If I Break #4 Shattered Pieces

by Portia Moore

  I nod, but I know I won’t.

  “I’m serious,” she says.

  “What if we’re not meant to be?” My voice sounds cold, and she looks shocked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What if we’re just not meant to be? He’s a great man. He’s so loving and kind, and he deserves a child… his child. I can’t give him that.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.

  Kelsey lets out a long breath. “Don’t do this. Don’t blame yourself. Don’t make this more than what it is. If he had to choose, and you don’t know if he does, but if he had to choose, he’d choose you. You know that.”

  “But he shouldn’t have to,” I say, desperately trying to get her to understand.

  She only glares at me stubbornly. “How much does Bryce like flying?”

  A small smile finds its way to my face. Flying is one of his favorite things in the world, and the day he received his pilot’s license was one of the happiest days of his life.

  “I bet he’d give it up for you,” she says pointedly, and I frown.

  “And how selfish would that be of me?” I try to ignore the disheartened look on her face.

  Silence passes between us before she folds her hands and peers up at me through her thick dark lashes. “You may not like what I’m going to say.”

  I suspect I know what’s coming, so I try to prepare myself.

  “You should pray about this,” she says.

  I cross my arms and clench my jaw, trying to keep myself from telling her what I think of that suggestion. I’m grateful when I see Nicole bounding back to our table with an extra pep in her step. The conversation is quickly changed, and I’m grateful.

  But I can’t shake her words. I should pray? That’s so like Kelsey, believing prayers are magical letters and there’s a big genie in the sky. If there is one, obviously the prayers I said, though there weren’t many, were routed to someone else.

  Kelsey can be so empathetic, which makes me wonder how she can be so oblivious to how much it stings when she brings up religion. I know she means well. All she’s ever known is her faith, and if I didn’t think she meant well, I would have told her where she could go shove her prayers. And why shouldn’t she have faith? She came from a normal close-to-perfect two-parent home in the cushy suburbs with a cute little cocker spaniel. If there is a God, he’s been pretty good to her.

  My parents were never married and were barely friends, more like strangers who liked each other a whole lot during a drunken tryst that had unexpected lifelong consequences. Even though they were awesome separately, the few times they had to share spaces—like birthdays, holidays when we tried to blend our families—were terrible. My mother runs cool, is always serious, can be admittedly condescending, and clashed against my dad’s free-thinking, optimistic, sort of goofballish personality. I always wondered how many drinks had to be consumed to get them in bed together.

  We had a nuclear family for all of four years before they called it quits and my dad moved to California. My mom said it fit him but hoped he didn’t give himself a concussion with his head being so high in the sky. By the time I was six, right as I started to forget what he looked like, he came back, saying he had started a successful landscaping business and married my stepmother, Annette. That’s when the real fights started. He filed for custody and was awarded joint custody since I had started school and my mom was taking care of me just fine. I stayed with her during the year, and he got me for the summers and every other holiday.

  I can’t say it was a terrible childhood, except whenever I was with my dad, I felt guilty about leaving my mom behind in cold Chicago. My dad had his new wife and new house, which was five times the size of ours in Illinois, right near the ocean. I always promised myself that I’d only have a child with someone I’d love forever so my child never had to be in a situation like I was, having to choose between two people, two foundations that were drastically different…

  I push those thoughts out of my head and finish lunch with the girls, ignoring Kelsey’s concerned glances. I make sure to down two more Long Islands so she won’t press me on the car ride back home. Nicole is so excited about me being her drinking partner that she orders us shots, and the rest of the lunch is sort of a blur.

  I wave to Kelsey and Nicole as I make it to my front door. Nicole’s sort of slumped over with a big smile from her drinks. Kelsey is sober as a nun, and she calls out that she’s going to call me later. Do nuns drink? I’ll have to research that later…

  I walk up to my building, which Bryce and I have called home for three years. It’s one of the older luxury buildings in the area. They’ve been putting up so many new ones, but the price we pay for almost fourteen hundred square feet is unbeatable. Our plan was to buy a house in the suburbs when we started our family.

