Page 46 of A Little Broken

“Uh, no he wasn’t. His friend was looking at me. The other one? With the tan hat? He was looking atyou.”

She sneaks another peek, then stares at the sand beneath her feet. “Whatever.”

“Got caught, huh?” I laugh. “Let me introduce you.”

“I think I’m good.”

“And I think exposure therapy’s a good thing.”

Her glare cuts to me. “You shouldn’t even know what exposure therapy is, let alone how to use it against me.”

“Then you shouldn’t have told me what it is or how to use it against you,” I quip. “Come on. If you do this, I’ll even promise to do the dishes for a week.”

“Yeah, but you do them wrong.”

“Exposure therapy,” I sing.

She groans. “Tate.”

“Rory, he’s only a boy.”

“Yeah, but boys hate me.”

I laugh even harder but stop my pursuit of cowboy to face my best friend again. “Boys do not hate you. Boys actually love you—or at least, they’d like to, long and hard, I might add—if only you’d let them.”

“Tate…” It’s a plea.

We’ve played this game before. Where I push her to do things outside of her comfort zone while she internally curses me for it. It’s always a roll of the dice, and tonight isn’t any different. There are times when she thanks me after, albeit grudgingly. And then, there are times when I’m pretty sure she wishes she never knew me or gave me a front-row seat to her insecurities and how fucked she is. It’s okay, though. Because she knows it’s what makes us kindred spirits. Both of us are fucked. Why? Because both of us fell for the wrong person, and there’s nothing we can do about it, let alone let go of them when we both know they’ll never love us back.

Picking at the label on my beer bottle, I suggest, “Just pretend.” My tone is softer than before but even more weighted. More somber. Because we both know it’s what I’ve been doing my entire life. Pretending.

Something hits her gaze as Rory stares at me, barreling right past my defenses. She forces herself to nod and wipes her hands against her denim skirt. “Lead the way, Tate.”

I walk us toward the half-circle of guys. When we reach them, I say, “Why, hello.”

The first cowboy smirks as he shamelessly checks me out. “Hello.”

“Have you met my friend, Rory?”

His attention flicks to my best friend. “Hello, Rory.”

She takes another sip of her drink and cradles the glass bottle to her chest. “H-hello.”

“Name’s Andrew,” he replies. “You from around here?”

13

PAXTON

“Fuck, man. Are you…are you Paxton Six?” the stranger questions.

Well, shit. So much for having a night off. I figured I might be able to get away with flying under the radar since it’s dark and there are at least a hundred people on the beach, along with copious alcohol, but I guess it isn’t my lucky night.

I should be used to it by now. being recognized everywhere I go. Usually I relish it. The reminder of how far I’ve come from where I started. But then there are nights like tonight. When I honestly don’t give a shit anymore, and all I want to do is enjoy a beer in public without someone trying to kiss my ass or interview me like they work for a gossip magazine.

I barely cast a glance at the stranger, choosing to take in the moonlight reflecting off the dark water instead. I haven’t been to one of the bonfires in forever. Jagger, Ford, and Hawke have been throwing them for years. They learned from their uncle, though Judge would never admit it. It’s either a bonfire, or a fight night, or poker, or a drag race. Whatever the hell they feel like doing. The town eats it up like a groupie would cocaine. I get it, though. In a small town like Harden Heights, anywhere the guys go is the place to be.

“You are Paxton, right? From IndieCent Vows?” the stranger asks. He sways in my periphery, proving he’s had one too many beers for the night.

---