Page 2 of A Little Broken

Tucking my chin-length hair behind my ear, I force a smile. “Thanks.”

“They’re outside,” she adds, stepping back to give me more space.

My body feels like concrete, but I force it to move, wrapping my mom in a stiff hug and heading into the blustery weather. It’s not that I don’t love my mom. I love her more than pretty much anything. My parents are awesome. Like, literally the best. But it doesn’t mean they can fix what’s broken inside me, no matter how much they want to. I know it, and I think they know it, too. Which makes all of this so much harder.

The girls are all piled in one car, making this a squishy adventure at best. Dylan is behind the wheel, and Finley rides shotgun. Rory, my not-blood-related cousin; Raine, my cousin’s girlfriend; and Ophelia, my I-wish-we-weren’t-blood-related older sister are in the back.

Ignoring her, I head to the opposite side of the car and squeeze in beside Rory without a word. We’ve never really been close, but there’s something to be said about broken hearts. And when they’re broken because of the same man? I don’t know. Maybe we’re more alike than I gave us credit. I might be in love with a dead man, but Rory lost her brother.

Not that it matters. I still have to survive this night with Ophelia, so the sooner we pull out of the driveway, the sooner we can get to the restaurant, fake a happy meal, and I can go home again.

To what?

I don’t have anything.

I shove the thought aside.

Finley turns the volume up on the radio, and I rest my elbow on the edge of the passenger window, staring through the glass as my hometown whirs past.

When we stop at a light, a motorcycle pulls up beside us. It looks like a nice one. Black. Chrome. Leather. Shiny. Like it’s been washed recently. The guy driving it sits back, balancing on the behemoth between his legs as he stretches his arms over his head. He must’ve been riding for a while.

When he catches me staring, my head snaps forward. Then, I peek again. His face is shielded thanks to the black helmet, but it’s angled and faces me head-on. He’s watching me.

Slowly, he draws a frown on his face shield, then points to me.

You’re sad.

It’s like I can read his thoughts.

Instead of confirming or denying his assumption, I lift my shoulder an inch and suck the inside of my cheek between my molars.

Why are you sad, Tatum?

He’s in a better place, Tatum.

Everything’s going to be okay, Tatum.

You need to let him go, Tatum.

With a slow nod, the stranger raises a fist into the air, moving it up and down a few inches.

One.

Two.

Three.

He flattens his palm.

My brows pull downward as I’m dragged back to the present and mouth, “What?”

The stranger tosses his hands in the air and repeats the motion.

One.

Two.

Three.

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