  That thought makes me sort of nauseated. I head to the elevator but decide to take the stairs instead. I haven’t been to the gym in weeks though, so by the third flight, I regret my decision. My mouth is dry, and my thighs are stinging.

  “This was a dumb idea,” I mutter and plant my butt on a stair, making up my mind to head to the elevator as soon as I catch my breath.

  “You’re not giving up that easily, are you?”

  The voice makes the hairs on my neck stand up. It’s smooth and warm, like hot chocolate going down on a cold day. I can’t see his face because a box—two to be exact—hides it, but I can tell from his toned abs peeking through his shirt and his arms, which have muscle swirling around them, that even if the face is a two, this man could be a ten. I feel my cheeks flush from the thought.

  “Um, do you need a hand?” I ask, finding my voice doesn’t sound as wavy as I thought it would.

  “That would make my day actually,” he says, shifting the boxes in his grip.

  I stand and wipe my palms on my legs, making my way over to him.

  “They’re not heavy. This one’s just blocking my vision,” he explains, sort of squatting so I don’t have much of an issue reaching the top box.

  I’m used to standing on tiptoe to get things done though. Life as a short girl has made me resourceful. Still, his gesture makes it easier for me to grab the box.

  “You’re a godsend,” he tells me with a chuckle.

  I start to tell him that maybe it was divine intervention since I’m one of the laziest people ever, or maybe it was a nudge from down under since I don’t know what the hell I was thinking taking the stairs, but I’m greeted by a spectacular pair of blue eyes hidden behind long dark lashes. They’re magnetic, perfect, as is everything else on his face. A perfect nose sits above two plump lips curved into a smile with the most adorable dimples I’ve ever seen. He looks young but has the body of a man. I grip the box to my chest, almost feeling lightheaded. No more drinking with Nic.

  “I’m Carter,” he says, with a smile that wraps around my heart and squeezes.

  It’s the sort of feeling I got in high school when the boy I had a crush on smiled my way. I feel the same grin on my face from then and scold myself. Goofy drunk lonely girl.

  “Chassidy,” I tell him, my voice lopsided and high. I wonder what brand of toothpaste has the wattage to make his smile so blindingly white. I follow him, telling myself not to stare at his butt. “So which floor are we heading to, Carter?”

  “Only three more levels,” he says, sounding nowhere near as out of breath as I am. I definitely need to visit the gym again soon.

  “You’re on seven?” I ask, surprised.

  “That’s the one.”

  Geez, he looks almost as good from behind. I roll my eyes at myself at how childish I’m acting, but it’s a good distraction. I climb the steps that seemed impossible earlier, but now they go fairly quickly. When we reach the seventh level, he shifts the box into one hand, pulls the door open, and waits for me to go past him.

  “Thank you,” I say as I step through and he follows.

  “We’re making a left. 704,” he says.

  “You’re kidd
ing,” I say with a laugh.

  “Well, I was tempted to say I was on twenty, but I thought that’d be rude,” he jokes as we reach his door.

  “That would have been really mean,” I retort, watching him pull the keys out of his back pocket.

  “I really appreciate you saving me,” he says, opening the door.

  I shrug. “You saved me. I’d probably still be on the steps if you hadn’t come along.”

  When he walks through the door to his apartment, I peek in, standing at the threshold with his box in my hands still.

  “You can set that on the counter,” he says, holding the door open with his foot.

  I press my lips together and glance behind me.

  “Or I can just grab it from you,” he says as he sets his box down.

  “Oh no, it’s fine, sorry, brain freeze.” I giggle like an idiot before making my way in, ignoring the queasy feeling I get when I do.

  “I promise I’m not a serial killer,” he says.

  “Good to know,” I laugh.

