Broken

by A. E. Rought

  When you said those words I realized it isn’t just me. I want to ask you something tomorrow. See you after school.

  I check the time stamp. Alex sent it minutes ago, while I was in the shower. How could he send that and think tomorrow would ever be good enough?

  No, I type, it isn’t just you. Then I hit Send.

  And follow that text with: Tomorrow? I type. Ask me what?

  The cat gives me a surly I-was-here-first meow when I sit on the bed by my pillow. “Deal with it,” I tell him. “I’m bigger than you.”

  He stands, lifts his tail to an arrogant angle and struts to the end of the bed where he usually sleeps. My cell phone vibrates in my hand. I have it open before the ring tone is finished.

  Patience, Emma. This isn’t something to say over text.

  Okay. He knows how to push my buttons at a distance.

  Being patient is overrated. Give me a hint.

  I can almost see the smile on his face. It would trickle up past his cheek bones and tug at the thin surgical scars. The message appears silently, since I never closed out of the conversation.

  Your persistence is showing. ;) Trust me. You’ll agree it isn’t a phone thing.

  There’s no question if I trust him. Despite the niggling sense there is something wrong with Alex, I can’t dig him out of my soul. His pain, his hollowed hurt, his tenderness have etched Alex on my heart. How can I doubt part of myself?

  How can I not, when the calendar says I’ve only known him for two weeks?

  Fine, I type back, see you after school.

  I shut the phone, then turn it off. The poor thing is never going to get a full charge if I’m typing with it all night. Carpeting whispers under my feet as I ford the moonlight and shadows to my desk and put the phone back on the charger. I pull my curtains mostly to, leaving them open enough to see the nearly full moon hanging low and white outside my window. Maybe Alex is looking up, too.

  The pillow is still warm from Renfield when I settle into bed. Sleep comes quick, stealing into my head on soft wings and painting everything black.

  #

  The dream drags me back to the cemetery.

  Broken gravestones, graves, and something I never wanted to see again. The fraternity house where Daniel died stands where the mausoleum should. White cats sit everywhere when I walk in: on a bookcase, on the chair, two on the sofa, even one on the keg. The moment they see me, they scurry away.

  I don’t want to be here. Never wanted to be here again. Then a Renfield peeks from under the chair next to me. He dashes for the sofa in the middle of the room, and pointedly stares at me.

  Follow, his eyes tell me before he disappears again.

  The bookcase Renfield appears, streaks toward the stairs, and my heart hammers to hurry. Another white face snaps into being halfway up the steps.

  Up, I think, I have to go up.

  I follow the guides of white fur and touch the stairs. Breath dries in my throat. I climb and sob, the need to be upstairs heaving in me like a living thing.

  Renfields dot the top floor, too, ghostly flashes of white leading down the hall to that hated room. Moonlight pours in the rec room. Two familiar figures stand bathed in white light at the edge of the balcony. They fight as I run through the hall, one cat or another winking in and out in front of my feet. One falls, and I ram into the railing, knowing I’ve missed my chance to save Daniel again.

  Josh stands on the deck, beer in one hand, looking at his empty other hand.

  Daniel and Alex lay on the ground beneath us, identical wounds and the same dying light in their eyes.

  “I couldn’t catch’em,” Josh slurs. Then, he combusts into the whirling devil I saw on the catwalk the last time I saw rotted-corpse Daniel. He plants his hands in my chest and shoves…

  #

  I wake when my head makes contact with the floor. Dawn shines at a crazy angle through my room. Sheets tangle around my body and Renfield’s perched on the footboard of my bed with his back arched and hair standing straight from his head to his tail. Mom’s voice joins the cat’s hissing. “Emma Jane! You’re going to be late for school!”

  “Oh, God,” I groan.

  Swearing worse than anything coming out of the boys’ locker room, I fight my way from the sheets and then lunge for my closet. On instinct, I grab clothes, struggle into them with my brace, snag my phone from the charger and rush down the stairs.

