to him, moving my face slightly closer to his neck.

  “Invitation to prom, which will lead to an awkward family photo experience, which will then lead to the cheesy professional prom portraits that I had always pictured taking with Brady.” I shake my head a little and he tugs on a strand of my hair, which makes me laugh.

  “Continue.”

  I take a big breath. “I’ll have to slow dance with someone else at my senior prom. I kno
w it seems silly, but I dreamed of the perfect ending to my senior year, and Brady and me being together is how I had pictured it. If I dance with someone else then that’s it, the night will slip by and be lost to us forever. That leads to my biggest fear. I was afraid of how bad it will hurt to leave prom without him.” I give him a slight smile. “But somehow that staircase doesn’t seem like a staircase of fear any longer, just a necessary path on the road to outgrowing those childish dreams.”

  He and I haven’t talked seriously about prom. We laughed about the promposals and he now knows the fear I had built up around not going with Brady, but he doesn’t know that I’ve been thinking about it in an entirely different way lately. At night before I fall asleep I think about what it might be like to be there with Gabe. I wonder what it might be like if he asked me. In the back of my mind I remember the agreement I made with Laura that I’d ask someone myself if I didn’t get invited soon, but tonight it just doesn’t feel like the right time.

  It’s so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat. I wonder if my words have hurt him. We just had sex and I know I’m falling hard and fast for him, but I don’t know how he feels about me now, or what it might feel like for him to hear me talk about someone else. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. His hand slips under my chin and he turns my face to his, kissing my lips chastely.

  “I asked, and you answered honestly. I don’t expect you to wipe him from your memory. You guys were together a long time, and I know you have the memories to go with that history. I’m not hoping to take his place—I’m too selfish for that. I want a place of my own in your life.” He smiles a cute smile and then kisses me again before laying his head back and resuming playing with the ends of my hair.

  “Can I ask you something?” I wriggle my cheek against his chest until I’m comfortable again, glad to be looking away while I ask this question.

  “Sure.”

  “What’s in the notebook you take with you to counseling?”

  “Are you sure you want to know? You can’t unhear the answer.” I don’t hesitate to nod my head. I want to know everything about him that he’s willing to share with me. He curls a strand of my hair around his fingers.

  “I’m working on a response to Maggie’s suicide letter.” His words pierce straight through my heart and my throat tightens.

  “Why are you doing that?” I slide my hand over his chest tenderly, wanting him to know how much I care about this journey he’s on.

  “My therapist thought it might be helpful.” His answer is honest and neutral and his body remains relaxed.

  “Is it?”

  Once again I feel his shoulders shrug beneath me. “I haven’t finished. I go back and forth between being angry with her and being scared and hurt. The irony is that the letter seems to swing from one mood to the other, kind of like her illness. My therapist said that her doctors and I would have to decide whether or not I ever give the finished letter to her, but getting my thoughts out should help the way I feel about it.” His voice cracks and I wrap my arm around him and hold tight.

  I watch his deep intake of breath and the slow way he blows it out like I do when I’m trying to stay in control of my emotions. “I’m so scared. I’m afraid she’ll kill herself. I’m afraid I’ll be the one who finds her again.” The catch in his chest lets me know he’s losing the battle to keep his emotions calm. I feel my own tears warm my cheeks and drip onto his chest, but I say nothing, knowing he needs to tell this to someone.

  “Damn it,” he says more to himself than to me. “I’m afraid she won’t kill herself—that she’ll just live the rest of her life miserable in order to make us all happy. I’m afraid I won’t be the one to find her—maybe my mom will and she won’t be able to handle it.” My heart breaks for him. “I’m just so fucking scared of it all.” He sniffs and his hand leaves my hair to wipe away the tears he has failed to keep inside. I crawl up to him, kissing his forehead and pulling him close. I hold him like this, both of us on our sides, his face pressed into my chest as his arms wrap around my waist.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper. “It might get rough and scary again, but right now she’s safe, Gabe, and that means there is a chance the doctors can get through to her. Maybe this will be the time she listens. Maybe this will be the time she wants to stay healthy.” I rub my hand softly down his back.

  I rest my cheek against the top of his head and feel the warm tears slide down my face and onto his pillow. His pain is so deep I can feel it myself, and I would give anything to know what else to say that might help him feel better. What he’s going through is so much bigger than any of my fears, his heartbreak so much deeper. I want to tell him I’d do anything for him and that he can count on me to be a constant part of his life even if his sister experiences her ups and downs. Instead, I just hold him. I hold him like it’s what I was meant to do and like I could do it forever, because I know that I could.

