Broken (17 page)

“Get out,” I snarl.

She gives me a condescending look. “You sure you want to do that? It hasn't even been two months. You kick me out now, you'll actually have to make a living on your own like the rest of us.”

I bark out a laugh. “Like the rest of us? Exactly which of your possessions did
you
pay for yourself? Hmm? Which of those didn't come from Daddy? We both know this is a token job. I don't know how much my father is paying you, but I
do
know you're not doing it for the money. I'd wager you haven't even deposited a single paycheck.”

Her eyes flash guiltily, and I don't know if I'm relieved she's not doing it for the money or furious because it means she's doing it for some other nefarious reason that I can't yet figure out.

We stand there for several seconds, glaring. Two spoiled, damaged disasters.

“I'll pack my stuff,” she says finally, starting to move around me.

I grab her elbow as she passes. We turn our heads toward each other just slightly, each breathing hard, neither meeting the other's eyes. “Stay,” I say gruffly. “We've used each other for this long. Might as well see it through.”

“I'm not going to stick around because you want to mooch off your father.”

“Fine. Then stick around for whatever selfish reason you came here for. See it through. Finish using me like I'm using you. Then we can walk away unscathed.”

Green eyes meet mine, and I see what's plainly written there.
Bullshit.

She's right. It's gone on far too long for either of us to walk away unscathed, but I'm beyond caring at this point.

If my initial goal was to get Olivia Middleton to stick around, my new goal is far darker.

I'm going to break her the way she's breaking me.

Okay, so I'm just going to come right out and say it: Paul overreacted.

Yes, I overstepped a little by Googling him. Do I regret it? Most definitely.

But he's acting like I went snooping through his drawers in the middle of the night. This isn't Paul's diary we're talking about. Like he'd even keep a diary. (Although he
should.
Maybe then he'd work through some of his issues and wouldn't always act like his python cane is
all the way
up his ass.)

That news story I read? Public information. It's not like I even had to
dig
—it took about twelve seconds on Google. The thing that's really pissing me off is that if I had half a brain, I would have looked all of this up before arriving in Maine, before even agreeing to the job.

Maybe if I had, I would have known that Paul Langdon was worryingly close to my own age. I would have seen that senior-year portrait from his high school yearbook and known that once upon a time he was almost painfully handsome.

Of course, none of that would have prepared me for the fact that the twenty-four-yea
r-old Paul is even more alluring to me. No number of generic news articles would have prepared me for my fierce and automatic reaction to him.

But I would have
known
that his injuries weren't just the result of a horrible IED incident or a wretched ambush. If I'd done my research, I'd have known what he really went through.

Torture.

I wish I'd known.

No, I wish he'd
told
me. Of course, I hadn't given him a chance to do that, now had I? Okay, so maybe he's right to be pissed at me. I just can't figure out how we went from cuddling and sleeping together to wanting to kill each other in the kitchen over something so unimportant in the grand scheme of things. We can work through it.

Only he isn't talking to me.

I toss the blob of bread dough onto the counter and brace my palms against the granite as I try to catch my breath and get control of my thoughts. Flour is everywhere, and I don't care.

“You know you actually have to
touch
the dough to knead it, right?” Lindy says, coming back into the kitchen.

I halfheartedly began moving the dough around again as Lindy unloads the tray containing the remains of Paul's lunch.

I glance at the tray out of the corner of my eye.

The pasta was barely touched. He's not eating. I know only because I keep an eye on how much food Lindy throws out, not because I actually eat with Paul. I've barely seen the guy in the week since our confrontation. He's made sure of that.

Lindy hasn't asked me why Paul and I are at odds—again—nor has she complained that she has to bring him all of his food, when I'm getting paid to do it. I've tried to explain, but she just pats my shoulder and tells me that there's a spare room in the small house if I need it.

If this keeps up, I
will
need it. Hearing Paul yell every night without being able to go to him is killing me. I tried once; the door was locked.

