Broken

by Lauren Layne

  “Well, what can I sub for cornstarch?”

  I start to tell her to Google it like a normal person, or just run down to the bodega and get some freaking cornstarch, but I try to keep my expression pleasant. Who knows, maybe I really will need the proverbial cup of sugar from her someday.

  “Are you using it as a thickening agent? You could use flour,” I say. Lindy would be so freaking proud.

  “A thickening agent?”

  I smile, trying to keep it friendly. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe you should just order takeout.”

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

  “Okay then,” I mutter, already starting to close the door.

  Her face gets in mine. “Did you see the new neighbor? He’s yummy.”

  “Yeah, I saw him. Beefy and lecherous isn’t really my thing.”

  “Not mine either, seeing as I like the ladies, but anyway, that’s not the new guy, that’s the mover. His name is Bruce.”

  “The mover or the new guy?” I asked, wondering why the hell I’m still having this conversation.

  “The mover, obviously. He’s a creep.”

  My head is spinning.

  “The new guy could totally turn me,” Maria whispers, leaning in.

  “Good luck with that,” I say, glancing over my shoulder in a deliberate, well-I-should-really-be-going kind of way.

  “Well, thanks but no thanks on the cornstarch,” she says, giving me a little wave. “Guess Tasty Thai is where it’s at again tonight. Oh, and before I forget…I’m performing at a little place on 96th and Lex tomorrow, if you want to come. Don’t know that it’s your scene, though,” she says, giving my work dress pants and pink cardigan a once-over.

  “Yeah, maybe not. Thanks anyway, though.”

  She puts a hand on the door before I can shut it, and I stifle a scream of irritation. Maybe this is why Paul goes out of his way to avoid neighbors. They’re annoying.

  “You could ask the new guy to take you.”

  “Yeah!” I make my eyes go wide and eager. “I’ll think about it!”

  Not.

  “He asked about you,” she says, her face coming in the door before I can shut it.

  I frown. “Who?”

  “The new guy.”

  My heart gives a little thump, and not in a good way. That a new neighbor is asking about her is one thing a girl living alone doesn’t want to hear, ever.

  “That’s…disturbing.”

  She shrugs. “You wouldn’t think that if you saw him. Well, half of him anyway. One side of his face is Hollywood gorgeous, and the other is…well, something happened. No judgment here, though. I think it’s sexy. If I liked men. But—”

  “Hold on.” My heart’s kicked into overdrive. “Hold on just a second. Half of his face is scarred?”

  “Totally.” She holds up three fingers like a claw and makes a swiping motion. “Wicked scars. Sexy wicked.”

  Without a word, I shut the door in her face. Rude? Yes. Necessary? Definitely. Because I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  “Hey!” she shouts through the door. “Don’t tell him I told you about him. He told me not to!”

  I close my eyes and slump to the ground, leaning my head back against the door as I try to get it together.

  Paul is here. No, Paul’s living here. In my building.

  The question is, how do I feel about it?

  Stunned? Check. Elated? Maybe. A little pissed that he didn’t just pick up the phone and call first? For sure.

  But none of that matters, because while my brain is registering all of those reactions, my heart clings to only one: wariness.

  See, not so long ago, I was a bona fide romantic. I believed in true love and happy endings.

  And then I grew up.

  I kissed my boyfriend’s best friend, and then went and tried to steal my ex back from his new girlfriend.

  And then I thought I could make amends for all of that by fixing some poor fool who never really wanted to be fixed in the first place.

  I single-handedly messed it all up.

  In other words, romance? Disney and the romantic comedies can keep it. If it even exists.

  Self-preservation feels infinitely safer. Self-preservation doesn’t allow you to go bounding down the hallway to throw yourself into the arms of a guy you love more than anything.

  Self-preservation knows that by keeping to yourself, you won’t give someone the chance to push you away and tell you you’re not worth it.

  Self-preservation means that you don’t have to worry about when you inevitably hurt him.

  No. No. I’m so not doing that. I’m not going down that path of berating myself for what I’ve done in the past.

  But …

  Neither am I going down the path toward him.

  I slowly climb back to my feet, wiping away the tears.

  Paul Langdon has come, likely planning some big grand finale, and he’s going to get it. But I don’t think it’ll be the one he’s expecting.

  Our ending is going to be the hard, painful kind.

  The kind that will be better for both of us in the long run.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Paul

  Note to self: ask Olivia why she chose the grossest building in Manhattan for her first apartment.

  I pull out some bills fresh from my savings account, which I just emptied, and hand them to my two thuglike movers. Neither of them bothers to count the money, which seems idiotic to me, but hey, whatever gets them out of my home faster.

  Home. Good God.

  The landlord assured me it was the largest floor plan available. A “deluxe two-bedroom.” While I’ll grant that there technically seem to be two rooms in which one could put a bed, the deluxe part eludes me altogether.

  Is it the ancient fridge? The freezer that makes rattling noises? No, it must be the dingy shower that can maybe allow for me to stand sideways. A car horn blares outside. Wait, no—make that dozens of car horns blaring outside.

