Broken (13 page)

“She's great,” Olivia chirps. “Super cute. Very sweet.”

“Very,” I say, my tone thoughtful. “Well, good night.”

I turn back toward the fire to hide my smile at her disgruntled huff.

I kissed Paul.
I kissed Paul, I kissed Paul, I kissed Paul.

It wasn't the first time, of course. But this time was different. The first two times, he'd initiated with the intent to drive me away.

But this time it was softer. Hotter. And infinitely more dangerous to both of us.

See, the worst part isn't even that I kissed the guy I'm supposed to be caring for. The worst part is that I want to kiss Paul again. And again…

I'm lying in bed, trying to convince myself that the reason I let the kiss happen was to undo some of the damage done by that jackass in the bar. I wanted to show him that he's not a monster. That he's not a
thing
to be laughed at. I wanted him to know that he is desirable, even with scars.

But I'm lying to myself.

I wasn't thinking about
any
of that when we were standing toe-to-toe in front of that fireplace. I wasn't thinking about his issues, or my issues, or anything other than the fact that I wanted him.

I
still
want him.

I put my hand over my eyes and groan as the mother of all understatements rolls through my head.
This is not ideal.

I don't know when I finally fall asleep, but when my alarm goes off at five, the early wake-up call is even more brutal than usual. I swipe at the alarm, forcing myself to swing my legs over the side of the bed before I can fall back asleep. My eyes have that gritty lack-of-sleep feeling, but I barely notice, because now I can't stop thinking about the fact that Paul's been sleeping just down the hall, wearing nothing but boxers, and the thought makes me decidedly
not
sleepy.

Switching on the lamp, I move toward the dresser drawer that holds my workout gear. Suddenly a box by the door catches my eye.

A shoe box.

There's only one other person in the house, which means there's only one person who could have slipped the box inside the door. I picture Paul slipping into my bedroom, all muscled abs and strong arms.

Get it together.

I pick it up the box. A quick shake confirms it: definitely shoes. But not oh-so-sexy Louboutins. These are running shoes. Plain, ugly white sneakers.

A sticky note sits on top of them. On it, written in messy, guyish scrawl, is:
Since you refuse to actually be fitted by the experts, I did my best to find shoes for your gait. Sorry I couldn't find any pink ones.

Is it ridiculous that I feel all mushy inside because a guy bought me the world's ugliest shoes? It is. I know it is.

But that doesn't do anything to get rid of the goofy grin on my face.

A glance at the clock tells me I'll be late for our run. He won't be surprised—I'm
always
late. But I dress in a hurry anyway. Not
all
of my workout stuff is pink, but I go out of my way to ensure that every item I don today is, from the sports bra to the pants and right down to the socks.

I put on the shoes, which are exactly my size. The boy must have done some creeping.

The new shoes seem to fit pretty much the same as my cute pink ones, but maybe I'll feel a difference after a couple of miles in them. Paul is always squawking about the importance of injury prevention, and supposedly the right shoes will keep me from shin splits, stress fractures, and “all sorts of other bullshit.”

As expected, Paul's waiting, his back to me as he stares out at the predawn darkness toward the water. He's wearing a long-sleeved navy shirt and matching workout pants. He looks like a fit twentysomething ex-Marine who should take off at a run any second.

And then there's a cane. A cane I'm still not entirely sure he needs. Still, one thing is certain: This is not a guy who's about to start running.

“Hey,” I say softly.

I'm braced for him to be at his worst. After his stupid, clichéd “What'd you think of Kali?” move last night, I'm fully prepared for him to do whatever he can to push me away.

He turns. He's not smiling—
shocker
—but his eyes are warm. And they grow warmer when they drift down my body, lingering on the right spots before settling on my feet.

“How are they?” he asks, jerking his chin in the direction of the new shoes.

Okay, then—guess we're not going to talk about the kiss.
But at least he's not being a dick, which is more than I expected given the fact that the man's emotional armor is
thick
.

