Love Me Broken (11 page)

“I figure any photo is better than none.”

I stretch some tape on the bottom and look at the cat again. “Yeah, but I mean, seeing him like that, they might not
want
him back.”

She frowns. “He’s not a bad cat.” Then she adds, “He was nice to you.”

We turn the corner and walk along the sidewalk. We’re heading toward the water now, and when we reach the pier, we cross over some train tracks. She pulls out another flyer and presses it against the side of what looks like a bus stop, except there’s no road here. The tracks must be for the trolley.

She holds the flyer again while I get out the tape. This time I have to lean over her to attach it to the top of the poster, and when I do, my face is right next to the top of her head. Her auburn hair smells like peaches.

I lean back. “You think people will see it out here?” I ask. “It’s not near any of the shops.”

“There’s a trolley that runs along here,” she says. “Okay, next block.”

We walk uphill again, hit the corner and circle the block. She’s walking kind of rigid all of the sudden, and I don’t really know why. Then we walk downhill, and she relaxes again as we near the water. She doesn’t even put up a flyer here, and we walk back uphill on the block after the one we were just on. She stops on the far corner of this one, across from the intersection we were just at. I don’t say anything, mostly because she’s all tense again, but I glance across the street and wonder why we didn’t just cross and save ourselves some time.

When we get to the end of this block, I stop by the intersection to cross. The light is still red. She pulls away and starts walking downhill. “It’s faster this way,” she says. I look back at the intersection. It’s just turned green, and the walk sign is flashing.

This time we go down one block to the pier, and she crosses the planks by the trolley tracks and starts going uphill again. Walking this way, zigzagging back down to the pier instead of crossing at the top of the blocks, is making this all take three times as long—not to mention much more difficult, with all the steep climbs uphill.

So when we get to the next block, and she starts to turn back toward the water, I stop.

“We’re crossing here,” I say.

She looks at me, then glances out at the intersection nervously. “No,” she says quietly, shaking her head.

“Why not?”

“It’s not a good place to cross.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask. “There’s a goddamn crosswalk right here, with a light. This is
the
place to cross.”

She takes a step away from me, away from the street, and backs up against the buildings behind her. She’s clutching her bag to her chest like someone’s going to steal it. “It’ll take too long,” she says, her voice shaky.

The light turns green and the cars start moving.

“Come on,” I say. “I can’t take all this uphill, downhill.”

She stares at the opposite curb and pulls her bag closer to herself. “Maybe you’re right,” she whispers. “About the posters.”

“What?”

“Maybe they were a mistake. Nobody’s going to want Petey from these. I’ll just reprint them or something.”

I look back at her, trying to figure out what happened. It’s very obvious she’s lying, but even beyond that, she’s having some sort of episode.

Then I remember. The girl I saw the first day I was here, the one who had to be led like a blind woman across the street by her friend. This is her.

“Erica,” I say slowly, my voice soft. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “I just think you were right. These posters are stupid. Petey looks too mean.”

I’m quiet, watching her. She’s still avoiding my eyes, but she glances up to see how I react to what she’s saying.

I shake my head. “Why won’t you cross the street?” I ask. “I mean,
really
. No bullshit.”

She looks away again, and for a moment I’m worried she’s going to take off running. Then she takes in a big breath and squeezes the strap of her bag. She shuts her eyes and whispers, “I can’t.”

“What?” I ask.

“I can’t!”
she screams, her eyes open and angry now. I don’t know if she’s going to cry or attack. “I just can’t.”

I don’t give up. “But you must have crossed some to get here?”

“There was less traffic then,” she says, her voice exhausted. “And Nicole helped me.”

“Who’s Nicole?”

“My friend.”

I’m quiet for a moment. Then I say, “I’m your friend. Maybe I can help you get across?”

Her face scrunches up. I know that look: she’s disgusted with herself. “I don’t think I can. There are too many cars.”

“Let’s just try,” I suggest. “I’ll even walk on the left side, so that I’m blocking you from traffic.”

She looks up at me, her face relaxing a little. There’s a small glimmer of hope in her eyes, and I want nothing more than to kindle it.

“I’ll even hold your hand. That way you can protect me too.”

There’s the slightest movement on the corner of her lip. It’s too small to be a smile, but it tells me I’ve won.

I hold out a hand. She looks at it, then back at the street.

“Look at me,” I say. “Keep your eyes on me.”

