Page 39 of A Little Broken

Okay, that’s a lie.

I actually really like the memory…up until I lied out of my ass to the poor guy. To be fair, it wasn’t the plan. To tell him I was engaged. But then he asked me to stay, and I actually wanted to, and…he probably hates me now. Hell, that’s if he remembers me at all. It was one night. One stupid, meaningless night. Even so, I’m not too stubborn to admit that I think about it. About him. Where he is and what he’s up to. How his life turned out. If he settled down. If he calls anyone else Birthday Girl.

Pax is…the strangest, most unique person I’ve ever slept with. How he rides the line between sexy rockstar and boy-next-door is something I’ll never fully grasp, but he did it then, and based on these photos, I’m going to say he’s still riding it like a champ. Speaking of riding, I wonder if he’s seeing anyone. I dig my thumbnail into the edge of my middle finger, resisting the urge to search his dating history even when I know it’s a terrible idea.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I open a new web browser and type in his name. Paxton Six. I doubt it’s his real name, and if I felt like stalking the web long enough, I’m pretty positive I could find out what it is, but obsessing too much over a guy I want nothing to do with feels like bad juju, and I have enough of that as it is, thank you very much.

After typing his name into the search bar, I hit enter. Photo after photo appears in an instant. His hair’s longer than it used to be. Shaggier. Guess he’s leaning into the rockstar vibe now that IndieCent Vows isn’t some up-and-coming indie band. Nope. They’ve made their splash and are holding strong. Smart man. The shaggier look suits him. My hand itches to reach out and touch it, but I stop myself. I pause on an image angled up from the edge of the stage. It’s giving the perspective of a fan as he looks down at his guitar. His fingers are curled as they cradle the neck of the instrument while his other hand appears to beplucking the strings. I squeeze my legs together at the reminder of those hands and what they did to me before scanning the rest of the image. His skin glistens with sweat in the stage lights, highlighting his strong torso, broad shoulders, and the cords along his forearms.

Yup.

It’s been around four years, and he’s only grown hotter.

A low ache hits behind my sternum. I close the laptop, caught by surprise at how quickly it hit. The ache. Sucking my lips between my teeth, my attention catches on the edge of the worn notebook I’ve carried for years. I’m not stupid enough to let what’s inside create a digital footprint that can be tracked or hacked or…seen by anyone but me. And even then, it’s rare that I actually crack its pages open and reread the words I know are written inside. Yet, I can’t let it go. Can’t burn it or bury it. It’s been around the world. Seen more countries than most people. It’s funny. After Archer died, my parents forced me to see a therapist, hoping he could convince me to let the pain out. To let it go. As if writing my feelings would be easier than speaking them. And maybe it was. Maybe it still is. It’s not like I haven’t made a new entry or two over the past year, even if I’d never admit it out loud. Maybe today is one of those days. When I should purge the sadness instead of drowning in it.

Twisting a small gold ring around my finger, I chew the edge of my lip, then reach for the worn, black notebook.

I still remember when my mom brought home a six pack of them in rainbow colors. Black, blue, yellow, red, green, and purple-dyed leather. I gravitated to the inky cover immediately. It only deepened the divot between my mom’s perfectly-shaped brows. She didn’t say anything about it, though. Only turned her frown upside down as soon as she realized she’d been caught red-handed. Being worried about me. Some things never change.

With a sigh, I slip the notebook back in my laptop case and grab my phone instead. I dial my mom’s number, bringing my cell to my ear.

As it rings, I nibble the edge of my black nail, ignoring the regret as it swirls through me. If I hang up, she’ll only call back.

The call connects.

I exhale and rest my elbow on the table.

“Hey, babe,” my mom starts.

“Tater Tot!” my dad chimes in.

I roll my eyes and shift on the chair. “Am I on speaker?”

“You really think I’d let your mom steal all the fun?” my dad asks. “I think the real question is, why in the world are you calling her and not me?”

“Figured you’d be at the chiropractor for your bad back, old man,” I quip.

My mom’s laughter tinkles through the speakers, but it isn’t enough to drown out my dad’s grumbled, “I’m not that old.”

“You are, but it’s okay. I still love ya,” my mom counters. “So to what do we owe the pleasure, Tate?” she adds, addressing me. “It isn’t even Sunday.”

I smile in spite of myself. When I left Lockwood Heights years ago, my parents made me promise to call at least once a week after I ignored one too many phone calls. If I didn’t reach out by Sunday, my phone would be in a constant state of vibration for the entire next week as punishment, along with a few dozen threats to call the police and track me down if I didn’t respond to their texts. Don’t get me wrong. I actually appreciated knowing they were thinking of me, even when I spent years pushing them away. Now, I find the weekly check-ins are the perfect way to recap everything that’s happened over the last seven days. However, it’s only Friday, so I’m early, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed.

“We miss you!” my dad adds.

“Miss you, too. Just figured I’d check in and say hi.”

“Well, hi,” my mom replies before mentioning the name of a one-night-stand I had a month ago after I mistakenly brought him up to them. “How’s the mysterious Roberto?”

“Roberto is no more.”

“You killed him?” my dad chimes in, like we’re discussing the weather instead of potential manslaughter.

I laugh. “No, but it’s good to hear you think I’m capable of killing someone.”

“We think you’re capable of anything, Tater Tot,” he reminds me.

“Not sure if I should be flattered or offended, but, uh, thank you?”

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