“They're hideous, exactly as you planned.”

“They'll keep your feet from rolling in. You'll thank me when you're older.”

I choke out a little laugh. “Gosh, that's romantic.”

His face goes blank, and I realize my mistake immediately. He can exercise with his caregiver, read with his caregiver, even flirt with and kiss the caregiver…but there's no room for romance. Not with us.

And although I didn't mean anything by it, words like
romance
are lethal to a guy like Paul.

To a girl like me too
.
I once had all the romance in the world with Ethan, and I managed to screw it all up. Maybe some people just aren't meant for relationships.

Paul's expression goes from wary to bemused. “Okay then.”

“What?”

He gives a little smile, and my heart twists when I see a flash of sadness. “I was about to put up all sorts of warning signs about how I'm not looking for a girlfriend,” he says ruefully. “But judging from the look of disgust on your face, I don't have to.”

“No!” I burst out. God, he thinks my disgust is directed at
him
? I ache to tell him that whatever issues he has, he's a good deal less toxic on the inside than I am. But I lack the guts. “I just—do you
really
want to talk about this?” I ask, throwing my hands up in the air.

He studies me for a second before glancing down at where his hand rests on the cane. “I don't.”

I force a smile. “So…is there any trick I should know about these shoes? Do I need to mutter a secret code, or do they just work their magic by themselves?”

Paul rolls his eyes and uses his cane to gesture in the direction we usually start our run. “Go forth and trot. Try not to trip, waddle, or otherwise embarrass my tutelage.”

“Tutelage? Is that what you call it?” I ask. “Because it feels a lot more like sanctimonious lecturing.” Stalling, I start to stretch.

The tip of his cane gently taps my knee. “The latest word on the running circuit is that pre-run stretching doesn't help prevent injury.”

I drop my foot back to the ground. “But magic shoes do?”

His lips twist in what's almost a smile. “They do.”

“I hope nobody sees me,” I mutter good-naturedly. “Although on the plus side, I hope these shoes last me a long time, because they'll fit in
great
at the nursing home.”

“Bet you'll drive the old guys crazy.”

Do I drive
you
crazy?
I want to ask. What I actually say is, “Okay, let's do this.” I'm not sure if I'm talking about the run or something infinitely more treacherous.

He nods once.

I make it about five steps before a forbidden thought crosses my mind. When I turn back, I find him watching me, and the longing look on his face prompts me to ask the bold question.

“Have you tried running? Even a couple of steps? You know…
since
?”

Pain rolls over his face before all expression shuts down completely. “
Run,
Olivia? I can't even walk without assistance.”

I cock my head a little to the side. “Can't you?”

With that, I turn on the heels of my ugly new shoes and take off at a trot. I try to concentrate on the breathing techniques Paul's always yammering about, but the last thing I care about at the moment is breathing from my diaphragm. I'm too lost in thought about the gorgeous disaster that is Paul.

I lose track of how long I run, but I slow down when I start to see unfamiliar sights. I've come farther than I usually do. As expected, Paul's nowhere to be seen when I turn around, but unlike every other day, I don't see him on my return run either. I pushed him too far with my question about running, and he retreated.

I head into the house, determined not to be disappointed. What did I expect, that all it would take was just a late-night kiss and the mere
suggestion
that he try running, and all of a sudden he'd be striding along beside me in all of his prewar glory?

My guilt isn't exactly assuaged by the belated realization that Lindy is still in Portland and that I'm supposed to be on kitchen duty. Not only am I reminding the guy of all the things he can't do, but now I'm starving him as well. Granted, the guy can spread cream cheese on a bagel by himself, but I'm getting
paid
to do it—something I'd do well to start remembering.

I hurriedly shower, throwing on yoga pants and a fuzzy blue sweater and pulling my wet hair into a messy knot at the top before dashing off to the kitchen.

I've never been much of a breakfast eater, and usually I just help myself to an English muffin or cereal, but this morning my stomach is rumbling for something more substantial. Probably because my “dinner” last night was a jumbo glass of white wine, followed by a few sips of Scotch.