Lindy and Mick
have
to be wondering what I'm still doing here. A caregiver who has zero contact with the person she's supposed to be caring for? It's only a matter of time before Paul's father comes swooping in here telling me I'm fired.

Oh, but wait.
That
won't happen, will it? Because then Paul won't be able to continue his pathetic existence of hiding from the world while not having to contribute a single thing to society.

Why should I care if Paul is so committed to never entering the world that he'll enter into a childish bargain with his father?

I don't.

Except I
do.
I care so much it that it feels like it's almost physically eating at me. It's the first thing I think about in the morning when I take lonely runs all by myself. It's what I think about when I sip coffee alone, and when I have my solitary lunch. It's what I think every time I take my big old Andrew Jackson biography down to the library, getting my hopes up that the door will be unlocked this time.

He's shut me out completely, and a part of me wishes he'd just banish me already and get it over with. It's becoming increasingly clear that Paul Langdon isn't going to be the absolution I'm looking for. I came up here hoping to rediscover my humanity—to remind myself that I'm still a good person and that kissing my boyfriend's best friend doesn't make me irredeemable.

But if anything, my time in Maine is confirming my worst fears. I'm no good for other people. Paul may have been broken long before I came onto the scene, but I'm fairly sure that when I leave, he'll be worse off. Almost as though I'd hoisted him halfway over the ledge toward redemption only to push him off again just as he was starting to feel hope.

All because I couldn't just let him come to me himself.

Still…he's acting like a damn baby about the whole thing.

Lindy appears at my side with a little sound of dismay and reaches for the bread dough that I've been mutilating for the past five minutes. “Okay, then. That's about enough of your special kind of kneading.”

“I hate him.” I give the ball of dough one last slap. “I hate him!”

She uses her hip to bump me out of the way. “Well, from where I'm standing, you have a right to.”

I glance at her sharply. “You know what happened?”

“No. I never really know what's going on with him. Or you,” she says, dropping the dough into a greased bowl, covering it with a clean towel, and then setting it aside to rise. “And I don't want to know. Neither does Mick, because we know we'll just end up wanting to knock some sense into the both of you. But that doesn't mean I don't see that by ignoring you, he's hurting himself just as much as he is you. Maybe more.”

A little flutter of hope arises in my stomach. “Yeah?”

She gives me a knowing look. “Oh no. Don't go fishing for intel, because that's all I'm saying. But don't you give up on him. Don't you dare.”

I trace my finger though the extra flour on the counter. “I don't know what I'm supposed to do in the meantime until he comes around,” I say glumly. “Mr. Langdon isn't exactly paying me to lurk around and destroy your homemade bread.”

“Mr. Langdon is paying you to bring his son back to the land of the living. And that's exactly what you're doing, even if the approach is indirect at the moment.”

“Okay, but…” I slump over, all of my weight on my forearms as I lean against the granite counter. “I'm
bored
, Lindy.”

“I thought you've been enjoying your nights out. I heard from Kali's aunt that you guys are getting along great.”

It's true. Kali and I
have
been getting along great. I've headed out to Frenchy's a few times in the past week, partially because I needed a drink, but mostly because it was something to do while Paul the jackass stays locked away in his den like the freaking Unabomber or something. I even went over to Kali's house last night. We ate frozen enchiladas, drank too much wine, and watched some really terrible television.

But I need to find something else to do with my time other than drink, mope, and try to slog through presidential biographies. I need a hobby, or a task, or…

“You could set the dining room table,” Lindy says, her voice muffled since her head's buried in the fridge.

I stand up. “There's a dining room?”

“Of course this house has a dining room.”

I roll my eyes. “Don't act like it's that obvious. Have you ever used it?”

“Of course not,” she says in that same matter-of-fact tone.

I can't help the second eye roll. “So I'd be setting the table today, because…?”

Lindy emerges from the refrigerator, her arms full of what looks like a roast, some fancy-looking cheese, some milk, a box of butter, and some herbs. She uses her butt to shut the fridge door.