  Mom’s there, in her normal place, acting as if life is back to normal. A homemade version of a pancake-on-a-stick occupies one hand, my backpack in the other, and a to-go cup of coffee sits on the counter. She helps me into my backpack, slips my cell phone in, then tells me while she loads me with coffee and food that she ordered me a new battery for my phone and they will be home tonight and Alex is welcome for dinner, and on and on. She shouts, “run a comb through your hair,” as I dash out the door.

  Thinking and walking and breakfast do not successfully add up for me. I sacrifice thought for food. My stomach opens into a snarling pit once the smell of the cinnamon-spiced batter hits my nose. The roads pass unnoticed, vehicles and houses, too. The last swallow of coffee swills through the lid as I reach the school.

  Bree, in denim and faux fur, sits on the Bree Bench, waving her big-tooth comb at me like a teacher might have brandished a ruler at a naughty student.

  “Good Lord,” she says, “did you fall out of bed and run to school?”

  “Pretty much,” I say. Why lie?

  “Well, walk slow and careful and I’ll comb that mess for you. I’m sure Lover Boy’s going to be here after school and I don’t want you scaring him away.” I’m sure she’s searching through her mental Rolodex for a play that might fit that moment while she rakes at my head. I walk as carefully as possible toward the side door.

  “So…” she says. Rake. Rake. “Tell me all about him.”

  I don’t even bother playing the “him who?” game. “He’s sweet, and funny, and caring. Listened to me cry about Daniel, even.”

  “You went there?” Rake and snag. Comb, comb. “You actually brought up your old boyfriend?”

  “Yeah. It just kinda came up while we were in the cemetery.”

  “Wait.” She stops and the raking stops, too. “Lover Boy is as freaky as you?”

  “At least as far as cemeteries goes…”

  Her brown eyes widen. She blows out a low whistle. “You two are perfect for each other.”

  I don’t argue.

  “It feels like forever since we talked,” she chides, working a loose braid into my hair.

  “We talk every day.”

  “More than at school.” She twists a rubber band at the end of my braid. “Just make sure Lover Boy knows he’s supposed to share.”

  “I’ll make sure to tell him. Not that we’re dating or anything…”

  She shakes her head, giving me a visual check. “You deny too much.”

  “Well, it’s true…”

  We part ways at the corner of the main and Creative Arts halls. School becomes the hurdle I have to leap to make it to the afternoon. I text Alex at lunch while the actor members of the Drama Club discuss their upcoming performance and the Winter Formal. Alex responds to my pestering with promising I’ll know soon enough. The afternoon is both a pain and a blur. I can’t focus on anything, and I don’t want to. I stare at clocks, willing the hands to move faster.

  The bone white note stuffed into my locker vents like a blade between ribs stops me in my tracks. Did he decide not to come after all? Rather than let my mind flounder in the quagmire of what-ifs, I snatch the note down, and open it.

  Em,

  Waiting at your house.

  Yours,

  Alex

  Mine? He signed it. Is it his way of saying it without actually speaking?

  Mine. I like the sound of that.

  One word erases all the possible ways I could’ve pouted from Alex’s note. Instead, I almost skip out the doors. The empty Bree Bench doesn’t bother me, or waiti
ng for the traffic to clear. A shiny black SUV, a couple rattletrap boxes on wheels, but no Josh Mason. Even November chill can’t taint the sweet anticipation climbing higher in me.

  The sight of Alex slouching like a male model against my porch pillar slaughters every sad thought and bad dream of the past couple days. His scruffy casual clothes are way too high-end to be anything but designer. Black jeans and knit hoodie, brown leather jacket and sneakers. The only time he might have looked hotter is the night of the Halloween dance, all in black, with a bruise under one eye and a trickle of blood on his lip.

  “Hey,” he says, voice all husky and making it sound personal.

  “Hi.” Fluttery and light, probably matches the beat of my heart.

  “You going to invite me in?” he asks, eyes bright despite the dark puddles beneath them.

  “I don’t know.” I waggle a braced hand at him. “You gonna say what you came to say?”

  “Nope.” He pretends to shiver. “Not outside in the cold. Invite me in…”

  “Fine,” I huff and throw up my hands in mock defeat.

