Chelsea Fine - Best Kind of Broken

“But I messed with fate, Pix. I basically forced the two of you to pull over, and then I drove you straight to death—”

“You were trying to protect us!”

“Yeah?” I’m yelling now. “And how’d that work out? Did I protect Charity? Did I protect YOU?!” My voice echoes up and down the east wing and my eyes start to burn.

It’s so silent I can hear the beating of my heart and the very shallow breath Pixie just took. Her face is stunned.

My chest aches. My chest aches so much.

I head to my room and slam the door behind me.

I feel like a ton of bricks just hit me.

Levi doesn’t just mourn the loss of Charity; he blames himself. The idiot actually blames himself. Just like me.

God, we’re a mess.

I don’t have any words for the emptiness inside me, and my feet feel like cement blocks, holding me in place as I stare at the floor. Turns out Levi has some monsters of his own, and I don’t know how to be his hero.

The dam broke. The dam of tucked-away guilt Pixie and I had so carefully constructed over the past year split down the middle once Charity’s name was mentioned, and now the inn is flooded with denial.

I can’t look Pixie in the eyes. I don’t want to know she’s there or see my pain reflected in her gaze. I don’t want to feel emotionally transparent in her presence or helplessly heavy in her sadness. So for the next few days, I act completely cordial in her company.

Any and all conversations we have are business related and robotic, and my eyes never go beyond the surface when they meet hers.

Stoic, that’s what I am. Because anything else would force me to acknowledge the fact that Pixie feels guilty for Charity just like I do and that she might be broken inside just like I am.

So I hold the lobby door open when Pix and I reach it at the same time, and I say hello when I pass her in the hall, and I do these things with empty eyes and a hollow heart.

I don’t feel a thing. It’s safer that way.

The clicking of high-heeled shoes meets my ears as I spray glass cleaner onto a soft rag. Ellen is soon standing beside me, watching as I climb up the crappy inn ladder to reach a dirty window above me.

“So,” she says in a matter-of-fact way as she holds a coffee mug between her hands. “Things between you and Pixie seem pretty tense. More tense than usual. Could that be because of all the shouting I heard the other night?”

Leave it to Ellen to wait until I’m on a wobbly ladder, with no escape, to strike up an uncomfortable conversation.

“We need to add ‘ladder’ to your New Crap the Inn Desperately Needs list,” I say, keeping my eyes on the window I’m washing. Cleaning isn’t really my job, but Eva is too short to reach these high windows, even on the top step of the ladder—not that I’d let her risk her life on this thing anyway.

Ignoring my attempt at changing the subject, Ellen sternly says, “What was all that yelling about protecting Pixie?”

I stop and look down at her, my body going completely still. “I fucked with fate.”

“What?” She makes a face.

Setting the rag down, I run a hand through my hair and let out a long exhale. “I fucked with fate and I lost Charity.”

She studies me for a long moment. “Have you ever thought that maybe you fucked with fate and saved Pixie?”

Silence.

She wrinkles her brow in a look of heartache. “Maybe Charity and Pixie were both going to die in that car when Charity was driving drunk,” she says. “Have you ever thought that maybe you intervening that night saved Pixie’s life?”

I stare at her, speechless, because no. I hadn’t ever thought of that.

A beat passes, where neither of us speaks. Then Ellen casually takes a sip of coffee, glances at the window, and says, “You missed a spot.”

I didn’t just wear a bikini; I wore a neon-pink statement. And I wore it proudly.

If the good people of Copper Springs wanted to see me, they were going to see the whole damn disaster.

It’s like parting the Red Sea as I walk down the lakeshore. People I’ve known my whole life are there, smiling and saying hi, and every single one of them is staring at my scar and moving out of my way like I’m some kind of leper.

In a way I guess I am. I’m diseased with the reality of Charity’s death. So let them gawk. It’s hideous, I know. But for the first time ever, I’m glad it’s hideous. Because it’s grabbing their attention and forcing them to remember.

