Page 102 of A Little Broken

Concern weaves itself through me as a crease forms between my brows. Mascara runs down her face, making her look like a broken Barbie, but just as beautiful. “You sure you’re okay?” I ask.

“S-so sorry,” she repeats, her words as jumbled as before.

“Don’t apologize,” I murmur.

“How can I not?” She laughs. “I’m supposed to be working?—”

“We both know I didn’t hire you to work tonight.”

She sobers and leans against my touch. “Still sorry. I’m a…I’m a mess.”

“You’re not a?—”

“Thanks for staying. I know I…I know I just puked everywhere, and…most guys wouldn’t stay, so.”

I chuckle softly, unwrap her hair from my hand, and push it away from her face. “Not going anywhere, Tate.”

With a slow shake of her head, she argues, “Arch wasn’t going anywhere, either.”

My body goes rigid, and I tilt my head. “Arch?”

“Archer Buchanan,” she explains. “My sister’s ex, her boyfriend’s twin, and also his, uh, his s-savior.” Her chest caves, and her chin falls to her chest.

This is the third time I’ve heard his name. Once in the hotel when she called him her fiance. Once at the bonfire when she warned me not to utter it ever again. And once at the bar with Dodger. But even then, no one called him a savior.

Well aware I’m walking in a minefield, I murmur, “Savior? What do you mean?”

“Car accident. Brain dead on impact, or so they say.” She wipes at her eyes, smearing her smoky mascara even more, though I doubt she gives a shit.

At least it confirms Dodger’s story.

“Fuck, Tate,” I mutter. “I’m sorry.”

“He was a donor,” she continues, as if now that the dam is broken, there’s nothing holding her back from spilling each and every deep, dark secret she’s been holding in for as long as I’ve known her. “And who was at the top of the transplant list? His Mother. Fucking. Twin.” She bites her lip and shakes her head, riding the line between looking like someone who might break down and sob again and someone who might commit murder. “Do you know how tired I am of feeling pissed about it? That I can’t even be in the same room with them, let alone look them in the eye and con-congratulate them?” Her nose scrunches into a sneer. Like there’s a putrid scent clinging to the room, and she’s the only one who can smell it.

“Congratulate them?” I prod.

“They’re getting married,” she mutters. “Fucking. Married.”

Married? Who’s getting married? I have a thousand questions. The girl’s talking in broken riddles, but the idea of overwhelming her feels about as productive as handing the girl another shot.

“Who?” I ask, carefully.

“My sister and Mav.” She drags her knees to her chest and leans her back against the bathroom wall. “It’s despicable.”

“Marriage in general, or theirs?” I ask in an attempt to lighten the mood or some shit. I don’t know? I don’t know what I’m doing or why she’s telling me this, but I’m grateful. Grateful she has someone when she’s clearly spiraling.

“Theirs,” she clarifies. “I hate them for it. For being happy. For moving on.” A laugh escapes her. “God, that makes me sound like such a bitch. She’s my sister. I should be happy for her, but…God, I hate her for it,” she repeats. Her tone is so thick with resentment, I swear she might choke on it.

And that’s what guts me.

The resentment. The way I can feel it eating her alive. She hides it well. Clearly. She’s been hiding it for years. But it’sstill there. Hidden beneath the confidence and I-don’t-give-two-fucks persona she wears like armor. Because she does care. So much so, it’s killing her. The realization hits too close to home, bringing memories of my mom with it. The alcohol. The pain meds. The jumbled, nonsensical ramblings of a bitter woman in pain.

I shouldn’t have left her.

I shouldn’t have been forced to stay and take care of her.

They were her actions. I know this. But seeing the pain in Tatum’s? I don’t want to walk away. I don’t want to leave. And what the hell does that say about me?

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