Pretty Broken Hearts: A Pretty Broken Standalone

by Jeana E. Mann

  “Bam.” He jabbed the air with a fist. “Broke my nose. Bled like a motherfucker. Ruined my favorite shirt.”

  “Did you take her in, or did she get away?”

  “Hell, yes, I took her in.” His chest swelled with pride. “No girl’s ever going to get the best of me.”

  “Whatever.” I leaned back in the chair and returned my attention to the TV. “Someday, you’re going to meet a girl and fall head over heels. And I’m going to laugh my ass off.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  We fell silent for a while. A beer commercial came on. The girl pouring the drafts into glass mugs had red hair and blue eyes. She reminded me of Bronte, turning my thoughts back to the previous night. I felt terrible about the way our evening had ended. She hadn’t done anything wrong. My foul mood had had nothing to do with her. If I had any balls at all, I’d get my ass out of the house and go apologize.

  The lock on the door rattled. It swung open, and Freya came in, carrying groceries. She went straight to the kitchen and started putting them away. Carter’s eyes widened. His stare burned into me. I shrugged.

  “Hey, guys,” she said.

  “Hey,” Carter and I replied in tandem.

  “Do you need some help?” I asked.

  “No. I’m good.” She went about the business of restocking the shelves and fridge.

  “Can you get some Cap’n Crunch next time?” Carter asked then smirked.

  “Sure,” Freya replied. “I’ll put it on the list.” Doors opened and closed as she walked through the apartment, tidying and straightening things. A few minutes later she came into the living room, blocking our view of the television. “You’re out of shampoo. I’ll pick some up tomorrow. Next time you run out of something, text me, would you?”

  “Okay.” I kept my gaze trained on the television.

  Carter began twitching on the sofa, brimming with suppressed sarcasm.

  “Great.” After a beat, she walked toward the door. “Well, I guess I’ll be going. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I nodded. “Sure. Thanks.” The weight of Carter’s stare burned into me. I could tell he was itching to say something. As soon as the door closed behind Freya, I lifted a hand into the air. “Whatever you’re about to say, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Dude, that’s too fucking bad, because I’m going to say it anyway.” He leaned across the coffee table and shut off the TV.

  “Fine.” With a groan, I shifted to face him.

  “She’s got a key?”

  “Yeah, it seemed easier.”

  “That is some fucked-up shit, my friend.”

  “She’s being nice. Give me a break.”

  “You’re delusional.” The recliner groaned when he stood up. “I’ve held my tongue, thinking you’d come to your senses, but I can’t keep my mouth shut any longer. It’s weird. You’ve got your wife’s twin sister waiting on you hand and foot, coming over here at all hours of the day and night to serve you.” His eyes narrowed. “Please tell me you’re not hitting that, because that would be sick.”

  “I’m not hitting that. Are you happy? Now, turn on the TV.”

  “No.” He scratched both hands through his beard. “You need an intervention. I mean, look at this place. Amy’s furniture. Amy’s pictures. Your bedroom is like a goddam mausoleum. The whole place screams of Amy. When I suggested you move here for a clean start, I didn’t mean bring all that baggage with you. You’re never going to get past her with her shit around.”

  “It’s perfectly good furniture. You don’t like it because Amy picked it out.”

  He groaned. “Come on, Rhett. I don’t get you. You’re the smartest guy I know, but you’re acting like a fucking fool. It’s been two years. Kick your sister-wife to the curb. Move the fuck on.”

  My temper snapped. I jumped to my feet. “Enough. I’m sick of people telling me what to do. Freya says I’m moving on too fast, that I’m dishonoring Amy’s memory. And you’re telling me I’m not moving fast enough. I’ll move on when I’m damn good and ready and not a minute sooner.”