The pieces slowly click together even though my brain rejects what I'm seeing: the greater-than-normal amount of food, the use of the dining room, the fact that Lindy's doing a weird smiling/humming thing that's totally unlike her.

“Is someone coming over?” I ask.

“Yup,” she says, giving a smug smile as she deposits her ingredients on the counter and begins wiping away the mess from my lame attempt at making bread.

“Who?” I demand.

She shrugs. “Mr. Paul didn't say.”

“ ‘Mr. Paul didn't say,' ” I mimic, exasperated. “Did you even ask him?”

“Not my business. I just need to know the number of people and any food restrictions.”

“It is too your business!” I say. “I'm guessing this is the first time this has happened, um, ever?”

“No,” she says simply. “He
used
to have friends over all the time when this was their summer home and this was just a seasonal job for me. You know. Before.”

“That's sort of my point. What was normal for him before isn't exactly run of the mill nowadays. Don't you think this is weird? All of a sudden he's all social?”

“There have been lots of changes in Mr. Paul lately,” she says, not looking at me. “As long as he keeps moving in the right direction, I'm not going to question it.”

She's right, of course. It
is
a good sign that he's having friends over.

It's also suspicious as all hell. Something is going on.

“All right, I'll set the table,” I mutter, realizing that Lindy has said all that she's going to on the matter. “Should I assume I'm on my own for dinner tonight? I don't want you to have to cook two meals.”

“You'll be eating this,” she says, patting the huge hunk of beef.

“You mean, like leftovers?”

“No, I mean you'll be sitting at the table along with Mr. Paul and his guest. He said there'd be three total. Including you.”

What the…

“Um, no,” I say. “I'm not joining him for dinner. That's beyond inappropriate.”

“It's not inappropriate if he requested it. Which he did. Specifically.”

I'm pretty much sweating now. Something weird is definitely going on. “He thinks I'll be eating dinner with him and his mysterious dinner guest in the dining room I've never even set foot in?”

“Yup.”

I cross my arms. “Not going to happen.”

Lindy shrugs. “Fine. You go tell him that, then. But in the meantime, get out of my kitchen so I can work. I set out linens on the table, and after you get that set up, how about you do something about your hair other than the wet ponytail you've been sporting for the past two weeks?”

“Oh yes, by all means, let's get gussied up for Mr. Paul and his enormous wagon of issues.”

She begins mincing garlic. “Okay, fine. I'm
sure
his friend will love that NYU sweatshirt with the hole in the sleeve you've worn for three days in a row.”

I grunt, tapping my fingernails against the counter now, my curiosity all but consuming me.

“Olivia,” Lindy says mildly.

“Yah?”

“I have an hour to cook my first real meal in years, plus I need to get something for Mick and myself, and your brooding is making me crazy.”

“I can help!”

“
Out.
Help me by setting the table.”

“Fine,” I mutter, relenting only because I'm desperate to do
something
to feel like I'm earning my paychecks—which, after that disastrous conversation with Paul about me being a daddy's girl, are now all deposited in my very own savings account.

It pains me to say it, but Paul was right about that. I hadn't done crap with my paychecks until two weeks ago. I'm guilty of the very thing I'd accused Paul of: living off my dad. We are pathetic, privileged monsters, and I, for one, am determined to change, even if he isn't.

When this is over—whatever
this
is—I'll get another job. And then another after that. There'll be no more using my father's credit cards, no more treating this as a little charity break from real life. This
is
my real life. And I'm determined to own every aspect of it. Even if that means wearing a lot more of my ugly NYU sweatshirt now that my clothing allowance is about to become nonexistent.

I find the dining room easily enough. It's through a huge set of double doors I'm embarrassed to say I never bothered to open. The room's about what I would have expected given the house: lots of dark wood, and a long wood table that's the perfect combination of formal and rustic charm.

There is a stack of table linens on the table as promised, but wisely Lindy didn't go all clichéd and formal with anything white and prissy. Instead there are merlot-colored placemats and cream-colored cloth napkins with contemporary silver napkin rings. Instead of fussy china, there's a stack of the usual everyday dishware.