Broken (6 page)

Back when I was in high school, me and football were kind of a big deal. And I always liked it well enough, but football was never really my true passion, cheesy as that sounds.

In fact, I was semi-disappointed when my coach marked me for QB early in my freshman year. The quarterback doesn't get to run much.

That's
my passion. Running. Tossing a football to a bunch of other guys was nothing compared to the rush I got from running.

I ran every day leading up to Afghanistan. I ran as often as I could around the base after I got there. And since getting back…Well, let's just say that my future holds as much hope for running as it does flying.

But I have a secret.

Not a big one. It's pathetic, actually. But one that nobody knows. Well, I suspect Mick and Lindy might, but they won't dare mention it.

The truth is, running is the one area of my life where I let the tiniest ray of hope shine in. Not
real
hope. Because I can't actually let myself think that it's going to happen. But I dream of running again.

It's that dream that has me getting up at the ass crack of dawn every morning. Before Lindy or Mick or whatever godforsaken caretaker is lurking about is awake…hell, before the
sun's
even up.

I go outside and pretend I'm running. Not physically pretending, of course. My leg's not even remotely able to sustain that kind of fantasy. But mentally? I run.

It's the only time I'll use my cane. Partially because nobody's watching, but also because the cane allows me to go longer, farther, faster. Just a mile or so on a trail that winds around the bay. I walk/hobble in the predawn silence and let myself pretend just for an hour that I'm running. That I'm normal. It's
my
time.

Of course, being the hermit that I am,
all
time is my time. But this is different. I'd almost say
sacred
if that didn't sound so ridiculous. But save for the fishermen—because this is Maine, after all—I'm alone. And this solitude is different from the rest of my day because it's intentional.

This time of the day is the only time I feel alive.

And I never dreamed that it could be ripped away from me in the most debilitating way possible.

Olivia Middleton—the very person who kept me up the entire night—is a runner. Worse, she's running on
my
path during
my
time.

She's running toward me, and although she's still a good ways off, I know it's her. That blond ponytail and that tall, slim frame are all I've been able to think about since that kiss.

Turning around would be futile. Her jog would easily overtake my walk, so there's nothing to do but wait. And brace.

I slow to a standstill. It's bad enough that she has to see me with the cane; I'll be damned if I'll give her the spectacle of watching me actually hobble along with it.

She's got hot pink running shoes, which are ridiculous, especially since they perfectly match the long-sleeved pink running shirt. The hairband is also pink. Come to think of it, wasn't she wearing a pink sweater yesterday? Just what I need. A bubblegum explosion in my life.

Even if her fashion-forward running gear didn't clue me in (
real
runners don't care about matching their hairband to their shoes), it's obvious from her slow pace, her pink cheeks, and the gait that's just slightly off that she's new at this.

Already my brain is racing with pointers.
Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Don't move your arms so much. You overpronate—do your girly shoes compensate for that?

At first I think she doesn't see me. There's no change in her gait or expression as she closes the gap between us. But then she's almost upon me. Then in front of me. She stops.

My fingers clench on the handle of my cane—a black python affair I ordered on the Internet mostly because it was so ridiculously gaudy—and I resist the urge to turn my head and give her my profile. My good side.

But if the two of are going to be stuck together for three months, she'd better get used to seeing me.
I'd
better get used to her seeing me.

She doesn't look at the cane at all, and other than the briefest flick of her green eyes over my scars, she doesn't really seem to care about those either. Then again, it's still dark, with the barest hit of early morning sun illuminating us, so perhaps she can't really see their ugliness. Which reminds me…

“You shouldn't go running alone in the dark,” I growl.

She frowns almost imperceptibly, just the finest line between her dark blond eyebrows. “Why not?”

“You go running through the streets of New York City at the crack of dawn?”

“How do you know I'm from New York City?”

I remain silent, not wanting to have to explain that I spent most of the night studying the limited information my dad had sent over on Olivia. Nothing interesting. NYU dropout. Manhattan resident. Short of a crash course in CPR, no
actual
experience in taking care of anyone. She turned twenty-two just days before arriving in Maine.

But the file didn't answer any of the things I wanted to know. Like whether she enjoyed that kiss yesterday or was just pretending. Whether she likes guys to hold her face or her hips when they kiss her. Whether she has a boyfriend. And, most important…
what the fuck is she doing in Maine?

“Don't go running alone here,” I say. I don't bother to explain all the dangers of a woman running alone in the dark. Bar Harbor is safe enough, but all it takes is one sick fuck lurking in the bushes to destroy a life.

“Okay,” she says, surprising me.

I narrow my eyes and wait for it.

She squirms. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I've never known a female to acquiesce that easily without a catch. How about you hit me with it now and get it over with.”

Olivia shrugs. “Fine. I was going to say that I won't run alone if you promise to go with me.”

“No,” I say, almost before she's finished her sentence.

“Why not?”

I rap my cane once against the ground. “Well, for starters, despite the fact that there are tortoises that could surpass your sorry excuse for a jog, I'm in no shape to accompany even the most pathetic of runners.”

“What a handy skill you have of overloading a sentence with insults,” she says as she reaches up to adjust her ponytail. “That must be helpful, what with your thriving social life and all.”

I thump my cane against the ground again, studying her. “Must be nice, picking on the cripple.”

Olivia rolls her eyes. “Please. Your soul's more crippled than your leg.”