  Carter stared at me. After an awkward pause, he shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. I’m out of here.” With his hand on the front door, he stopped. “You know, it wasn’t your fault, Rhett. She’s the one who stepped off the curb. She’s the one who didn’t check the traffic first.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bronte

  Dr. Carla Mortensen studied me with somber eyes. She was a trim, middle-aged woman with sleek, dark hair and a movie-star mole above the left corner of her mouth. Her office was light and airy, decorated in soothing tones of blue and gray. An African mask hung on the wall behind her desk. I stared at it, unable to make eye contact with her. I felt like I’d let her down. She’d been my doctor for the past ten years and had been a major factor in turning my life around. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d still be living with Dad, working at the coffee shop, and miserable.

  “What’s going on, Bronte?” She came around the desk to sit in the club chair beside me. “You’ve been doing so well.”

  “I’ve had two freak-outs over the past month.”

  She scribbled on her notepad. “Tell me about that. Where were you when the first one happened?”

  I told her about the incident at Joe’s Java Junction and followed up with the Seaforths’ party. She nodded and listened intently to the end of my story. I kicked off my shoes and tucked a foot beneath me. This place always seemed safe, a judgement-free zone.

  “And when did you start counting again?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  “I didn’t say anything about counting.” I’d hoped to avoid the topic but should have known better. She was too sharp.

  “Come on, Bronte. We’re way past that.” She tapped her pen impatiently on the notebook. “You came here for my help. I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me.”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve always counted, even on the good days, but it didn’t interfere with my life until last week. I thought it was better to get a jump on things before it got out of hand.” Panic squeezed my insides. “I don’t want to go back to the way I was. I’m scared.”

  Seeing my distress, she patted my hand and smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure this out, just like we have before. You’ll feel better in no time. Now, let’s back up. Tell me about the first time you realized you were counting excessively again.”

  “It happened so gradually that I’m not sure, but I think it started when I went back to work at the coffee shop.”

  “Okay, good. That’s a start.”

  We talked about Jo and Dad and the way they treated me like a twenty-eight-year-old child. It felt good to confess my feelings to someone who didn’t argue or complain or make excuses. Eventually, the topic turned to Rhett.

  “And what did you do when he said the evening was a mistake?” she asked.

  A hot flush burned my cheeks at the memory. “I yelled at him and slammed the door in his face. I feel terrible about it.”

  “Do you think he treated you fairly?”

  “No.”

  “Then you were within your rights to speak your mind. It’s okay to have boundaries, Bronte. You deserve to be treated with respect and to remove the people from your life who don’t follow those guidelines.”

  At the end of our session, she flipped through the pages of her notepad before speaking. I wrung my hands, aware of the perspiration on my palms. What if she said I needed to go back to Dad’s? I didn’t mind spending a night or two, but the idea of losing my independence frightened me. I had no idea how much it meant to me until I risked losing it.

  “It seems like your issues from now and before center around your relationships with your father, Jo, and Rhett. Next time, I’d like to talk more about that. Take the week to think about how they make you feel and what’s triggering your behaviors. In the meantime, I’m going to adjust your medication and see if we can relieve a bit of your anxiety.”

  I frowned as she sent an elect
ronic prescription to the pharmacy. “I really don’t want to take more medication if I don’t have to.”

  “Everyone needs a little help from time to time. There’s nothing wrong with it. And it won’t be forever. Just until you get your OCD under control.” She tapped her pen on the desktop, studying me. “I have to say, Bronte, I’m impressed with the progress you’ve made since your last visit. You should be proud of all that you’ve done. We’ll get through this.”

  I walked the eight blocks from Dr. Mortensen’s to my lab. The shops and apartments passed by in a blur. My thoughts lingered on Dad and Jo. They loved me unconditionally but seemed resistant to the changes in my life. I felt like a fragile butterfly contained within a glass jar. I wanted to spread my wings and fly, but I’d never be able to move forward without their support.

