Page 1 of A Little Broken

PROLOGUE

TATUM

Dear Archer,

Hi.

I screwed up. I’ve been hiding in my room too long. Now, my parents are forcing me to hang out with Ophelia and the rest of the girls.

Yeah. Like that’ll pull me out of this.

I know they’re just freaking out because I’m basically a hermit nowadays, but really? A hang out with Lia? Of all people? I still don’t understand what you saw in her. She’s kind of the worst, you know? No offense.

Iscratch the words out.

Actually, I take it back. You can take offense to it, and so can she. The only person Ophelia’s evercared about is herself, Archer. Honestly, I thought you had better taste.

My bottom lip wobbles, and a tear slides down my cheek as my pen hovers above the page. I always get to this part but can never write it. Not yet, anyway. The part where I admit my undying love for the guy. Okay, undying might be a bit of a stretch. Then again, he’s dead, and I still love him, so the term is pretty fucking fitting now that I think about it. It doesn’t make it any easier, though. Telling him the truth. That I love him. Love. Not loved. Because even though he’s gone, these feelings are pretty fucking real. And they’re only the tip of the iceberg. Admitting that his absence hurts. That it’s killing me. That I feel like I’m drowning with no hope of breathing ever again. Not when the man with the power to give it to me, to help me breathe, is six feet under. That’s the real doozy. The one I can’t figure out how to express, no matter how many times I open this stupid journal and write a letter to a man who will never read it.

It also doesn’t help that he was in love with my sister despite Ophelia choosing Archer’s twin brother instead. The reminder makes my chest ache, and I squeeze the pen in my hand, determined to alleviate the pressure in my chest even if it kills me. I feel like an anaconda is wrapped around my chest, slowly squeezing the life out of me. Second by second. Minute by minute. Day by day. Month by month. What happens when I get to a year? When the anniversary of Archer’s death finally hits? Will that be the day I stop hurting? Or will it be the day I stop breathing altogether, unable to fight the stubborn anaconda and its punishing hold?

A tear hits the paper, the splash making the ink spread and swirl. I drag the tip of the pen to the next line, desperate to wrap up the letter before I lose my nerve.

Really thought you had better taste, Arch. But it’s good to know you weren’t perfect.

Miss you.

-Tatum

“Tate?”Knock, knock. “Tate, you in there?”

I close my journal and wipe my cheeks. “Yeah, Mom. I’m here.” I let out a slow breath.

“Perfect! Your sister just pulled up.”

Of course, she did.

I fight the urge to climb into bed and cover my head with a blanket for the rest of the week, no matter how impossible it feels.

Come on, Tate.

“Tate?” my mom calls. I can hear the concern in her voice. It’s probably warranted, even if I wish it wasn’t.

Sucking my lips into my mouth, I answer, “I’ll be right out.”

Breathe.

With another deep inhale, I check my makeup in the mirror, fixing the black smudge beneath my left eye before opening my bedroom door.

Spending so much time alone in my room for too long finally bit me in the ass. My parents arranged a girls’ night with all their kids’ friends, aka my real and pseudo-cousins, depending on the girl in question. As if company will make this pain go away.

I wish.

Yeah, my parents are hoping a little girl time will pull me out of my funk. That it’ll fill the gaping hole in my chest, even if it’s only for a night. And I can’t even be mad at them for it. Because I know I’m spiraling. I know I’m drowning in an abyssof hatred and sadness and pain. If the roles were reversed, if I had to witness someone I love hurting like I am, I’d be anxious to fix it, too. To find a solution or a Band-Aid or…something. Apparently, desperate times call for desperate measures because they’re here, and if I want to stop hearing my mom’s concern tainting every single word she says to me, then I need to go.

My mom stands in the hallway, her messy red curls piled on top of her head as she scans me up and down.

“You look nice,” she says, taking in my ripped jeans and black tank top.

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