  It could be just a few minutes, or maybe even as long as a few hours, but sometime in the darkness he finally succumbs to sleep and it’s with his calm, even breaths that I begin to feel peace myself. I close my eyes and hold him tight until I fall asleep beside him.

  twenty-seven

  IT WAS WELL after midnight when Gabe’s parents finished up at the hospital and came home. Very little was said about what had happened, all of us exhausted from the ordeal. Mrs. Darcy assured me that Maggie was doing much better and was not angry with any of us, but that didn’t alleviate the guilt I felt for my part in it. Getting her into treatment was the right thing, but it must have felt like everyone was against her.

  My own parents let me climb the stairs to my room and crawl into bed with just a soft “Goodnight” and no further explanation. When I opened my eyes in the morning to the sound of my alarm, my mom was at my door, telling me to go back to sleep and that I could get to school in time for third period. I worried about what Gabe might think if he didn’t see me at my locker in the morning so I texted him to let him know I would be there later, but he didn’t respond.

  When my alarm goes off for the second time, I awake with anxiety already swirling in my gut. It feels like a rough sea tossing during a storm, and I have to use every tool Laura has given me to calm it down enough to climb out of my bed. I’m not anxious for myself, I am torn up over the heartache I saw in Gabe’s eyes. I check my phone for messages, but Gabe hasn’t responded to the last text I sent.

  After getting ready for the day, I drive to school feeling a mix of anticipation and dread. I want to find Gabe. I make a quick stop at the office to grab my tardy slip and then I rush to class. I’m disappointed when he isn’t waiting by my locker at lunch. By the end of the day that disappointment has morphed into worry. Even though I am supposed to be spending sixth period helping with prom preparation in the student activities office, I spend most of the time checking my phone to see if he’s texted. No matter how hard I try to focus on the task at hand, creating posters and locking down the plans for Friday’s rally, my mind keeps pushing my thoughts back to him. By the time the final bell rings, my stomach has twisted into a terrible knot and I have the heavy feeling of dread sitting low in my gut. I haven’t heard from Gabe all day and at this point no amount of deep breathing or reframing my thoughts is helping the sinking feeling that he’s not okay.

  I skip the last trip to my locker and rush out past the front of the school. My thumb is flying over the screen of my phone, typing out a text message to Gabe, when I hear the noise around me suddenly go quiet. In horror movies, you know something bad is going to happen when the music gets louder and every movement the character makes seems amplified. But today, as I absently race to my car, it’s when the soundtrack to my day halts that I realize something is wrong. I was in such a rush to get to my car that I didn’t even realize I was walking through cheer practice. I’ve wandered into Elle’s territory, carelessly stomping right through the middle of the girls, all of whom have stopped talking.

  I wait for the fear to hit me. I’ve actively avo
ided this moment for weeks, carefully planning my exits so I don’t have to walk this gauntlet. My eyes meet Elle’s and I watch as her face becomes rigid with discomfort. There is a new feeling that surfaces within my heart as I keep my eyes locked on hers. For the first time since this whole mess started, I feel pity for her.

  It would have been so easy to lob emotional grenades in her direction. I know just as much about her as she knows about me. I too could have spilled secrets that would’ve hurt her personally as well as socially. I’ve thought about it, and if I’m honest, I’ve come very close to lowering myself to her level. It’s been a rough journey, but I know now, in my heart, I’m the bigger person. I’ve managed to climb out of all the rubble she’s caused to fall on me by breaking down and exploding my friendships and reputation. This is where the pity creeps in. I can already see the regret hidden poorly behind her expression. It’s going to eat her up inside, and I know that because I know her. She hasn’t always been a villain, which makes seeing so much darkness in her hard since I’ve also seen so much light.

  As I stand before her, the girls to her left jump down from their stunt and all eyes turn to take in what is happening on the small stretch of grass between the school and the parking lot. It’s a moment like a standoff in an old western movie. The air between us grows thick with tension, and the other girls watch with curiosity, wondering who will draw first and who will be around in the end to walk away.

  There are so many things I want to say to Elle, but as they enter my head in rapid succession, I realize that nothing I can say is going to change who she is or what she’s done. I can still read her, the way her lip twitches when she’s about to lie, the big intake of air when she’s trying to stay calm, and the small crease that lines her forehead when she’s not sure what to do next.

  I don’t hide from her any longer. I take a few direct steps toward her and she shifts her weight nervously, making me wonder if her heart feels heavy from all the damage she’s caused. “Hi, Elle.” I have been avoiding this conversation for far too long and now I regret the time I’ve spent these last few weeks trying to come up with some way to tell her how badly her actions hurt me. I know now that I shouldn’t have to spell it out, it’s obvious to everyone, and that includes her. She knows exactly what she’s done to our friendship and my heart.