  Rhett, on the other hand, seemed to accept me the way I was. I liked the way his eyes sparkled when he looked at me, the way he listened to what I said, like I mattered—like I was normal. His behavior after the Seaforth party seemed out of character, more like Walt. But he wasn’t my asshole high school crush. Treating him that way was unfair to us both. Something must have happened at the party to change Rhett’s mood, something more than my breakdown. I couldn’t continue to project Walt’s bad behavior onto every guy I met, or I’d end up lonely and alone like Jo.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rhett

  I decided to work from home on Monday, preferring the solitude of my apartment to the quiet intensity of the office. The next day, however, I had to go in for several meetings with Sam and Dakota. Freya met me in reception with a warm smile and a hot cup of coffee, like nothing had happened. We walked side by side to my office. She ran through my schedule for the day, punctuating her words with small touches to my arm. Every brush of her fingertips fueled my irritation. I couldn’t get past Carter’s admonition. When I suggested you move here for a clean start, I didn’t mean bring all that baggage with you. His words made sense. My relationship with Freya was beyond dysfunctional.

  I settled into my desk and powered up the computer. “That’ll be all,” I said without looking at her.

  “Well, if you need anything else, let me know.” Despite my assurances, she hovered on the threshold of the door. I continued to ignore her. After a second, she stepped into the office and closed the door behind her. “Are we okay here?”

  I groaned and scrubbed a hand over my face. I didn’t want to have this conversation first thing in the morning, before coffee, but it needed to be done. “Do you really need to do this right now?”

  “Yes. I’m worried about you—about us.” Her voice softened. She came around to my side of the desk and sat on the corner.

  “Freya, there is no us.” The space between her brows narrowed. I caught her gaze so she could see my sincerity. “You’re my sister-in-law and my assistant, not my girlfriend or my mother or my wife.” I paused to let the words sink in.

  Her frown deepened. “Why are you acting like this? What’s gotten into you?”

  “Nothing has gotten into me. I just think we need to set some boundaries.” I turned my attention to the computer, scrolling through my emails.

  “Is it Carter? Because you can’t listen to him. He’s the last person in the world you should take advice from.” She bent to straighten the items on my desk, fussing over the stack of reports. “When he’s not drunk, he’s in jail or off chasing some miscreant.” She smoothed a palm over the sleeve of my jacket. I caught her hand in mine and pushed it away.

  “That. That’s what I’m talking about. You don’t have any respect for my personal space.” Irritation harshened my voice. I drew in a deep breath and started again. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. And you do a great job here, but I need some space.”

  She stepped back and lifted her chin. “Obviously, you’re going through something. I’ll give you space if that’s what you need.” Before I could open my mouth to say more, she stomped toward the door in her high heels. She paused at the threshold. “You’re meeting with the Seaforths in Sam’s office at nine-thirty.”

  Once the door closed behind her, I dropped my head into my hands, knowing I’d hurt her feelings. I’d let her take over my life. She was Amy’s sister, a part of my family, and she’d been there for me when I’d been at my lowest point. I was beginning to regain my mojo, though. If I was going to rebuild my life, I needed her to back off. There had to be a way to reach a happy medium for both of us.

  The situation kept churning through my thoughts until the meeting. I took a seat across from Beckett at the small conference table. Sam and Dakota sat on either side of me. They were about to acquire an architectural firm and needed a strategy for absorbing the debt of the new company without compromising the assets of the existing business. It was my specialty and something I enjoyed doing, but this morning I moved through the points of my presentation on autopilot.

  At the end of the meeting, Dakota walked me to the door. “How is Bronte? I thought about her all weekend. I hope she’s okay.”

  “We haven’t talked.” I scrubbed a hand over my face, overcome with renewed guilt.

  “She’s sweet. I can’t wait to get to know her better. We’re doing lunch this week.”

  “That’s great. Tell her I said hello.” The words lodged in my throat. I didn’t want to be that kind of guy. I should tell her myself. At the very least, I should touch base with her to make sure she was okay.

  I glanced down at my watch. It was almost twelve-fifteen. I knew exactly where she’d be.