I scramble up enough eggs for two, throw in some cheddar cheese and mushrooms, and add two glasses of orange juice to the tray. I know Paul has a coffeepot in the library, but I'm betting that he keeps only one mug in there, so I place a mug for myself on the tray as well. As an afterthought I slice up some berries and put those in a pretty crystal bowl.

Paul and I eat dinner together most nights—mostly because I leave him no choice—but usually I eat breakfast in the kitchen with Lindy while we chat about the
Today
show, or whatever. Come to think of it, I've been here about a month, and this is the first time Paul and I will eat breakfast together.

There's something surprisingly intimate about sharing breakfast with a guy. Maybe because of the whole morning-after connection. Or maybe it's just that it's
Paul
, and I'm remembering last night's kiss a little too clearly as I carefully carry the tray in the direction of the office.

My footsteps slow when I hear an unfamiliar noise.
Voices,
plural.

One is definitely Paul's, but the other is unfamiliar. I pause outside the door. The other voice is decidedly male, which is a good thing. Despite the fact that I don't think there's anything remotely flirtatious between Kali and Paul, I have a brief vision of Kali in all of her freckled cuteness sitting in
my
chair in front of the fire.

But no, it's definitely a man's voice.

My hands are full, so I can't knock. Instead I clear my throat loudly as I use my hip to bump open the library door the rest of the way. My eyes immediately make out the two figures standing tensely in front of the desk.

Shit. Oh,
shit.
The man standing toe-to-toe with Paul, face contorted in anger, is none other than Harry Langdon.

The prodigal father has returned.

“I still don't understand what the hell you were thinking, pulling a stunt like that.” My dad is pissed.

“It wasn't a stunt. It was going to get a drink at a bar.
A
drink, I might add.”

Dad pulls a hand over his face as he stares at me. “It's not the drink part that bothers me, it's the
bar
part. Since when after getting back from Afghanistan have you willingly put yourself in front of people?”

Since Olivia.

I don't say it, of course. I'm confused enough about my feelings around that girl. The last thing I need is to have my dad get wise to the fact that the reason that she's stayed around longer than any other caregiver has nothing to do with his stupid ultimatum and everything to do with the fact that I don't want to let her go.

Not yet.

“What's the problem?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, hating that he makes me feel defensive. “You've been badgering me to be normal for years. Now when I actually try, you act like I've tarnished the family honor.”

Deny it,
I silently plead.
Deny the fact that you're here because one of your friends saw my hideousness at the bar and called you to complain about it.

“Rick called me last night,” Dad says, confirming my worst suspicions. “Said you got in a fight.”

“He's wrong.”

“Right,” he snorts. “So your nose has always looked like that?”

“Look, some frat boys were giving Olivia shit. They were drunk. I stepped in, and one of them landed a punch.”

“Of course one of them landed a punch!” Dad explodes. “You're not exactly in fighting shape, Paul!”

I take a half step closer, getting in his face. “You sure about that?”

His face wrinkles in confusion and surprise, and I realize it's the first time I've ever tried to paint myself as anything other than a victim. My father takes a step back, and I'm both ashamed and gratified—ashamed that he thinks I'd actually go after him, gratified that he recognizes that I'm not some frail invalid.

“The girl's okay?” His voice is quieter. Calmer.

“Yeah, she's fine,” I mutter, running a hand over my hair agitatedly as I turn back toward the desk. “She probably didn't even need my help.”

“Yes, I did.”

Dad and I both turn to see Olivia watching us from just inside the door. Both of us glance at the tray in her hands, and I inwardly groan. Her hair is wet and her clothes casual. There are two plates, two glasses of juice, and God…is that a bowl of fruit? I hate fruit. This is not at all what it looks like when a proper employee brings a balanced meal to her charge. This is a cozy breakfast-for-two scene.

Shit.