“You know I think you’re a badass, right?” Jenna pushes her sunglasses up her nose as we look for a clear spot on the beach.

“I know.” My hot-pink bikini shows off more skin than I’ve ever shown in public before, and it kind of makes me feel powerful.

If I learned anything from Charity, it was to feel beautiful. To walk with confidence and gratefulness for who I am and what I embody. She always tried to undo the damage my mother inflicted by constantly building me up with positive words and compliments. Charity was so deliberate about letting me know how valuable I was to her. How beautiful I was, inside and out. Did I do the same for her? Was I as good a friend to Charity as she was to me?

I straighten my back and move my hair off my shoulders so my chest is bare but for my bikini top. Charity would be proud.

God, I miss her.

She gave me a friendship most people live their entire life without finding.

And then she went and died.

Jenna and I find a clear spot on the shore and lay out our towels. As I’m smoothing mine over the sand, the sight of Daren’s black sports car pulling into the beach parking lot catches my eye. He gets out and is immediately greeted by a slew of half-naked girls who are far too eager to touch him and offer him drinks. He lifts his sunglasses and scans the beach, smiling when his eyes find mine. He gives me a half-wave. I half-wave back.

His smile seems to crack a bit as we lock gazes, but he goes back to his harem before I can be sure.

“Who’s that?” Jenna asks, watching Daren pull his T-shirt over his head before joining a nearby group of wasted beach boys.

“That’s Daren,” I say as I finish flattening my orange towel.

“The guy who kissed you?”

“The very same.”

“Huh.” She stares for a moment longer, no doubt falling into the sticky web of good looks and trouble that Daren can’t help but weave everywhere he goes. “Not bad.”

I snort. “Not good either.”

“Good enough for me.” She grins.

“You’d eat him alive.”

“And I bet he’d be delicious.”

I lift a brow. “Yummier than Jack?”

Her naughty facial expression twists into one of frustration. “Jack is not on the menu of conversation topics today.”

I give her a knowing smile as we both sit down on our towels. “What’s with you two, anyway?”

She sighs. “Confusion, that’s what. Sometimes he’s hilarious and wickedly fun, and I get the feeling he’s into me, you know? But other times he annoys the shit out of me and I just want to slap him, and I get the feeling he wants to slap me back. And not in a hot, kinky way.” She considers a moment. “Well, maybe in a hot, kinky way, but that just makes it more confusing.”

“Oh, Jenna.” I smile. “I like your life. It’s entertaining.”

“Happy to be of service.”

We stretch out and lean back on our elbows, tilting our heads back to soak in the sun.

Jenna’s jade-green bikini is almost as small as mine, showing off the inked canvas of her body. Rose vines stretch across her rib cage and tangle with shooting stars that fall over her shoulder and across her chest. Other designs mark her legs and arms, and her back is a winter landscape masterpiece.

She’s fearless with her tattoos, stamping her body with whatever is truthful for her at the time. There’s something honest about that—about devoting yourself to whatever is honest for you in the moment, even though you know life will change and you’ll change with it.

People walk by and check us out. Some of them stare at my scar; some of them avoid looking at me altogether. I wonder if Matt was afraid to look at me too but forced himself to stomach it because he’s a good guy.

“Handyman Hottie is here.” Jenna looks over her sunglasses.

I follow her gaze and, sure enough, I see Levi walking our way with Zack by his side.

“Shit,” I mutter, rolling over onto my stomach.

Levi and I have been in cold moods all week, ignoring each other at every possible opportunity. Bringing up Charity had been a mistake. Clearly, we couldn’t handle it. And the fact that we both feel responsible for her death only makes things worse. Like maybe we’re both more damaged than we feared.

A slight burning begins behind my eyes, and I blink to push it away.

I blame my mother for a lot of things—my crappy childhood, my inability to enjoy fattening food without feeling disgusting, my irrational fear of lizards—but mostly, I blame my mother for all the unspoken pain in the east wing.