Love Me Broken (7 page)

I watch him walk away, and I’m surprised to find a part of myself shouting, “No! No! Don’t let him go!” But I ignore this part, and turn back inside.

I pass my mother on the porch and feel disgusted with her. Why does she have to be so embarrassing? I close the door behind me, head upstairs and start the shower. I catch a look at myself in the mirror and want to slap myself for being so stupid as to leave the house in this condition.

I look awful. And, to be honest, I’ve looked pretty bad this past year. But this is the first time that I’ve cared.

I peel off my pajamas and throw them on the floor. Then I get into the hot spray of the shower and let it wash away some of the anxiety I’m feeling.

I love showers. I love showers the way some people like warm beds in the morning. I never want to leave. If it were possible, I’d stay in the shower all day. It’s so simple, so easy and comforting.

And thoughts seem safer in the shower. Only here, in absolute privacy, do I feel comfortable enough to think about the guy I just met. Adam.

At the thought of his name, I picture his face. He’s what Nicole would call a “hottie.” I roll my eyes at my own use of the expression, but I guess I don’t really have my own words for when I find guys attractive.

And it’s not even that I find him
that
attractive. I mean, there are good-looking guys everywhere. It’s more that I keep seeing his face in my mind, keep replaying all the little gestures and expressions he made.

I like his eyebrows. I know that’s a weird feature to like, but they complement his eyes very well. They’re dark and thick, and give him a sort of mean, brooding quality. He has dark hair too, that he wears messy. Not punk messy, not like that, just—again, I lack the vocabulary. He had nice hair. It made me want to touch it and run my hands through it.

I involuntarily gasp at the thought. What is wrong with you, Erica? Don’t you have any self-control? You’re acting like a schoolgirl.

But I feel like a schoolgirl. I remember the way he had this sort of smile-sneer, lifting up the left side of his lip and exposing just the hint of his teeth underneath. His lips are pink and soft looking. And then at the end, his eyes—his dark, moody eyes—the way they looked at me with such—longing? Was that what it was? It was like he wanted to stay and talk.

Then why didn’t he? Why did he leave?

My entire body feels heavy, and it takes me a moment to translate this heaviness into the thought behind it: it’s the realization that I may never see him again. The one person that I felt this strange, unexplainable connection to, and I’ll never see him again.

With this disappointing bit of reality, I turn off the shower and start drying my hair.

And I looked like crap when he saw me. Whatever my memories of him, his memories of me will be completely different. If I never see him again, his memories of me will always be of me sweaty, in
pajamas
, chasing after a cat that hates me.

My mood sours and I don’t bother to blow-dry my hair. The same indifference to the way I present myself to the world returns. I go to my room and slip on the first pair of clean underwear that I find, and give even less attention to the jeans and blouse I tug on after that. I rummage for some socks, then tie my hair into a ponytail. I don’t even need a mirror to do this anymore; I’ve done it so much that it’s habit. I put on some flats and walk back downstairs.

The coffee is cold in the kitchen. I dump it out and rinse out the pitcher. I toss the grinds into the trash and stare at their black mess on top of crumpled bills and old wine bottles.

Suddenly, I cannot be in this house a moment longer. I have to get out, get away. I can’t breathe.

I rush out the door, giving a half-glance to my mother on the porch, storm down the steps to the sidewalk, and make my way downtown to the coffee shop. I need to be around people. I need Nicole to talk and talk and talk, and block out whatever noise I have going on in my own head. I need to forget about this guy—

(Adam. His name is Adam. And again his name brings his face up in my mind.)

—forget about him and move out of this town and forget everything that ever happened here.

The door dings when I enter the coffee shop, and there are five people in line at the counter. Nicole is the only one working, which is strange for the morning rush. Someone must have called in sick. She’s rushing around, pulling croissants from the pastry case, tamping down espresso and pulling shots, and taking cash and counting back change. I get in line and try not to think of anything—

(him)

—until it’s my turn.

Nicole gives me a big smile when I reach her, and if this counter weren’t between us I know she’d give me a big hug. She’s wearing a tight shirt that says “Baristas do it better” and a skirt with red and white flowers. She has matching red clips in her hair and matching red lipstick.

“Cute outfit,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says, and means it. “Chad’s coming by a little later.”

“Ah. Now I get it.” I look down at the pastries, not seeing them.

“What would you like?” she says. “I keep smelling the blueberry scones and drooling onto people’s food.” Nicole used to get free snacks, until the owner realized she was abusing the privilege and getting all her meals from the dessert tray.

I smile. “All right. One blueberry scone. And a bran muffin and a latte for myself.”

She starts to make my drink, and I get out some cash to pay. I leave a two-dollar tip when I do.

“You don’t have to do that,” she says with a smile. She says that every time.

“Happy to.”

She leans over a bit. “Are you staying a while?” she asks. The way she asks it makes me pay attention.

“Yeah?”

“Because Chad is coming by.”

“So you’ve mentioned.”

“I just—well, usually he’s easier to deal with when there’s an audience. Besides the customers, I mean.”

The smile is glued to my face. I hate Chad. I really do. I hate the way he makes Nicole, who is otherwise so strong and outspoken, into a quivering mess. I am just counting down the days until she drops him and finds someone new.

Although, chances are, the next guy will be about the same. They always are with her.

“I’ll be here,” I say, and her eyes show relief.

Our conversation is interrupted by a screeching voice from behind. “Excuuuuse me.”

I turn and see a hobbled old woman with white hair and a pinched, angry expression. She’s one of the shop’s regulars.

“I’ve been
waiting
,” she whines.