She turns to me and looks me straight in the eyes. She stares at me, questioning me, focusing intently. She is so fucking beautiful. I want to pick her up and carry her across. Her shoulders relax and she reaches out a timid hand, placing it in mine.

I let her walk up next to me and we stand there, breathing together on the corner of the intersection. She’s still looking at me, except now we’re inches apart, as if we’re about to kiss. I look down at her. She seems so fragile, so broken. I just want to hold her and make everything right for her again. I want to help her live in a world without pain.

The light changes. “Okay,” I say. “One step at a time.”

I take the first step onto the asphalt, and am impressed when she takes her first step without any prodding. Her whole body is tense, and she’s gripping my hand tightly now. We take three steps and I hear a huge truck passing on the street to the side of me. Her grip gets tighter and she starts to pull back toward the curb we just came from.

“I’ve got you,” I tell her. “You’re safe.” I squeeze her hand to remind her that I’m here, and she looks up at me. She gives the tiniest nod, and we take more steps.

When we’re past the halfway mark, her pace increases, and when we reach the opposite side, she lets go of my hand and practically jumps the remaining five feet onto the curb.

I join her. She’s looking back at the street we crossed, relief spreading through her features. Then embarrassment, and we’re back to no eye contact.

“See?” I say. “I knew you could do it.”

She doesn’t say anything. She turns to the lamppost nearest the curb and she takes out another flyer. I help her tape it up, neither of us noticing the crazed cat on the photocopy. Then we walk side by side to the end of the block.

When we get here, she glances back toward the waterfront. I know she’s thinking of avoiding the street again, so I put out my hand.

“Come on,” I say. “You’ve got this.”

She blinks, looking at my hand for a moment. Then she takes it. Her palm is so warm and soft in mine. It’s all I can do to resist pulling it up to my lips to kiss it.

We walk across the street, and as soon as we step onto the next block, she drops my hand. We put up a poster in silence, and I can feel her watching me out of the corner of her eye. When we reach the third intersection, she’s reaching for my hand before the light even changes.

And this time, after we cross, she doesn’t let it go.

It’s excruciating, crossing street after street, but with Adam’s help we manage to get the flyers up in record time. Downtown is wallpapered with Pete’s snarling face, and just as I’m getting used to the feel of Adam’s hand in mine, I look up to see we’re standing outside my house. He’s walked me home.

I let go of his hand. “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. I look up into his face, and the explosion of emotions inside me makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve let myself feel anything. Were my emotions always this strong? Or is it Adam?

His soft lips turn up into a confident grin. “Anytime,” he says, and we catch eyes again. He’s looking at me like he wants to say more, and he runs a hand through his brown hair. It falls right back into place, and he grins shyly. I smile back.

Then I remember. “My friend Nicole’s birthday is this weekend,” I say. “She’s having this party, and I’m obligated to go.”

His face grows serious, his lips parting ever so slightly.

“It’ll probably be boring,” I say, trying to be casual, “but if you wanted to...?”

When he doesn’t answer immediately, I look away.

“Never mind,” I say. “It’s pretty far anyway. And I—”

“Sure,” he says. I look up at him, the energy of the moment swimming inside me. His eyes are so soft, so comforting, I just want to stare at him for hours. How can someone have eyes like that and be real? Then he looks away. “But I have a question.”

“Yeah?” I ask.

He looks at me, and his nervousness makes me nervous. Whatever he’s going to say, I’m not going to like it.

“So I know you don’t like cars,” he says, and I cringe at the word. “But what about motorcycles?”

“Motorcycles?” I look away, considering it. I picture a motorcycle in my head, and feel... nothing. It’s no different than picturing a tree, or a mailbox. “Huh,” I say, my voice filled with surprise. “I don’t hate them.”

He laughs and smiles down at me. “I can live with that.”

“Pick me up at eight?” I ask.

“Saturday. Eight o’clock.” He stares at me a moment longer. Then, before I have a chance to stall him, he turns to walk down the street. His broad back catches the sun, and he looks pretty good from behind, even in his workpants. I watch him leave before I walk up to the house, only realizing once I’ve closed the door that yet again we haven’t exchanged any information.

I’ve got his name. I know where he works. But I have no way to get in touch with him, no way to change our date or ask him a question.

I’m sure he’ll show up; he seems like that kind of guy.

But I’m reminded once again that I shouldn’t get too attached. We only have this summer. This summer will be our last.