  Of course, I’m practically immune to it by now. I’ve been in the city for all of a few hours, but it only took the trip from LaGuardia to my new building for car horns to become second nature. I get why native New Yorkers say you don’t even really notice the noise after a while. You have to get used to it, because it’s either that or go bat-shit crazy.

  I am a long, long way from Bar Harbor, Maine.

  I rub a hand over my face and look around at the boxes crammed into a ridiculously small space. I don’t have much stuff. Bare bones kitchen essentials, clothes, and admittedly more boxes of books than is probably practical for an apartment home in New York City. But even my minimal belongings crowd this place.

  I don’t care. I don’t care about the nasty grout on the counters, or the too-small fridge, or the fact that my landlord left me a note about the cheapest place to buy rat traps. I’m not here for the luxurious lodging.

  I’m here for her. She’s everything.

  The only problem? My grand plan for getting her back looks a little something like this: move into her building to show her you’re in this for good, and…end of plan. As in that’s the end of my fucking plan.

  I’m too terrified to think it through. I’m terrified she’ll tell me to fuck off. Terrified she’ll have found someone else—someone who isn’t acting like a scared, superficial little boy, hiding alone in his castle because he was afraid of what other people think.

  Because here’s what I’ve realized: I don’t care about what other people think. It’s taken a long-ass time for me to grow up and get to that, but it’s the honest-to-God truth.

  But I do care about other people. Lindy. Mick. Dad. Kali.

  Amanda and Lily.

  Olivia.

  These past few weeks without Olivia have been the worst of my life, and I’ll happily spend the rest of my life being the circus spectacle for other people to point and laugh at, if only she’ll be by my side.

  But that’s the trick, isn’t it? I’ve g
ot to figure out how to get her by my side.

  It’s why I moved into this hellhole when I can afford something three times the size that doesn’t smell like Bangkok.

  I want to be close to her. I need to be close to her. Even if she wants nothing to do with me, even if I have to watch as another guy comes to her door, I need to be near her. So I’ll be wherever she is.

  And Olivia’s in New York. Sort of my worst nightmare, but it’s a good fit for her. With all that polish and brains, she belongs in a Manhattan high-rise, not locked away in the middle of nowhere. I was a complete shit to want that for her.

  And that’s why I’m here. Because Olivia needs to be here. And I need Olivia, however I can have her.

  I halfheartedly start unpacking a box in the hope that by the time I’ve settled in, I’ll know what to say to her.

  But I know it won’t be that easy. When you chose your pathetic solitude over the girl you love—yes, love—you don’t just go knock on her door and tell her you want her back. You need flowers, or a public apology, or…

  “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

  My heart drops to the floor, as does the mug I just started to unwrap.

  Olivia.

  I close my eyes and swallow. I order myself to turn around and face her, but I can’t seem to move.

  “You really should lock your door,” she says. From her voice I can tell she’s coming closer. “This is a rough neighborhood.”

  Somewhere in the back of my brain, alarm bells are going off at her too-casual tone. In my mind, the best-case scenario was her rushing into my arms. And I thought the worst-case scenario was her slapping me. But I was wrong. This is the worst-case scenario. This indifferent, could-be-talking-to-a-stranger tone is so much worse.

  The noose tightens around my heart. I’m too late.

  I turn around to face her.

  She’s still dressed in what I assume are her work clothes. Black dress pants, plain black heels and a cardigan. Pink.

  “Olivia—”

  Shit. Shit. My voice sounds like gravel.

  She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that I can barely speak. She doesn’t seem to realize that my arms are literally shaking with the need to hold her, my throat aching with the need to tell her I’m sorry.

  And that I love her.

  No words come out. I’m too scared of fucking it all up. Too scared that she’ll tell me what I already know: I’m not worthy of her.

  She finally meets my eyes, and my heart sinks at what I see there: nothing.

  No joy, no anger. Not even pain. Her eyes are empty, and so unlike the expressive green eyes I dream about every night.

  “So what’s the plan?” she says with a shrug and a little smile. “You were just going to move next door like the creepiest of stalkers, ask the neighbors about me in secret, and then what?”

  I don’t know.

  I miss you.

  I love you.

  Please love me back.

  “Hi,” I say.

  Oh my God, Langdon.

  Her eyebrows lift. “Hi?”

  I shove my hands into my back pockets to keep from reaching for her.

  “Surprise?” I say instead.

  This time her eyes narrow.

  Okay, definitely not going the way I hoped.

  “I meant to do some big gesture,” I say in a rush. “I haven’t figured it out yet. I was maybe going to go to your office to serenade you, except I can’t sing. I was even thinking I could dress up like Andrew Jackson, but that’s only because Ethan suggested a costume, and—”

  She holds up a hand. “Hold on. Just stop and back up. Ethan? Is that how you found me?”

  “My dad knows his dad—”

  “Of course he does. Freaking rich people,” she mutters.

  “—and I heard you’re working for Mr. Price.”

  “You have my phone number!” she shouts, all semblance of the calm, indifferent Olivia disappearing. She’s pissed.

  And she’s not done with her tantrum. “You have my phone number and my email, and you’ve already shown an admirable prowess for stalking people on social media. Stalk me that way!”