I catch Nicole’s eye and she gives me a look. I try not to giggle and I make my way to a seat by the window. I set Nicole’s scone on the other side of the table and pick at my bran muffin. For a moment I’m lost in the bustle and humor of the setting, but then my mind quiets and my thoughts return to Adam.

I picture the way his lip curled up. This sends a yearning tug deep inside me, and it’s so strong that I stop drinking altogether and set down my cup. I sit in a daze, replaying the whole conversation of the morning in my head. I picture him sitting on the curb, and that moment when he first stood, and looked so tall and... strong.

“Hey,” Nicole says at my side, and I jump. She smiles and slips into the chair across from me. “Sorry that took so long.”

I look at her and I have to hide my confusion. It felt like just a moment for me. But I look up and see the entire line that was behind me is gone. Even the light outside has shifted a little, become brighter and the shadows shorter. I look back at Nicole and smile to hide my disorientation.

She’s looking down at my cup. “Did I make it wrong?” she asks.

I look down at my full latte, the foam dissolved into nothingness. “No,” I say quickly and pick it up to take a sip. It’s cold. “It’s fine. I was just thinking.”

Her eyes fill with a look of pity, and I realize what she assumes I was thinking about.

“No,” I say, “not—just about something this morning. This guy I met.”

She sits up straighter in her chair, and her eyes go wide. Her greedy smile makes me roll my eyes.

“It’s nothing,” I say. “It’s stupid, really.” And I tell her about how yesterday, when I came home, I found the cat in the rain. And then this morning, how he got out and I had to chase him through the streets. “In my pajamas!”

And then, about him. Adam. How he walked all the way to my house and helped me get the cat into the garage.

When I’m done, she’s looking at me in expectation. “Yeah? And? Then what happened?”

I shrug. “Nothing. We said good-bye and he walked away.”

Nicole slams both hands on the table. “What? Walked away!” A few customers turn in our direction. I shrink down but Nicole doesn’t give a damn. “How could you let him just walk away? Did you get his number at least?”

I shake my head, feeling stupid. “No. I didn’t think I’d see him again.”

Nicole lets out a rush of air from her nostrils and pulls at her hair. “And you’re sure you don’t know him? You haven’t seen him around school?”

“I’ve never seen him before.” This I am sure of. I would have remembered Adam. “He’s not staying permanently, he said. That’s why he couldn’t keep the cat himself.”

Nicole’s hands leave her hair. “What else did he say? You said you saw him outside his house? Where did he live? Did he say where he worked?”

I laugh and put out my hands. “Calm down. I think you’re more excited about this than I am.” Then I realize saying that means I’ve admitted that I’m excited too. I wish I had phrased that differently.

“Of course I’m excited!” she says. “It’s not every day you even
notice
all the men around you, let alone
talk
to them, and have them talk back.”

“But I was in my pajamas,” I protest.

“Pfff! Like guys give a damn. You could be walking around in a straightjacket, and as long as you looked halfway decent they’d probably still be interested.”

My lips pinch in a skeptical expression. Then I realize, “He did mention where he worked.”

Nicole turns to me in rapt attention.

“Some place called Watson’s. He said he fixes motorcycles. Or at least that he works there.”

“That’s hot,” Nicole interrupts. “Does he have tattoos?”

She’s practically drooling. She hasn’t touched her scone. I push it toward her, and she picks it up but doesn’t take a bite. “I couldn’t see any,” I say.

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have any,” she says. Looking down, she notices the scone. Her brow wrinkles in confusion, as if she doesn’t remember why it’s in her hand. Then she takes a big bite and her expression grows thoughtful. “Well,” she says, her words mumbled by food, “there’s only one thing to do.”

“What?” I ask.

She swallows. “You gotta go find him. Set up a date or something.”

The idea of seeing him again fills me with electricity. Then I dismiss it. “But he’s leaving town.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“But so am I! I can’t have a relationship.”

“Even better! You can have a summer romance. It’s just what you need.” She rubs her hands together. “Okay, so here’s what you’ll do: You figure out where this shop is. Then, what you do is, you go bring him some muffins or something. As a thank you. You don’t even have to bake them. I’ll get you some from here.”

I blink. “Right now?”

“NO!” she shouts, and more heads turn in our direction. “Tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow. You don’t want to appear too desperate.”

I nod, but I’m still filled with doubt. “But what if—”

My question is cut off by the ding of the door. Nicole stands up immediately, and I turn to see Chad has entered. He’s a big guy with dark hair and a permanent grimace. He looks like any rich kid at the country club—only much dumber. And he’s not actually rich.

“I thought you’d be done by now?” he says as greeting. His tone is accusatory.

“I was, baby,” she tells him, and the note of weakness in her voice puts a bad taste in my mouth. “But Stacey didn’t show up this morning, and I have to stay a little later for Thom to start his shift.”

“You
always
do this!” he pouts, and I lean away from him and start to collect my things. I can tell they’re about to have one of their very loud, very public arguments, and I have no desire to witness Nicole submit herself to him.

“I’ll call you later,” I whisper as I stand up, and Nicole nods but doesn’t look at me. I feel bad for my friend, but I know there’s not much I can do in this situation. In a week they’ll break up, and she’ll say I was right all along and that she’s sworn off men. Then the next week she’ll find someone new, and the cycle will start all over again.

I exit hastily, dumping my mug into the dish bucket on the way out, and push open the door into the warm noon air. I walk down toward the water, toward the pier where there won’t be any cars to bother me.

Muffins. Tomorrow I will bring him muffins.

And I feel myself lifting inside at the thought. I picture his face, his eyes, and my heart fills with expectation.

I will see Adam tomorrow.