Best Kind of Broken

14 Levi

It’s late and the kitchen lights are dimmed as I lock the back door. Just as I’m turning to head for the east wing, the dining room door swings open and a pissed-off Pixie flies past me, knocking into my shoulder as she huffs to the sink.

“Whoa.” I turn around. “Who pissed you off?”

“Matt,” she says through clenched teeth as she washes her hands. She yanks some vegetables from the fridge, grabs a sharp knife, and starts hacking away at mushrooms.

“Matt?” All my guard dog instincts immediately go on alert. “Why? What did he do?”

I’ll kill him. If he hurt her, I will kill him.

“He told me he loved me!” She thrusts her arms out, the sharp knife in her hand glinting under the kitchen lights.

I lift a brow and wait because, surely, that’s not the reason for the broken expression on her face. But she doesn’t elaborate.

I pause. “So…?”

“So…” She laughs without humor as she goes back to hacking. “Just when I think I’m making progress in my life and might be able to get back to normal, or finally have sex with someone other than drunk Benji, or just move on from this deep, sad place I’m in all the time, Matt goes and tells me he loves me and totally screws everything up!” She starts chopping more aggressively.

Pixie hasn’t had sex with anyone other than Benji? I’m outrageously pleased by this information.

“I mean, who does that?” she continues. “Who declares their love for someone they don’t even know? Does he know about my pet turtle when I was nine? No.” Chop, chop, chop. “Does he know that my mother is evil incarnate? No.” Chop, chop, chop. “Hell, five hours ago he didn’t even know my hair was naturally curly! He knows nothing about me. And yet he wants me to fly away with him to meet his parents because he loves me? No. Just no!” Chop, chop, chop.

Pixie has been with only one guy, one time. Why am I so happy about this?

“And you know what else?” She points the knife at me violently. “I am not Captain Hook. If anything, I’m Tinker Bell.” She returns to her wild dicing. “Tinker Bell!”

Tinker Bell?

Shit. I need to start paying attention.

“He’s a crazy person,” she says. Chop, chop, chop. “So clearly I had no choice but to break up with him.”

I squint at her. “He told you he loved you… so you broke up with him?”

“Yep,” she says, popping the p.

“Why?”

“Because Matt doesn’t love me. So it’s all just bullshit. Him. Me. Everything. Bullshit.”

“How do you know he doesn’t love you?”

“Just because.”

“Because why?”

She throws her arms out again and yells, “Because love isn’t something that needs to be said out loud!” Her face flushes with passion. “It’s something you just know. It’s an unspoken thing. It’s humble and quiet and constant…” She goes back to slaughtering the mushrooms, but lowers her tone a bit. “I mean, you can’t just say you love someone and make it true. That’s not how it works. Real love doesn’t need to be declared or confessed. Real love just… is. You know?”

My throat constricts because I do know. God, I know. I know so much it’s hurting me to look at her.

“So yeah.” She swallows. “Matt doesn’t love me and I don’t love him and now I’m right back to where I started, which is exactly nowhere and I’m just so”—chop—“freaking”—chop—“sick”—chop—“of being nowhere. And nobody gets it. Nobody!”

I watch her for a moment, wishing I could take away the pain in those big green eyes of hers as they viciously hack up the remains of the mushrooms. She looks the way I feel inside most days. Hurt. Stuck. Desperate.

“I get it,” I say quietly.

She stops chopping and looks up.

I press my lips together. “I know all about nowhere.”

Our eyes meet beneath the dimmed lights, colliding in a tangle of shared emotions too raw to touch. How did we get so broken?

We might be legal adults now, but lately it feels like we’re just as helpless as children. Just as lost and scared.

If my parents were here, they’d know what to do. How to heal Pixie. How to fix me. They always knew what to do. But since they didn’t stick around for the fallout, we’re navigating this thing on our own. And failing miserably.

Pixie stares at me for a long moment.

“I know you do.” Her voice is barely a whisper, drifting through the air and gliding over my skin. She looks me over with longing and dammit if that’s not everything I want in the world.

My eyes drop to her mouth, her throat, her hands. Every instinct I have is screaming to touch her. To cross the space between us and wrap my arms protectively around her small frame. To shield her from all the bad things, the sorrowful things. All the things I’m made of.

But that can’t happen. We can’t happen.

Neither of us moves as reality seeps in, slow and steady, and the moment evaporates into the dim kitchen. It’s sad in the room, like there’s something very much alive but fatally ill breathing in between Pixie’s broken heart and mine. And we don’t know how to fix it.

We need more distance between us. Distance is painless. Distance is safe.

She clears her throat and washes her hands. I double-check the door to make sure it’s locked. And we go our separate ways.