  I set the box on the island and quickly scan the apartment. It’s eerily identical to mine, down to the large island I fell in love with three years ago. It has the same dark wood floors and high ceilings I fell in love with, the same shiny stainless steel appliances. It’s empty aside from the boxes scattered about, but the feel is different here. There’s no clutter, and the light shining in from the floor-to-ceiling windows makes it feel much bigger.

  “You want a water?” he asks.

  He’s even more stunning in natural light. The blue eyes that I thought were gorgeous before are more magnificent when the sun graces him, his smile is even more electric, and I find myself holding my breath to make sure I’m awake and not dreaming.

  “I would, thank you,” I say, gripping the strap of my purse.

  I’m nervous. I haven’t been nervous around a man in a long time. He doesn’t seem to be though, striding with ease to the fridge. I peek around him and see water bottles, Gatorades, and a box of takeout food. He walks across the apartment and tosses the water bottle to me.

  “You don’t need one?” I ask. I’m sure his box was heavier than mine, and at one point, he was carrying both.

  “Nah, I’m good.” With an easy smile, he hops on the island, his eyes landing on the bottle in my hand.

  Right, he’s waiting on me to drink. I smile tightly, trying to loosen up. I take a small swig, then a longer one, resisting the urge to gulp it all down.

  “What floor do you live on?” he asks once I’m done.

  “It’s actually a coincidence… I’m right next door.” Unable to resist, I gulp down the water.

  “No such thing as coincidences.” His tone is serious, but his smile… oh gosh, his smile is contagious and makes me, a twenty-six-year-old woman, smile like an idiot at a stranger.

  Well he’s not a stranger technically. He’s Carter, my next-door neighbor. My extremely attractive next-door neighbor.

  “So what do you call this, fate?” I tease.

  His eyes narrow on mine as if he’s studying me, and I look away.

  “I don’t believe in that either,” he says with a casual smirk.

  I resist the urge to ask him what he does believe in. That seems like a mildly flirtatious question, and I don’t flirt anymore, especially with someone as handsome as he is. Especially someone as handsome as he is who lives next door to me. I would be furious if I caught Bryce doing it and I’m a Libra, so I’m sort of born to be fair.

  “Well, it was nice meeting you, Carter. Thanks for the water,” I tell him, heading to the door.

  “Thanks for the help,” he says, following me

  I ignore the heat that creeps up my spine as he nears me. No more Long Islands for me.

  “Maybe I can get you a coffee sometime… as a thanks for helping me,” he says casually, as if he’s being friendly. But with a smile, face, and body like his, it’d hurt a girl’s pride, even a married girl like me, if he was just being friendly.

  I scan his hand and notice he isn’t wearing a ring, but what does that mean? Plenty of married men go without a ring. Crap, why am I worried about whether or not he’s married when I’m for sure married?

  “Married.” It comes out like word vomit, not cool and casual as I would have liked.

  Both his eyebrows lift, and he laughs. It’s a great laugh, but how could he not have a great laugh when he has perfect lips and teeth.

  “Okay, you’re free to bring your husband along.” He shrugs with a small grin.

  My whole face begins to burn up. So he’s not flirting with me, and I’m not sure if I feel more relieved or disappointed. A little bit of both.

  “He’s not much of a coffee drinker,” I say, stepping across the threshold. It seems darker on this side, and it’s cooler. The air conditioner is always blasting in the hallway.

  “Well, until we meet again,” he says, leaning in his doorway with a casual smile that seems familiar and warm. That should feel unsettling, but it doesn’t.

  I turn to open my door and realize I haven’t unlocked it. I laugh at myself and glance back to see that he’s still watching me with an amused grin.

  “Keys would help,” I joke, and his smile becomes even better. How is that possible?

  “Or telekinesis.”

  “Or that,” I snort. Did I really just snort?

  When my door opens, I’m almost sad.

  “See you around,” I say once I’m inside.

  I wait for him to close his door first, but I secretly hope he doesn’t. I realize I’m being an idiot, so I give him a small wave and ignore that it’s the first time in days I’ve genuinely smiled at a man including my husband.

