Page 55 of Broken Things

“Coffee,” I say, shoving my mug across the floor toward Mia. “More coffee. I would get up myself,” I add when she shoots me a look, “but that seems tiring.”

“There is no more coffee,” she says, pointedly taking a sip of her decaf green tea.Decaf.The single worst word in the English language. “You went through the last of it.”

“Coffee!” I say again, pounding a fist on the floor. “Coffee!”

Owen sighs, climbs to his feet, and stretches. Mia pretends not to be looking at the waistband of his boxers, which is briefly visible, and I look atherso she knows she’s been busted. “I’ll make a run to 7-Eleven,” he says. “I could use some coffee myself. Or some rocket fuel.”

It’s nearly three a.m., an hour since we made it back to Vermont and set up camp in Owen’s living room. That’s what it feels like—like we should be reviewing military strategy or staginga coup on a foreign dictator. Papers litter the floor and surfaces, pinned in place by random objects: a picture frame, an iPhone, a pair of cheap sunglasses. Well-thumbed stacks sport new Post-it notes. Owen’s been staring at the same few pages for the last hour, and Abby’s been making notes in a spiral notebook. Wade has been counting how often the Shadow shows up. Mia’s been trying to organize pages based on who wrote what, a nearly impossible task, since half of it is a jumble of all our ideas combined. I’ve been working on getting the world’s worst headache, reading through pages of material Summer wrote—or at least, wethoughtshe wrote—and never showed us, all of it signed with only her name. Cups and mugs everywhere, an empty bottle of soda, overturned, balled-up napkins and the powdered dregs of chips in an empty bowl.

Wade stands up too, releasing a mini avalanche of crumbs. “I’ll come along for the ride,” he says. “I could use a break.”

“I’ll come too.” Mia gets quickly to her feet, deliberately avoiding my eyes. Stupid. It’s obvious she’s still half in love with Owen. Every time they’re close, she freezes, as if he’s an electric fence and she’s worried about getting zapped.

That’s the thing about hearts. They don’t get put back together, not really. They just get patched. But the damage is still there.

“Stay,” I tell her, thumping the floor. “Let the boys have a joyride.”

“I want some air,” she says, still not looking at me. Stubborn.Mulish.Or like a pony, all skinny arms and legs and jutting lip,determined to have her way.

That’s the thing I always admired about Mia. Mute little Mia. I never heard her say a word until Summer moved to town. She talked to Owen, sure, but since Owen was such a nutter butter back then, I stayed well clear of him, too. And Mia was so shy she would burn up if you even looked at her the wrong way.

But deep down, I always suspected she was the strongest of any of us. Like in the way she stood up to Summer. The way she refused to laugh when Summer started in on Mr. Haggard for being gay or a pervert. Summer turned me to string, tangled me up. I forgave her everything, did everything for her, twisted and twisted trying to turn her into something she could never be. But Mia would stand there, arms crossed, staring at the ground and frowning slightly, even when Summer laid into her or played nice, trying to get Mia back on her side. Eventually Mia would give in, sure, but not like I did. I could tell it made Summer nervous, too, that you could never really know what Mia was thinking, that she had her own ideas.

It was the same with Owen. Mia had something that was hers, and she just held on to it, even though everyone said Owen was a freak and would wind up becoming a criminal. But Mia was so loyal, and Summer didn’t get it, couldn’t get it.

So Summer had to take it away.

“Don’t worry,” Owen says. “We’ll make sure she doesn’t run away.”

“Whatever you say.” I don’t like looking at Owen’s stupidswollen eggplant eye because then I start to feel sorry for him. Even if he didn’t kill Summer, he nearly killed Mia. That’s what heartbreak feels like: a little death. “We’ll hold down the fort.”

Everything in Owen’s house is oversize: the rooms, the furniture, even the sounds, which echo in the emptiness. Footsteps are mini explosions. The front door wheezes open again and closes with awhoompf. Funny how much quieter it is once the others are gone, even though we haven’t been talking. Too quiet. It makes me miss the weird crammed corners of my house, the way the furniture looks like people leaning in to each other at a party, trying to tell secrets.

I can even hear the noise of Abby’s pen across the paper.Scratch scratch.I mentally track the distance between us. One, two, three, four, five feet. A lot of sleek polished wood, like a golden tongue. I imagine for no reason crawling over and sitting right down next to her.

“You’re staring at me,” she says.

“No, I’m not.” Quickly, I pretend to be studying the table behind her instead.

She looks down again, continues making chicken-scratch notes. “Go on,” she adds after a beat. “I know what you were thinking. So just say it.”

Now I do stare at her. “What are you talking about?”

“You want to ask me why I’m so fat, right?” she says—casually, like it doesn’t matter. “You want to know why I don’t even try and change.”

She’s dead wrong. I wasn’t going to ask. Not even close.

I was going to say I like the way she rolls her lips toward her nose when she’s distracted.

I was going to say I like her bangs and how they look like someone cut them by lining them up to a ruler.

But there’s no way I’m saying either of those things out loud. I didn’t even mean to think them. So I say nothing.

“My body wants to be fat,” she continues impatiently, as if we’re mid-argument already and she’s cutting me off. “Why bother hating something you can’t change?”

“That’s stupid,” I say automatically. “You can change. Everyone can change.”

“Really?” She gives me a flat-outyou’re an idiotstare. “Like you can change who you are? Like you can stop being so scared?”

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