“Ms. Middleton,” my father says, giving her his best business smile. “Nice to finally meet you in person.”

“Mr. Langdon,” she says quietly.

Dad moves toward her, already reaching out for the tray. “Lindy told me you were helping with the kitchen duties this weekend. Thanks, we really appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“Although,” my dad says, looking down at the tray, “I hate doing this to you, but my doctor has been on my case lately about cholesterol. Any chance I could talk you into making one of these plates egg whites only?”

Fucking shit.
He wants Olivia to cook for him?

I see the dismay war with relief on Olivia's face at the misunderstanding. “Oh! I'm sorry. Yes, definitely,” she says. “Cheese okay?”

“Extra,” my dad says with a wink.

A wink? A fucking
wink
? I push my fingers into my eyes.
Christ
. My father is flirting with my…

She's your caregiver,
my brain screams at me.
Your father hired her to be nice to you because he thinks you're going to slit your wrists, or punch a baby, or drown yourself.

Olivia backs out of the room without looking at me.

Damn it.
It's been a while since I've been involved with a girl, but I know that look. She's doing that weird girly thing where they go into shutdown mode so they can overanalyze everything.

“She's even prettier than she was in her picture,” my dad says, mostly to himself.

“So you knew what she looked like when you hired her?” I ask, curiosity getting the best of me.

“Knew she looked like what?” Dad asks innocently.

I give him a dark look, and I swear he hides a smile. At least I know now that it's no coincidence that Olivia isn't like the rest of the graying, frumpy caretakers in the past. My father wanted to remind me that I'm a hot-blooded male.

Well played, Daddy dearest.

“What is it that you want?” I demand. “Am I supposed to stay here as a recluse so I don't embarrass you, or am I supposed to reenter the world and pretend I don't look like a freak? You'll have to forgive me for not knowing how to read your mixed signals.”

My father sighs and goes to the window. “I'm not embarrassed by you, Paul. I just don't want
you
to be embarrassed. Going toe-to-toe with a bunch of healthy, able-bodied kids isn't going to do much for your recovery.”

Able-bodied.
Something I'm not.

Abruptly Olivia's gentle taunt from this morning comes to mind.
Have you ever tried running? Even a few steps?
She expects things from me. Better things than my father expects. Or even Lindy or Mick. Olivia certainly demands more from me than I demand of myself. I don't know if it's because she's only known me for a month and as a result is completely clueless as to what I'm capable of, or if her fresh perspective means she sees potential the rest of us don't. And if it's the latter, what happens when I disappoint her?

“So this is why you came all the way up here?” I ask my father. “To tell me not to embarrass myself with my ugly face in front of some adolescent morons?”

“I came up to see if you were okay.”

I pull my cellphone out of my pocket and wave it at him. “Phones are good for that. Also, isn't that what you hired Olivia for? To tend to my boo-boos and feed me soup and wipe my ass?”

“I hired Olivia to bring you back to the world of the living,” he snaps. “But I can see that she's done nothing to improve your disposition.”

“It'll take more than nice tits and a great ass to achieve that.”

“Don't be crass.”

“Sure. I know how to fire every gun on the planet, I've watched people blow up in front of my face, and you've all but told me that you just hired a girl with the sole purpose of seeing if your son could still get a boner. But by all means, let's not be crass. Shall I get us some motherfucking tea?”

“I never said that's why I hired Olivia.” But Dad's face looks guilty.

“Well, it's sure as hell not because of her skill set. You might as well have bought me a puppy or a hooker, for all the use she's been.”

There's a long beat of silence, and I realize my dad's eyes aren't on me.

My stomach drops even before I see the regretful twist of my father's mouth. This is like one of those wretched movie scenes come to life. You know, the one where the dickhead guy says something cruel about the girl who's standing behind him?

My chin dips down and rests on my chest in defeat. I can't turn around. I can't make myself look at her face. But the little hurt noise she makes tears at me anyway.