  “I know,” I say. “I just—”

  “Six weeks, Paul. It’s been six weeks since you let me walk out of your life. No, pushed me out of your life. I spent the first two weeks in disbelieving anger, so certain you’d call to apologize. Weeks three and four were spent in tears when I realized you weren’t calling. Last week I was mad. Mad that you chose solitude and loneliness over love.”

  “And this week?” I force myself to ask.

  Her voice cracks a little, and I can’t help it. I have to reach for her, but she takes a step back. The rejection burns, even though I expect it.

  She lifts her chin, and although my heart sinks at the defiance on her face, I also want to applaud. This isn’t the damaged, self-loathing girl who showed up at my house almost six months ago. This is a gorgeous, proud woman who knows what she wants and, more important, knows what she deserves.

  And what she deserves is not a coward like me. But I have to try.

  “This week?” she asks, her voice calm once again. “This week I’m over it. I’m over you. I don’t know why you came here, Paul, but I wish you’d called first, because I could have saved you the trouble of moving into this shit hole. We are done, Paul. Done.”

  No!

  The panic that rips through me is somehow so much worse than anything that happened to me in Afghanistan or anything that’s happened since. And I know why. It’s because Olivia hasn’t just taught me how to love. She’s done something much bigger. She’s taught me how to live.

  And I don’t want to do it without her.

  I move forward, and she moves back. “I came here for you,” I tell her. “I’d go anywhere for you.”

  She scoffs. “It took you this long to figure it out?”

  “Yes.”

  My simple answer seems to throw her off, and I press forward. “I’m not proud of myself, Olivia. Not even a little bit. Do I wish I’d never let you go? Obviously. Do I wish I’d come to my senses sooner? Of course. And maybe if it had taken me only a day or two to clear my head, then yeah, I would have called. But when you fuck up as badly as I fucked up, for that long, you don’t call. You don’t text. You don’t email. You go to your girl and beg.”

  Olivia takes another step back, but I see the change in her eyes. Just a flash, but it gives me hope.

  “If you walk away, I won’t blame you,” I continue softly. “But I’m not going anywhere. I will stay here, and you’ll have to see my ugly face every single day. A few of my dad’s colleagues are willing to give me a chance to get into the business world. People get high on rehabilitated vets and all that, but I don’t care if it’s a pity hire. I’ll take it, and I’ll prove that I’m worth the risk.”

  She shakes her head a little, and I get even more frantic. I glance around the room, searching for something to show her that I’m changing. My eyes land on my Starbucks cup, and I point at it.

  “I bought coffee. Myself. In a Starbucks near Times Square, which should tell you just how crowded it was. People looked. Some looked twice at my face, but I didn’t care.” My words are rushing together now. “I don’t care about any of that, Olivia. And I know it will take time—weeks, months, whatever—to show you that I’m not going to go back into hiding again just because someone looks at me wrong or some jackass says something insulting. But no matter what happens, I’m going to be here because you’re here.”

  Tears are running down her face, and I don’t know if it’s in sympathy or despair or happiness. But she’s lost that layer of indifference, and I go for broke.

  Slowly I move toward her, my heart skipping a beat when I realize she’s stopped moving backward. I reach for her hand and slowly lift it to my face, pressing her palm against the scars there. Letting her touch me. Needing her to touch me.

  Olivia lets out a little sob, and with my oth
er arm I reach gently around her, my hand settling on her back as I pull her toward me.

  “I don’t want to be without you,” I say, my voice low. “But I know that I can be, if that’s what you want. I know I’ll survive and I’ll be okay, because of you. You made me whole. You took a wretched, broken soul and showed him how to take his life back.”

  I swallow and pull her just a little bit closer. “I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t need you for my survival, Olivia. I know you wouldn’t want me that way, all desperate and needy. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not scared to death of living without you. And there’s nothing I wouldn’t give for a second chance with you—a chance to make you happy.”

  She’s still stubbornly silent, and I feel a suspicious prick at the corner of my eyes. I blink rapidly to keep the tears from falling.

  “Please, sweetheart. Please.”

  I don’t even know what I’m asking her for.

  Anything. Everything.

  Love me.

  Olivia’s eyes don’t meet mine. Instead they focus on her hand where it rests against my face. Very slowly she runs a finger down each of my scars the way she did that night by the fire all those weeks ago.

  “You’re wrong,” she says softly.

  “About?” My heart is in my throat.

  “You said I’d have to see your ugly face every day.” Her eyes flick to mine. “You’re wrong. You’re beautiful.”

  I close my eyes, hardly daring to hope. My other hand moves around her until I have both arms wrapped securely around her waist, completely unwilling to let her go. I force myself to open my eyes and look at her. No more hiding.

  “How do I know you won’t leave?” she asks. Her voice is strong but her eyes are vulnerable, and it’s like there’s a knife in my heart.

  I set my lips to hers briefly. Then a second time, because she tastes so good, and I’ve missed her so much, but I pull back to finish what I’ve started.

  “I’m not going anywhere. And you may not believe me yet, and that’s okay, but believe this.” I slide my hands up to her face, my thumbs moving over her perfect cheekbones. “Believe that I love you.”