Page 56 of Broken Things

That makes the anger click on, a little flame in my chest. “I’m notscared,” I say. “I’m not scared of anything.”

She gives me the look again. “Uh-huh. That’s why the drugs and the drinking. That’s why the rehab. Because you’re so good at facing up to reality. Because you’reso brave.” She shakes her head. “You’re scared. You’re hiding.”

This brings the flame a little higher, a little hotter, so I can feel it burning behind my cheeks. She’s right, of course. Maybe not about the drugs or drinking, but about why I’ve stayed in rehab, why I’ve been desperate to go back, why I’ve been avoiding my mom and sister, too. “Well, you’re scared too,” I fire back. “You’re hiding too.”

“Hiding?” She snorts, gesturing to her outfit: the taffeta skirt, the crazy shoes. “I don’t think so.”

“Sure you are.” I’m picking up steam now. “You hide behind your weirdo outfits and your makeup tutorials and your loudmouth everything. So no one will have to look at you. So no one will have toseeyou.”

I don’t even plan on saying the words until they’re out of my mouth. Abby blinks, as if I’ve spit on her, and I know then that I’m right. Abruptly, the flame goes out with a little fizzle and I’m left swallowing the taste of ash. I want to apologize, but I’m not sure how.

The worst is that she doesn’t get angry. She studies her hands in her lap—plump, heart-shaped, and soft, with nails the color of watermelon. I think of kissing them one by one and then shove the image out of my mind. She’s not even my type. She’s not even alesbian, as far as I know.

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” Abby says, looking up at me again. “I’ve never been anything but too fat. Ever.”

It isn’t any of my exes that come to mind but Summer, Summer hovering somewhere around the ceiling, maybe exhaled by the pages, her blond hair transformed by the lights into an angel’s halo, but her lips curled back into a sneer.Chubby chaser. Freak parade. Dyke.

“You’re not too fat,” I say. My voice sounds overloud. Like I’m shouting.

And maybe I am, partly. Shouting at Summer to shut up. Toleave me alone. To leaveAbbyalone.

She isn’t yours to break, Summer.

“You don’t have to say that.” Abby cracks a smile.

“I’m serious,” I say. What’s shocking is that in that moment, I realize I am. “You aren’ttooanything. You’re just fine. You’re... good.”

Long seconds of silence. Summer, wherever she is, holds her breath. Finally, Abby smiles.

“Wow,” she says. “I guess you’re not a total bitch after all.”

I roll my eyes. Just like that, all the awkwardness between us is gone. “Stop. I’m blushing.”

“Hey, check it out.” She scoots over to me, closing theonetwothreefourfivefeet of distance. Leaning forward so our shoulders touch and I get a nice shivery feeling. Like eating ice cream with a really cold spoon. She flips open her notebook and shows me what she’s been working on: a two-columned list, withReturn to Lovelorncharacters and places in the left-hand column. The right-hand column is mostly empty, except that she’s writtenfootball stadiumnext toarenaandMrs. Marstonnext to the giantess Marzipan.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I want to keep track of all the real people you guys wrote about,” she says. “The real places, too. Maybe we’ll see a pattern.”

“Some of the characters we didn’t make up,” I say. “Some of them we took from the first book.” I point to Gregor, the thief, and Arandelle, the fairy, and she crosses them off her list.

“What about Brenn, the fierce knight who takes off everyone’sheads in the tournament?” She looks up. All smirk and smile. Lashes midnight-black and lips a vivid bloodred. “Sounds like someone I know.”

“Brenn was my idea,” I admit. “Summer wouldn’t let my character enter the tournament, since we were supposed to be in the stands cheering Gregor on. So we wrote in Brenn instead.”

“And the kiss she demands from Summer after she decapitates the troll?”

I look away. “That was Summer’s idea. Kind of a joke.”

“Were you guys... ?” Abby licks her lips. Her tongue is pink, small, catlike. “I mean, was she your... ?”

“Girlfriend?” I say, and she nods, obviously relieved she doesn’t have to say it out loud. “No. She wasn’t even gay. She just liked to mess with me.”

And then, before I can stop it, I remember the time she came in through the window after she and Jake Ginsky broke up in February, her clothes smelling like cold, her skin like a freezer burn. How she climbed into bed with me but wouldn’t stop shivering, even when I squeezed her so tight I wondered how she could keep breathing. How she lay there gasping and snotting all over my pillow while her back drummed a hard rhythm on my chest. How we took off our clothes down to our underwear. For body heat, she said. And how she turned to me just as I was starting to drift off....

Do you love me, Brynn?

So much.

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