  Bronte sat on our park bench alone, her brown paper bag at her side, a sandwich in her hand. Sunshine warmed an otherwise chilly day, and crinkly leaves skittered along the pathway in front of me. Her red hair was piled high on her head. Her black-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. A young man jogged past her, did a double-take, and circled back. My gut tightened when she smiled up at him.

  What the fuck? The hackles on the back of my neck lifted in primal warning. In general, the park was a safe area, but I didn’t like the idea of random men stopping to talk to her. Or maybe I didn’t like the idea of any guy talking to her. He might say something to hurt her feelings or try to take advantage of her sweet nature. I quickened my steps.

  “Hey,” I said, sidling next to the man. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, one of those rocker-hipster types with a goatee and long hair.

  “Hi,” she replied and used an index finger to push her glasses up her nose. Fucking adorable.

  “Well, I’ll see you, Bronte. Text me later?” The guy looked me over, sizing me up, no doubt. I stared back, happy to note I was a few inches taller than him.

  Text me later? What the hell was that about? Surely she wasn’t going out on a date with this guy. The thought made my stomach flip.

  “Okay. Don’t forget Friday,” she said. The guy leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek. The top of my head nearly exploded. He cast a sidelong smirk in my direction. I wanted to punch him in the jaw.

  “Do you know him?” I asked as the guy jogged away.

  “That’s Shane. We play Scrabble together on Fridays.” The light faded from her smile. “What are you doing here? I thought you were too busy for lunch.” She crammed her sandwich into the sack, preparing to leave.

  “Hang on a minute. I came looking for you to apologize.”

  “And?” She arched an eyebrow.

  “I’m sorry for the way I acted Saturday night.”

  The brown paper bag crinkled as she wadded it and tossed it in the garbage can next to the bench. “Is that it?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Okay. See you.”

  I stood frozen to the pavement, watching her walk away.

  “Wait.” My brain caught up to the situation. I trotted after her, admiring her spunk. No one had busted my balls in a long time. Most people avoided me altogether, afraid of hurting my feelings after Amy’s death. I hated their sympathetic smiles, the way they handled me with kid gloves. Bronte�
�s no-nonsense treatment was refreshing. “Can you give me a minute to explain?”

  She stopped but didn’t turn around. I circled to face her, bending my knees to catch sight of her downcast eyes. Their vibrant blue hue caught me in the gut. Sweet, intelligent eyes incapable of guile. She lifted an index finger into the air. “One minute, then I’m out of here.”

  “I was a total douche this weekend, and it didn’t have anything to do with you.” Her gaze softened but her lips pressed into a tight line. I swallowed and kept going. “I’m still trying to work through some issues with Amy’s death.” Once I started talking, the words poured out. “When she died, I was lost. We’d been together since college. Freya and my friend Carter kept me going. I owe them a lot. And I want to move on, but it’s not as easy as it sounds. I’ve got mental baggage to sort through. None of it has anything to do with you. I like you, Bronte. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to be friends.”

  A glimmer of tears shone in her eyes. The corners of her mouth turned up. “I understand baggage, Rhett. Everyone has it.” Her gaze dipped to my mouth, causing a peculiar but pleasant twisting in my stomach. “I have a freight car loaded with it.”

  An invisible weight lifted from my shoulders. I hadn’t realized how much our disagreement had bothered me until now. I was so afraid of being hurt that I kept my emotions on lockdown, and it was turning me into a bastard. I tapped the tip of her nose. “So am I forgiven?”

  “Yes.” A full-blown smile illuminated her features. She started walking again. “Apology accepted, but you’re going to have to make it up to me.”

  “Sure. Name your price.” My heart felt lighter than it had in months. I shoved my hands into my pockets and kept pace at her side. “Anything.”

  “I want you to promise never to talk to me like that again. If something is bothering you, you have to tell me. No bullshit. I don’t understand things like that.”