Page 103 of A Little Broken

“I’m such a bitch,” she breathes out.

“You’re not a bitch.” I move toward her and press my back to the wall beside her, resting my forearm on my bent knee. “Just a sad, beautiful, lonely girl.”

She drops her head back and stares at the ceiling. “You’re nothing like him, you know,” she slurs. Her eyes are half-hooded as she rolls her skull toward me. “Or maybe you are.” Another laugh escapes her. “Maybe you’re exactly like him, and that’s why I couldn’t say no. Why I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Her laughter quiets as she peers at me, taking me in the same way I am her. Moisture from her earlier tears still clings to her lashes, making her the most beautiful—and broken—woman I’ve ever seen. “Or maybe you’re nothing like him,” she decides. “Maybe no one will ever be like him.” A divot forms between her brows. “Honestly, I’m not sure what’s worse.”

Neither am I. She clearly loves him. Has always loved him, if I had to guess. And competing with a dead guy? Call me a selfish prick, but I want to. I want to compete. I want to erase the pain in her eyes. The tremor in her voice. I want to erase all of it, if only to stop her from hurting like she clearly is right now.

“What was he…” I swallow. “What was he like?”

“Kind.” She rests her head on my shoulder. “Like you. Sweet, too.” I catch her eyelids fluttering in the mirror’s reflection across from us. “He always saw what others didn’t, you know? Even noticed a wallflower like me.” Her mouth lifts, but her eyes stay closed. “I used to be a wallflower, you know.”

“A wallflower, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I can’t picture it,” I admit wryly.

“Of course you can’t.” Her laugh is as broken as she is. “Want to know why?”

“Why?”

She sniffs. “Because after he died, I learned it was easier to be a bitch and force people to look at you instead of blending in and disappearing altogether. Because the one thing worse than being hated?” Her voice cracks, and I can feel her getting worked up again. The tightness in her body. The uneven breaths. The dampness seeping into my shirt. But it’s strange. Because even though I’d give anything to dry her tears, part of me wonders if she’s been holding them in so long, they’ve turned to poison, and if she doesn’t let them out, if she doesn’t let this go, it’ll kill her. I should know. I’ve seen it firsthand.

“What’s worse than being hated, Birthday Girl?” I whisper.

“It’s being forgotten.” Her bottom lip quivers. “Everyone’s forgetting him, Pax. They might not admit it, but they are. And that’s the worst part of it all. Ophelia’s marrying Maverick. She doesn’t care that he’s dead. That without him, Maverick would be gone.” She crumbles even more. “I hate her, Pax. I hate Ophelia for what she did. It isn’t fair how she gets her happily ever after and Arch gets…gets nothing. Not one fucking thing but an early grave.” Looking up at me, her eyes red and raw, she whispers, “I don’t want an early grave.”

“Sh…” I shake my head as my own fear clogs my throat. “Don’t say shit like that. I’m begging you.”

She snuggles into me, her body sagging. “Thank you for keeping your promise.”

My brows tug as I try to keep up with Tatum’s spiraling thoughts. “What promise, Birthday Girl?”

“For quitting smoking.” She licks her lips. “I’m not…I’m not sure I could survive another death.”

The organ in my chest cracks. Lifting my arm, I wrap it around Tatum’s shoulders. “That won’t happen.”

“Fate hates me, so I wouldn’t sound so sure.”

“No one could hate you,” I murmur. “Even fate.” I tug her closer. “Maybe it just has…a different plan.”

“Fuck plans.” She sniffs again. “Fuck plans and fuck fate and fuck Archer and fuck…fuck this stupid feeling.” She claws at her chest. “I keep waiting for it to go away. For it to get better.” She sucks in a shallow breath. “Why isn’t it getting better? It isn’t…it isn’t fair.”

I close my eyes, desperate to fix this. To find the words to take her pain away. But the truth is…there aren’t any.

“You’re right,” I rasp. “It isn’t fair. None of it is.”

“You don’t get it?—”

“Maybe, I don’t,” I lie. “Not exactly. But I might have a pretty good idea, Birthday Girl.” I rub my hand along her back, deciding, “But that’s a story for a different day. I read your favorite book.The Count of Monte Cristo.” Her quiet sniffle guts me, proving she’s still awake, but her sobs are slowing, so I keep talking. “I liked it. I liked it a lot. And you’re right. It’s better than the movie.”

“Told you,” she whispers.

I smile before sobering. “Gotta say, though. I can’t imagine carrying such a big weight around, you know? The hate. The need for revenge over anything and everything else in his life. Isn’t it exhausting?” I rub my hand up and down her bare arm. “I bet it’s exhausting, Birthday Girl.”

“It is,” she breathes out. The words are so quiet, I’m not convinced I hear them. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe it was Archer’s ghost. But I’m not sure it matters, either. Because even if she’s too stubborn to admit the truth, I know I’m right. Carrying around her frustration and pain and hurt is exhausting, and it’s slowly killing the girl beside me, even if she refuses to admit it.

“You know what I wonder, Birthday Girl?” I continue. “I wonder if maybe…maybe the point of the count’s journey was to let go of his resentment so he could finally…I don’t know. Maybe he could move on and be happy with Mercedes.”

---