She has no idea how right she is, and I have no intention of letting her anywhere close enough to find out. I've gotten good at shutting people out by pushing them away…being as nasty as possible until they reach their breaking point. But with her? It's different. And not only because the three-month rule my father's implemented means I can't scare her away. I suspect she of all people might realize that the caustic, hostile routine isn't a routine at all. This girl might just figure out that I'm
truly
rotten to the core.

It's better that she does; I just need to delay that realization for a while. Three months, specifically. I'm not saying I'm going to be
nice
to her. I have absolutely no intention of going all friendly on her ass. But I'll do whatever it takes to prevent her from realizing that I'm more dead inside than she can possibly know. I'll do whatever it takes to ensure that little Lily gets the treatment she needs.

I will not, however, accompany her on her morning “runs,” and I use that word loosely.

“There's a treadmill in the gym,” I say, continuing along the path.

“Is there?” she asks, falling into step beside me. “Rumor has it you don't use it.”

“You know,” I say as though realization just struck, “I just had the
best
idea. How about we
not
do this chatty little shared morning together? You go ahead and scamper back up to the house with your ill-fitting shoes, and I'll continue slithering along this path alone. Yeah?”

“My shoes are not ill-fitting.”

I snort. “Please. Where'd you get them, online?”

She's silent for a second. “They got great reviews.”

“I'm sure they did. Probably by people who liked the pretty pink color.”

“What's wrong with the color?”

“For lipstick? Nothing,” I say, even though I have no idea why I'm continuing this conversation. The innocuousness of it feels suspiciously normal.

“Let me guess,” she says. “Your high school track team placed second in the state like a hundred years ago, and you're still reliving the glory?”

“A hundred years ago? Exactly how old do you think I am? And no, I didn't run track in high school.”

“You're twenty-four going on like a hundred.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Is that a crack about the cane?”

“Oh yeah, can we talk about that for a second?” she asks, peering down at the object in question. “That whole snake thing is a reference to your penis, right?”

My footsteps falter. This girl looks like a poster child for a church's youth group, and
penis
is so not a word I was prepared for. Not in this context, anyway.

“Seriously?” I ask, annoyed at being thrown off guard. Not only does she invade my personal space and invite herself on a walk she clearly wasn't invited on, but she's prying into my past, accusing me of being an old man, and now dropping
penis
into conversation like we're discussing the weather.

“I'm just saying,” she says with a shrug. “It's a snake head, and the way you use it keeps it sort of in the vicinity of, well…
your
snake head. I figure that can't be an accident.”

Sweet Jesus.

“It's a cane. I can't use it and
not
have it in the vicinity of—shit. Just never mind. Can you
please
just trot along back to the house? Your Barbie shoes are going to get dirty out here.”

Olivia shrugs but doesn't make any move to head in the opposite direction. “Personally, I think you should have gotten a jaguar cane. That would have been
really
cool.”

I frown. “The python's cool.”

“No. The python's creepy and suggestive. But a sleek, sexy black cat? That would up the cool factor.”

For a second, I almost tell her that I don't need any help upping the cool factor. Then I remember that I'm not Paul Langdon, Boston hotshot anymore. I'm the crippled, small-town version.

I take in a long breath of cold morning air to keep myself from letting the despair that's lodged in my throat come rushing out in an angry bellow. If I let her see even a
sliver
of what's inside me, she'll be on her way back to Park Avenue. And tempting as that is, I need her here. At least until I formulate a plan for what the hell to do with my life.

Until then, I have to keep her around in a way that doesn't make me want to strangle her—or push her against a nearby tree and kiss her senseless.

“How long have you been running?” I ask, almost choking on the inane, unimportant question. It's been so long since I've had a casual conversation that it feels both unnatural and strangely familiar. Plus it keeps my mind off the way she fills out her pink running shirt. Practicality tells me she's got a sports bra under there—probably pink—but it doesn't stop me from fantasizing about seeing Olivia in less utilitarian undergarments. Or better yet, none at all.

“The running thing's kind of new,” she replies, jerking me back to the conversation.

“Shocker,” I mutter.

“Well, sorry I'm not Flo-Jo.”

I smile a little. “That's the only runner you know, isn't it?”

“Maybe. Jeez. What is it with you and running? I didn't realize that track trivia would be part of the job requirements,” she says, her tone exasperated, as we take a sharp right turn in the path, bringing us closer to the water.

“I miss it.” My answer is simple and a good deal more revealing than I intended.

I half expect her to mock me. To inform me that there are more important things in life than the ability to run, or to pacify me by telling me that there are
other
things I can do that are just as great.

Instead she nods, but not in a pitying way, just a quick acknowledgment of my statement.

“I started running as an escape,” she says after several seconds of silence.

I glance down at her profile, noting that her nose is just slightly upturned and kind of cute. “An escape from what?”

She glances back at me, and our eyes collide for one charged moment. The message is clear: she'll tell me her secrets when I tell her mine.

Which will be never.

“Your breathing's all wrong,” I say, tearing my eyes away from hers.

“My breathing's fine.”

“Not if you want to run more than three miles. Your breaths are too shallow. You need to inhale deeper. Engage your diaphragm. And get used to matching the breaths to your steps. For your slow pace, inhale for maybe three or four steps, then exhale for the same.”

“That seems like a lot of thinking for something that's supposed to be natural.”

“You'll get used to it.”

“Okay, what else?” she says, spreading her arms wide. “Am I bowlegged? My ponytail not high enough?”

“Just start with the breathing for now,” I say, irritation starting to set in as I realize how much I want to be the one running, not the one telling someone else how to run.

“Sure thing, Coach,” she mutters.

“So, by any chance, does your sudden affinity for running mean you want to be alone?”