Page 106 of A Little Broken

Felt wrong?

I pull my lips between my teeth and bite down on the plump flesh, fighting the urge to blush because…what the hell? And why is that kind of hot? We aren’t together. Or at least, we weren’t. Actually, we were kind of enemies, so…why am I in his bed, and why is he looking at me like this? There’s a softness in his gaze that wasn’t there before.

“So, we didn’t like, hook up, right?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Not even a kiss goodnight.”

I nod slowly. Somehow, I’m grateful and disappointed at the same time, which makes zero sense. I stick a pin in that, too. “Let’s back up,” I decide, searching for light on all the blind spots from last night. “What did we talk about?”

He squeezes the back of his neck but stays quiet.

“Tell me,” I push.

“You sure you want to know?”

I grimace. “Is it bad?”

“Not to me,” he offers with a shrug.

Well, that sounds promising.

Forcing myself to not cower, I sit up a little straighter on the bed and keep my head held high. “Okay, tell me.”

“For starters, you mentioned your sister.”

Aaaand, just like that, I deflate like an overblown balloon. My sister. The engagement. They’re getting married. The conversation is splotchy at best, but I can still see Ophelia’s text and how much it hurt. Dread and regret tug in my chest. I fist the sheets, fighting the urge to rub at the aching spot. “And Mav,” I offer. “We talked about Mav.”

His head dips.

Fighting past the fresh knot in my throat, I whisper, “And Arch.”

Pax lowers his head again. “Yeah. And Arch.”

“That’s why Rory left,” I realize. The stone in my stomach triples in size. “Not because Roman kicked her out, but because I was a bitch.”

He grimaces. “I’m sure you weren’t?—”

“I was.” I press my forefinger to my tear duct, and stare down at the black residue from last night’s makeup. I can’t even look Paxton in the eye, let alone my best friend, but the fact is, I screwed up. Big time. “It’s hard sometimes,” I murmur. “Remembering that she might’ve lost one brother, but without that loss, she wouldn’t have her other one.”

Paxton’s sigh somehow breathes a bit of life into me, grounding me in the moment when I could so easily get lost in my shitty history and regret.

“When did it happen?” he asks.

Fiddling with my ring, I answer, “A lifetime ago.”

And it’s funny. Because Pax probably thinks I’m fudging the numbers on purpose or keeping shit vague to keep him in the dark, but in all reality? It’s the truest statement I’ve ever made.I’m not that girl anymore. But I don’t know who this one is, either. It’s like my life has been split in two. With Archer and without. And damn, if it doesn’t hurt.

“You loved him?” Pax rasps.

“I did.” I let out a sad laugh. “I did love him. I loved him so much.” Another pathetic laugh escapes me. “Which is so weird because I knew he didn’t love me. I knew he’d never love me. Not only was I younger than him, but he was too infatuated with my older sister to even consider opening that door, you know?” My forehead wrinkles. “And I hated it. That she had what I wanted, completely took it for granted,” I clarify, “and found a way to throw those feelings, the feelings I desperately wanted to be directed at me, right back in his face by falling for his twin brother instead.”

I don’t know why I say it. Why I word vomit some of my deepest, darkest secrets to a guy I’ve been determined to keep at arms’ length, but I do. Pax nods slowly, and part of me wonders if I’ve already told him all of this. If I already aired out all my dirty laundry to a guy I’m not even sure I like at this point. Okay, that’s a lie. I do like him. I like him a lot, actually. And that’s the scary part. Regardless, the idea of letting drunk Tatum steal this conversation from me feels wrong, and if I can steal back those memories by replicating them when I’m mostly sober and will actually remember what we talk about, then I need to do it. Even if it doesn’t make sense. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if it makes me want to break out in hives.

“Do you still love him?” Pax asks. It isn’t accusatory. It isn’t laced with pity. It’s genuine and open and maybe even a little hesitant or guarded. Like he knows that whatever my answer is, it’s real. It means something. It isn’t delusional or irrational or proof I’ve been stuck in la-la land for years with no escape.

And honestly, that validation? It’s the only thing making me want to give him an answer.

I press my lips together, hating how easily a simple question can threaten to knock me on my ass. Do I still love him? Did I ever love him? Do I even know what love is? I’m not even twenty-six, and all I’ve ever done is sleep around, ward off intimate emotional connections like they’re the Plague, and screw up like I did last night.

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