Best Kind of Broken

47 Pixie

I’m stunned. Shocked. Dazed. Terrified, even. But not because I was accepted to NYU. I’m surprised because I’m no longer excited to go.

I’ve been trying to transfer schools for the past year, and now here’s my chance and I just… don’t care. I should be jumping up and down and squealing. Or at least smiling in a way that doesn’t have Mable looking at me in concern, but instead I’m just standing here, staring at the red plate of brownies.

“Congratulations,” Levi says.

I meet his eyes, and our strained smiles collide.

“Thanks,” I say.

“New York.” Mable smiles. Hers isn’t strained. “What a wonderful city. I’ve only ever been there once, myself, but it was breathtaking. A great place for an artist.”

“Yeah. NYU has a great art program.” I sweep up some sugar with my hands and clean it off the counter. “One of the best in the country.”

“How exciting.” Mable sounds genuine, but keeps glancing at Levi every few seconds.

“You deserve it,” he says, pressing his lips together.

I nod. Nothing else. I just nod and sweep up more sugar.

He clears his throat and wipes a few brownie crumbs from his face and shirt before moving to the disposal, where he promptly gets lost in work after retrieving a few tools.

I concentrate on cleaning up flour and salt, baking powder and sugar, tossing the remainder of my baking mess into the garbage.

Soon, the counter is spic-and-span and there are no more ingredients to sweep or put away. I wrap up the good brownies and put them in the fridge for tomorrow, wondering why my stomach keeps twisting.

Mable hangs her apron on a hook by the door. “All right, dear. I’m headed home. Are you sure you don’t need any more help?”

“Nope. I’m good. Have a great night, Mable.”

“You too, love.” She leaves through the dining room door as I survey the kitchen. Levi is frowning at the disposal with a wrench in his hand and some leftover brownie still on his shirt, and Mable’s blue apron is gently swinging back and forth from the hook.

Finding a fork, I scrape the remaining prank brownies off the red plate and into the trash. They pile up, a tower of deceitful chocolate in a white sea of discarded baking ingredients.

Like a tidal wave rushing for land, it hits me, and I instantly know why my stomach is twisting like a pretzel.

And the reason has ocean-blue eyes and chocolate brownie crumbs on his sleeve.