  I tromp across the porch to the front door, and grab the doorknob. There, with the knob turning under my hand, I spin and face Alex. Unsuspecting, he bumps into me, denim on denim in close to inappropriate places. Color flushes his face, heat floods mine, but he doesn’t move back. Instead, Alex loops an arm around my back and adjusts my angle to better fit against him. His eyes say a thousand things when he leans close.

  “Tell me,” I whisper.

  “No.” His lips are close enough to brush mine. And I want them to.

  Then, Alex turns the knob and our weight against the door does the rest. I stumble backwards and away from him. Recovering my footing is less than graceful, colored with a choice swear word, too. Flinging back my braid, I sling a pouty glance at him. He stands rooted to the lintel so when my mom’s head pops from the kitchen we’re both pink-cheeked, but not in a position he’d be kicked out for.

  “Getting cold out there,” she grumps. “Shut the door.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Gentry.”

  “Have homework?” Mom asks. Before I can answer, Alex says, “We’ll get right to it.”

  “Thanks, Alex.”

  Where’s the rabbit hole, I wonder, because I’m sure I’ve fallen down it now.

  “Thanks, Alex?” I mouth while he deftly strips me of my backpack, and pulls out a chair for me. Pushing out an exasperated sigh, I sit on the seat, not the least bit surprised when he pushes it in for me. He follows suit. The wail of a power tool cutting through wood fills the room. Using the cover of sound, I beg Alex, “Tell me.”

  “You have any idea how persistent you are?”

  “Totally.” I bat my eyelashes. “I could’ve warned you about that if you’d asked.”

  “Never thought I’d have to.” He sounds so serious, but he’s smiling.

  Mom passes in and out of the kitchen, never giving me a good chance to question Alex again. Chicken stew in homemade bread bowls soon cover the table, dragged out unmercifully long by torturous small talk between Mom and Dad about his company’s Thanksgiving party. Alex and Dad clear the table, and Mom suggests we watch a movie while she goes upstairs to read. Thankfully, I’m not facing her and she can’t see my smile.

  “Planning on any certain movie?” Dad sounds intrigued.

  “Dracula,” Alex says.

  “Oh.” A minute shrug and polish of his glasses. “We’ve seen that quite a few times. You two won’t mind if I go back to the workshop, then?”

  Dad doesn’t wait for an answer, just fills his chipped mug with decaf coffee and heads for the basement. For a moment, the lack of immediate parental supervision feels odd. I poke a toe at the table leg. Alex tugs at the zipper of his jacket. We meet gazes, inhale in sync, and drop gazes just as quickly.

  “I don’t have the DVD anymore.” I say, sure that he expects me, the super fan with a cat named Renfield, to have a copy. “Bree spilled nail polish on it.”

  “No worries.” Alex pulls the DVD from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. “I came prepared.”

  His smile is cute, and a little annoying. He must think he’s successfully derailed me from pestering him. “You have shin and elbow guards in there, too?”

  “No.” The querulous tone in his voice feels like a small victory. “Should I?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to sic Renfield on you if you don’t break the suspense soon.”

  “Who?” he asks all sweet and innocent, and collects the white cat circling his feet. “This kitty?”

  The damn traitor cat purrs, and lifts his chin to be scratched. I flex my fingers, and buff the nails of my left hand against his hoodie, which I’m wearing because I grabbed it when I ran on autopilot this morning. “I have claws too.”

  “Oo,” he teases. “You’re a big threat with just one hand.”

  “Brat.” I whip a pillow at him, dislodge the cat, and nearly knock the DVD from his grip.

  “By the way…” He skirts my throwing arm and edges for the TV. “Nice shirt. I wondered where it got to.”

  “Oh yeah? Want it back?”

  “Depends…” He waggles his eyebrows. “You gonna take it off now?”

  A blush ravages my cheeks, and I busy myself piling throw pillows in the corner of the sofa, and dragging a couple of blankets from the closet. Alex fishes the remote from Dad’s armchair, and works our TV like a pro. In minutes, he has the movie started and has nestled in the corner like I’d cozied it up just for him. He pats the cushion next to him.

