I start to follow after her, but Pixie’s voice stops me.
“Leaves, no.”
Leaves. She called me Leaves.
My heart is pounding, my palms are sweating, and my soul is screaming to run after Sandra and hurt her for all the hurt she’s done to Pixie.
But Leaves…
Leaves stops me in my tracks.
I look at Pixie and she shakes her head. “I just want her gone, okay? Just let her go.” She looks exhausted.
I nod once and watch as Pixie takes off her apron, hangs it on the hook, and exits the kitchen. I stand there for a long time, trying to figure out what to do with all the rage inside me. I’m so angry. Angry that Sandra put so many emotional scars on Pixie and angry that I went and put a physical one on her too.
When I finally move from the kitchen, I travel up the east wing stairs only to find Pixie seated at the top, like maybe she was trying to run away from everything but got discouraged and just sat down where she was.
I slowly climb the stairs and stop a few steps from her. “Your mom’s a piece of work.”
She nods. “My mom’s a bitch.”
“Yep.” It’s awkward for a moment, and I’m not sure if I should go to my room or stay where I am. But something about leaving Pixie feels… wrong, so I shove my hands in my pockets and stand still for a moment. “I’ve never seen you stand up to her like that before.”
She sweeps a loose hair back from her face. “Yeah, well. I don’t live with her anymore, so it’s not like I’ll have repercussions for days and days.”
I nod. I look to the side.
She looks at her shoes.
“I’m proud of you.” The words fall out of my mouth.
Pixie looks up and gives me a small smile, which just encourages my mouth to keep moving.
“You were pretty kick-ass back there,” I say.
Her smile grows, and something inside me warms.
“Nineteen years too late, I guess,” she says.
“No,” I say quietly. “Never too late to be brave.”
She rubs her hands over her face, and I have this overwhelming urge to sit down beside her and wrap an arm around her. I used to do things like that all the time. It used to be so natural for me. For us.
She glances at me and wrinkles her brow. “What my mom said, about my scar—”
I start shaking my head, panic and fear racing through my veins. “She was right.”
Pixie looks like I just slapped her. “About it making my body repulsive?”
“What? No! God, no!” I want to kill Sandra all over again. “No. She was right when she said it was my fault. I’m the reason you almost died—”
“No, you’re not.” She looks confused.
“And I’m the reason Charity died.”
“What?” She blinks. “Levi… what? Are you insane? A truck driver named Joe Willis who feel asleep at the wheel is the reason Charity died. The accident wasn’t your fault.” She looks baffled and raises her voice a notch. “And if anyone else is to blame for that night, it’s me. I’m the one who decided we should drive home drunk.”
“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.
35 Pixie
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.
36 Levi
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?”