Page 3 of A Little Broken

He holds two fingers up this time, making them relatively parallel to the asphalt.

Scissors.

He wants to play Rock, Paper, Scissors.

I roll my eyes, caught off guard but also grateful for the distraction. He lifts his chin, curling his hand into a fist for a third time. Giving in, I mirror his movements, dipping my closed hand a few inches down and up in rhythm with his.

One.

Two.

Three.

His hand stays fisted, choosing rock, and I flatten mine, creating paper.

Paper covers rock.

I win.

The biker tosses his hands into the air again and shakes his head in defeat. Giving me his full attention once more, he draws a smile in the air with his index finger. It’s stupid and playful and corny, but my stomach flutters, my mouth lifting into a ghost of a smile before I can stop it. He wants me to smile. To stop being sad. If only it was that easy. And maybe if I knew who the stranger was, I’d argue with him. I’d point out how delusional his request really is. I can’t choose to be happy when I feel like my world’s been ripped apart. But I also can’t denyhow a stupid game of Rock, Paper, Scissors at a stoplight has lifted the suffocating pressure more than my countless sessions with my therapist or sob sessions with my parents. And that’s…something.

Isn’t it?

Satisfied with the minuscule bone I’ve thrown him in the form of a weak smile, the stranger bends over his bike, twists the handle, and flies down the road.

As I watch him disappear around the corner, the familiar weight I’m used to carrying settles back on my chest. But it was nice. The tiny reprieve. Even if it only lasted a minute.

At least it was a minute.

And maybe, with enough time, I’ll be able to collect more.

Or maybe not.

1

TATUM

A FEW YEARS LATER…

“Seriously, I cannot believe you did this,” I muse.

“It’s your birthday, and you’re my best friend,” Rory reminds me. “I literally had to do this.”

She didn’t, but I appreciate her thoughtfulness nonetheless.

I kind of hate my birthday. I kind of hate a lot of things, but I especially hate my birthday. It’s another reminder that a year has passed and he’s still gone. To be fair, a lot of things remind me of Archer Buchanan’s absence. Specific dates. Holidays. Smells. Books. Honestly, my birthday is pretty low on the totem pole, all things considered. Doesn’t make it easier, though.

Slipping out of the Uber, I hook my arm through my best friend’s, who also happens to be Archer’s younger sister, and peer up at the venue. Rough brick exterior with glowing windows peppered across the front. Music echoes through the air. The band must’ve already started playing. Tilting my head, I listen to the familiar beat while the scent of weed mixes with the beer and sweat clinging to the air. Not a great combination, but I won’t complain. There are so many people here. They crowd the front of the building, creating a long line from the main entrance out to the dark road. This is insane. The energy really sells theplace, though. Hell, it’s electric. I bite the inside of my bottom lip to keep from grinning like a full-blown lunatic.

“See? I knew you’d love this,” Rory adds.

“Who are we seeing?” I ask. “Because it kind of sounds like…” I pause, listening to the muffled, almost-familiar chorus filtering from the building.

“Like…your favorite band?” Rory finishes for me.

My jaw drops, and I stop midstep, twisting my best friend to face me fully. “Are you serious?”

“Maybe.”

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