  Heaving a sigh, I sink down onto the red sofa and lean back. Not long into the movie, Alex sits up, pulls my braid free from being trapped behind me, takes off the binder and unweaves the plait.

  “I love your hair,” he says, voice just above a whisper. “Com’ere.”

  The way he slides the words together is a definite Michigan thing, and with his husky tenor it’s definitely enticing. How can I refuse?

  He takes my shoulder, guiding me to the edge of the cushion while he slides a leg behind me, and pulls me back against his chest. Warm tingles pour across my scalp, following the light touch of his fingers running through my hair.

  “Now that I have you where I want you,” he says, “we have something to discuss.”

  “We do?” I feign surprise.

  “Yes.” Shivers spread over my skin as Alex slides his fingers across my neck, pouring my hair over one shoulder. Twisting a little, he nestles me in the crook of his arm. The tunneling sensation flares, narrowing the house to this sofa, and the world to this moment.

  “Two weeks of knowing you isn’t enough, Em. Two weeks of being friends isn’t enough, either.”

  “What are you saying?” Suddenly, I can’t get enough air and I feel like I’m spiraling into him.

  “I want you to be mine.”

  The falling sensation becomes hurtling. I slide my hand up his chest, my fingers brushing his cheek below the scar.

  “I already am.”

  Smiling the tender expression I know is just mine, he cups my hand against his face a moment, leaning into my fingers, and my heart dances. Then he releases my hand and places his fingers under my chin. Moving slowly, giving me plenty of time to say ‘no’ to the kiss I know is coming, Alex tips his face to mine. My eyes slip closed when he whispers, “Com’ere.”

  Alex’s lips brush mine, feather light first contact. I melt into him, whispering his name. He sucks in a breath, stealing mine and I don’t care. The couch spins, only Alex holding me to it when his mouth touches mine again, firmer this time, more confident. I don’t know where to put my hands, and my hip is driving into his thigh. He must like it all twisted up and awkward. Alex crushes me to him, kissing me like he’s waited a thousand years for this moment.

  Too soon it’s over, and the stairs creak under Mom’s feet. I quickly adjust so I’m leaning against him, and he manages to shove a pillow between us before Mom appears.

  Her gaze hits us. No anger, just a resi
gned acceptance framed in brown and gray hair. “Want anything from the kitchen?” she asks. “I’m getting a pop.”

  “No, thanks,” we say in stereo, his velvet tenor a little husky, my soprano a little squeaky.

  After Mom rummages in the fridge, then makes a return trip up the steps, I shift in his arms, ready for another kiss. He’s so pale, puddles purple-black dark under his eyes, I can’t and I don’t think he can either. He kisses the end of my nose, instead.

  “Not feeling well?”

  “Better than I’ve felt since I woke up in recovery.” Alex hugs me to his chest, tucking my head under his chin. “But I’m going to need another treatment tomorrow.”

  “Another?” What treatment?

  “Once a week my dad gives me an immunity booster and vitamin shot.” His grin is so sweet it hurts to see. “It helps me to heal quickly.”

  “That’s why you don’t look like Josh.” I pretend to punch him.

  “Exactly.” He laughs out loud. “Plus, I’m just better looking.”

  “Damn right you are.”

  I curl my fingers in the neckline of his shirt. He sits very still, eyes slipping closed when I brush a kiss on his jaw. A shudder ripples through him when I move my lips to his neck, beneath his chin. Then, I pull his neckline down and kiss the intersection of scars below the hollow of his throat. “God… You’re killing me,” he sighs. “And I like it.”

  I cuddle into him after that, only half watching the movie. I’ve seen it so many times I can recite every line. Somewhere around the time Dracula turns Mina into a vampire, too, things start to get fuzzy, and my eyelids droop.

  “Hey.” Alex jostles me. “I think it’s bedtime for you.”

  “I’m not tired,” I argue, even though I am.

  “Your body heats up when you’re tired, so don’t try to lie.”

  I want to argue, ask him how he knows that. Instead, a yawn comes out.

  “See? I’m feeling pretty whipped, too.”