  He Lived Next Door Bonus - Chapter 2

  Chassidy

  I stare at the blinking cursor on a blank page that screams that I’m a failure, that the books I wrote before were flukes, that eventually all my readers will know I’m a fraud, a one-hit wonder who writes about things I haven’t felt in a long time that seem so far out of reach.

  I push my chair away from the desk and flip on my television. I should just start with the first sentence, but instead I grab a carton of butter pecan ice cream and park myself in front of the latest season of Real Housewives.

  “Maybe I do need a life coach,” I mutter.

  I watch my favorite character get yelled at by the group of equally rich women and turn it off before the episode is over. I’ll wait until it’s on demand and I can fast forward through the parts I don’t like. I lie back, pulling the throw over me. It’s only seven and I usually don’t sleep until ten, but it’s where I find relief. I close my eyes and try to think of good things, happy things.

  At first my dreams are happy and make me smile, but when I wake, my heart is pounding and I’m sweating.

  I saw her.

  Anna and Bryce together. He was holding her and looking at me with the most fantastic smile, the smile of the happiest man in the world. Then she disappeared and the pink blanket he was holding her in became stained with blood. The despair in his eyes, the wail in his throat haunts me. I shoot off the couch toward the kitchen sink and splash my face with water.

  I haven’t seen him since I lost her.

  It was too early to know if it was a boy or a girl, but I felt in my heart she was a girl.

  She sneaked in on me. We weren’t trying. Logan took so much out of us, seeing his face and holding his tiny body, his hand curled around my finger as if he were alive… I thought I’d never recover from losing him. It took months until I felt like me again, until we felt like us.

  It was so long before we didn’t feel guilty when we smiled or laughed.

  I don’t want to say that we moved on because it makes him seem like we dropped him off and left him behind, but we managed to live again. Bryce was there for me, but I almost pulled him into my darkness instead of him pulling me out. I saw the man I loved with bright eyes, a kind spirit, and unbreakable resilience slipping beneath the current with me.
But he managed to keep me from going under and pulled us both out.

  I lost her while he was gone. For ten weeks she was mine, a little secret I couldn’t wait to share with him, but I was cautious. Or was I selfish? Did I have some sort of sixth sense that she wouldn’t be alive for long? I knew her for five weeks. Five weeks of joy and hope died within me, and the only evidence of her was left on sheets that I had to strip and throw out so he wouldn’t see.

  I go for the bottle of vodka Bryce usually partakes in. At least if I have another bad dream, I’ll be too drunk to remember it when I wake up. I begin to open the bottle as someone knocks at the door. I grab my cell phone to see if anyone called or texted me about coming over. When I don’t see any missed messages, I hesitantly make my way to the door. For a moment, my heart leaps, thinking it’s Bryce home early and wanting to surprise me, before the feeling of dread returns. Don’t get too excited in case you’re disappointed. It’s always been my mantra.

  “Who is it?” I ignore the creeping anticipation climbing up my chest.

  “Carter. From next door.”

  My heart skips a beat, and I open the door. This time his brown curls are partially covered with a beanie, and I wonder how it’s possible that he’s cuter than he was yesterday.

  “Hey, neighbor,” he says with an enthusiasm you’d think he was too cool for.

  “Hi,” I say, my surprise not hidden in my face or tone.

  “I’m not bothering you, am I?” he asks almost sheepishly.

  I give a small shrug, commanding my eyes not to lock on his chest. It’s broad and sculpted enough that I can see each line through his shirt. He’s got to be a personal trainer or something… but he seems too laid-back for that. I worked with a trainer for a few weeks after I after Logan, and he was like a legit drill sergeant.

  “Um not really. Well I was sort of working, then I got sidetracked by reality TV crack,” I joke, running my hand through my hair nervously. I start to tell him I had a nightmare, but I keep that to myself. I wonder why it would have come out so easily.