“I made your eggs, Mr. Langdon.” Her voice wavers just the tiniest bit. “I'll just leave them here on the desk.”

She moves toward us, and she and I are standing shoulder to shoulder as she sets down the tray, although neither of us looks at the other. I keep my eyes locked on my cane, while she looks only at my father.

“Will there be anything else?” she asks, her voice steadier.

“No, we're good,” Dad says quietly. “Why don't you take the rest of the day off, Olivia? I'll take care of Paul.”

It's on the tip of my tongue to say that I don't need anyone to take care of me. But I want Olivia to tell him that. I want her to tell him that she's here with me because she wants to be, not because he's paying her. I want her to tell him the truth about the breakfast, and last night.

Of course, she says nothing. And can I really be surprised after what she overheard me telling my father?
You might as well have bought me a puppy or a hooker, for all the use she's been.

It was an asshole thing to say, and yet…I wasn't that far off. All of her kindness, her posing as the agreeable workout buddy, all that cozy reading by the fire, even the kissing—those moments are for
my
sake, aren't they? It's clear to everyone in this room that I need her a hell of a lot more than she needs me.

I risk a sidelong glance at her, and the relief on her face at my father's offer of a day off is obvious. “Thanks. I'd like that.”

And suddenly, just for a moment, I hate her. I hate both of them.

“Enjoy your day off,” I say, idly tapping my cane against my foot. She turns her eyes to me then, and I go for the kill. “You know, since you have some time to yourself, maybe you should catch up on the social life you left back in New York. Maybe call some old friends? What's Ethan up to? I bet
he
could use a little dose of your special TLC.”

I regret the words as soon as they're out of my mouth. I may not know what the hell happened with her and Ethan, but I know it's a painful topic, and I very deliberately dumped salt into that wound.

I'm no stranger to being mean these past few years, but I'm pretty sure I just hopped over the line into barbaric territory. I deserve a slap, but the flash of raw pain in her eyes is so much worse. She's out the door before I can apologize.

All of a sudden, everything hurts. Leg, nose, head. Heart.

“What was that about?” my father asks, looking nervous. I wonder if he's starting to realize that his conniving plan to “fix” me using a blond princess might be doing more harm than good.

“Nothing,” I mutter.
Just me being a monster, as usual.

My father leaves that afternoon. I don't know why he bothers coming at all. It takes him longer to fly from Boston to Portland than it does for him to dole out whatever gloomy, sanctimonious message he's feeling I need at the moment.

I grunt out some half-assed agreement that I'll “think twice” before going to Frenchy's in my “condition.” I don't bother to tell him that walking into that bar after years of solitude was the most human thing I've done in a long time. I certainly don't tell him that I worry it had nothing to do with the bar and everything to do with the girl waiting in the bar.

I don't see Olivia for the rest of the day. I keep the door cracked so I'll know if she goes out, but as far as I can tell, she doesn't leave her room.

My dad texts me from the airport.
Don't forget I gave Olivia the day off. You're on your own for dinner.

I snarl. Why is it everyone seems to think that I was once fit to defend the country, but now I'm unable to make a sandwich?

I think about telling Olivia about Amanda and Lily. I think about telling her everything: about the war, about how Alex is dead because of me, about how his wife and daughter are all alone…But if I tell her now, it'll sound like an excuse. A sympathy ploy.

And nobody knows about those monthly checks to the Skinners. I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea. I don't want Olivia thinking I'm a hero. She'll only be disappointed.

I'm not much in the kitchen, but I throw together a sandwich and open a can of soup. For the first time since Olivia's come to Maine, I eat dinner by myself, a sad, lonely affair at the kitchen counter.

After I clean up my dishes, I pour the rest of the soup into a bowl and make another sandwich. Turkey, no mayo, lots of cheese, the way I know Olivia likes it, as well as a bottle of water.

As far as peace offerings go, it's pathetic. I take the sandwich upstairs anyway. The closed door doesn't bother me.

But the sound of soft sobbing nearly kills me.