Best Kind of Broken

16 Levi

Self-loathing doesn’t even begin to cover what I’m feeling as I leave the kitchen.

I want to keep my distance from Pixie, yes. But calling her names? Putting that hurt in her eyes? Is that what I want?

My gut twists, but there’s no going back now.

And why was I so upset anyway? It’s just Daren fucking Ackwood. Am I so far gone that I just go Darth Vader on Pixie’s ass whenever she talks to another guy? She’s not mine. If she’s okay with Daren kissing her, then fine.

I crack my knuckles.

Who am I kidding? Daren’s a prick and I don’t want him to touch her. Period.

But damn, I overdid it in the kitchen. Her eyes were so angry and confused and… sad…

Fuck.

How could I have spoken to her like that? Like she was anything less than incredible? How could I have been so vicious with my words when I know how much verbal assault Pixie endured from her mother?

How could I have treated her just like the woman whose damage I once lived to undo?

I shove my hands in my hair as my heartbeat clogs up my throat. Then I blindly head to the maintenance closet in the west wing and start retrieving all the supplies I’ll need to patch the hole in my bedroom. It’s not on my To Do list, but I need to repair the wall. I need to fix what I did wrong—

Someone smacks me upside the head. “You called Pixie a whore? Seriously?”

I rub the back of my skull and turn to see a pissed-off Ellen.

“How did you—”

“Mable,” Ellen says. She’s livid, and now I hate myself even more.

I sigh in shame. “I didn’t call her a whore, exactly. I told her not to be a whore, which is different.” And oh hell, that was the wrong thing to say.

“You stupid boy.” Ellen smacks me again.

“Ouch.” I’m not sure if I mean the smack or her words.

She leans in. “I know you have shit, Levi. I know the past kills you. But pushing Pixie away isn’t going to ease the pain.”

Her eyes have me trapped. They’re locked and loaded and calling me out with nothing but concern. And for a moment, I see my mother staring back at me. Wanting more for me. Believing in me.

My heart thickens in my throat.

“I don’t want to ease the pain,” I say, completely serious.

Ellen watches me for a moment, hardness and sympathy warring in her eyes. “Yes, you do,” she says. “And so does Pixie.”

I watch her walk away, wishing I could undo the entire last year of my life.

With everything I need from the closet, I head up to my room. The hole in the wall gapes at me once I open the door, and I suddenly want to make it bigger. Smash it all to hell. Maybe break some bones, draw some blood.

I spend the next forty-five minutes patching up the damaged drywall and the rest of the day keeping myself busy with other repairs. Loose hinges, burned-out lightbulbs, busted pipes. Just anything to keep my hands busy and my head silent.

When there’s nothing more to fix, I change my clothes, head outside, and start running the old stone stairs. Scaling steps. Climbing to nowhere. Home sweet home.