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.
15 Pixie
Two days later, I’m still not heartbroken.
I’ve never broken up with anyone before so maybe I don’t really understand the concept, but I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be feeling sad or lonely by now.
Nope.
All I’ve felt since my post-bowling meltdown in front of Levi—did I really blab to him how I hadn’t slept with anyone since Benji? Ugh—is frustrated. And of course supremely embarrassed.
God, I can’t believe I just lost my shit like that the other night. For a moment I forgot things had changed between us, and I just unloaded on Levi like I used to. He’s done a good job of steering clear of me ever since and it’s probably for the best. Who knows what I might blab out next time. My throat-biting desires? My unhealthy obsession with his forearm muscles? I need a muzzle.
This is what I’m thinking about as I reach the bottom of the east wing stairs. My face must be twisted into a look of utter shame and repulsion because Daren stops me on my way to the kitchen and says, “Hey, everything okay?”
I know Levi’s not crazy about him, but Daren’s not a bad guy. He’s just a typical guy. He’s one of those broken bad boys whom every girl wants to fix: guarded, cocky, desperate for approval but emotionally unavailable. Typical.
And he’s way too attractive for his own good. The guy’s not just hot. He’s freaking beautiful. And he knows it.
But he hasn’t had it easy, which is probably why Ellen gave him a job here and why I tend to give him a break. Even when he implores me with those pretty brown eyes of his—like he’s doing right now.
Seriously. Too attractive for his own good.
“I’m fine,” I say and move past him.
He follows after me, and it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. This is just how it is with Daren. He’s always checking on me during work. I know he means well, but gah. Sometimes I wish my aunt wasn’t such a softie when it came to hiring cute boys with damaged pasts.
I touch a hand to my chest.
Sometimes.
“Hi, Daren.” Mable looks up from flipping pancakes as we enter the kitchen and smiles at him, but it’s different from when she smiles at Levi.
“Hi, Mable.” He turns to me. “So the Fourth of July Bash is coming up.”
I put my apron on. “So?”
“So are you going?”
“No.”
“Come on. It’s tradition.” He flashes his smile, and I’m reminded why every girl in high school put out for him. Every girl but me, of course. That smile is dangerous. “Everyone will be there and everyone misses you.”
By everyone, he means all the random kids we grew up with. And by people missing me, he means people are curious to see if I’ve stopped being a hermit yet. As far as my hometown is concerned, I’ve been keeping to myself like a shut-in lately. My friends in Copper Springs were cool about my social absence for a few months, but then their patience ran out and most of them stopped calling and inviting me to things. Not Daren, though.
“It’ll be fun,” he says. “You can bring your boyfriend. What’s his name again?”
“Matt.”
“Bring Matt.”
“We broke up.”
“Oh.” He rubs a hand over his dark brown hair. “Okay, then bring a friend. Or, better yet, come with me.” He’s grinning again.
I shake my head. “I’m not feeling very festival-ish this year.”
“Sarah,” he says seriously, dropping his smile as he puts his hand on my cheek. “You can’t be sad forever.”
Screw you. Yes, I can.
I gently pull back from his hand. “It hasn’t been forever. It’s been less than a year.”
“I know,” he says in a quieter tone. “But this might be good for you, seeing people, seeing friends.” His eyes scan mine. “Just think about it.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, mostly to get him off my back. I don’t need to think about it—I don’t want to think about it.
“Excellent.” His eyes flick to something behind me. “We’ll talk more later, okay?” He moves past me, but not before giving me a swift kiss on the lips.
What the…?
I turn around to bitch him out—because I’m not a kissing booth—but my words catch in my throat when I see Levi at the back door, glaring at us with a dark look that’s probably supposed to say I don’t give a damn but comes across more like I will shred Daren with my bare hands.
Daren gives me a covert wink as he heads for the dining room door, and I make a mental note to scold him later.
I act casual until Daren is gone, smoothing down my apron and tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear; then I look at Levi and wait for the storm.
He stares at me.
I stare at him.
Mable stares at pancakes.
Well, hell. Storms, I know how to handle. But this—this heavy silence bullshit—I don’t know what to do with this.