Page 73 of Broken Things

“I am going to open this door, Mia.” Now my father’s voice is barely more than a whisper. “I am going to open it in three seconds, do you understand me? One... two...”

I step away, hugging myself, choking on a sob that rolls up from my stomach.

“Three.”

For a long second, he doesn’t even go inside. He stands there, frozen, as if he’s fighting the urge to run. Then he lifts a hand to his mouth—slowly, slowly, afraid to move, afraid to touch anything. “Oh my God,” he says.

“I’m sorry.” I bend over and put my hands on my knees, sobbing in gasps. I don’t know what I’m sorry for, exactly—my mom, because I didn’t protect her; my dad, because I couldn’t stop it. “I’m sorry,” I say again.

He barely seems to hear me. “Oh my God.” A few feet inside and his foot squelches on something sticky. He flinches. Another step.Crackle, crackle.Old magazines snap underfoot. Even from outside I can make out the Piles, pointing like fingers toward aheaven that doesn’t exist, and all I can think is how mad he’s going to be, and how mad Mom’s going to be, and how I’ve messed up everything, even things that were messed up from the beginning. And I can barely breathe, I’m crying so hard: a broken girl with a broken heart living in a broken house.

“Mia.” Then my dad turns around to face me, and I’m shocked to see not anger but a look as if someone just tore his heart out through his chest. I’ve never seen my dad cry, not once, not even at his own mother’s funeral—but now he’s crying, fully, without even bothering to wipe his face. Then he’s rocketing out onto the porch again and has picked me up like I’m still a little kid, so my feet lift off the ground and his arms are crushing my ribs and I’m so startled that I completely forget to be sad.

“It’s okay, Dad,” I say, even as he cries in big, long gulps. We’ve switched roles. Now he’s the one apologizing.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he keeps saying, over and over. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

There was no denying it. No understanding it, either.

The fact was this: the Shadow was getting stronger again.

—FromReturn to Lovelornby Summer Marks, Brynn McNally, and Mia Ferguson

Brynn

Now

Wednesday morning, July 20, two weeks after Heath Moore’s cousin dragged me home, attempt number 1,024 to reach Abby, fifth ring...

Sixth ring...

Voice mail.

“Hey, this is Abby. If you’re getting this message, it probably means I’m screening your calls....”

I thumb out of the call just as my sister practically kicks in the door, still dressed in her scrubs, hair swept back into a ponytail and eyes raccooned with tiredness.

She fists the door closed. “Fucking thing’s swollen,” she says, which is my-sister-speak forHi! How are you! Nice to see you!But she comes and thumps down next to me on the couch, kicking up her feet on the coffee table, nudging aside Mom’s laptop. A school brochure slithers to the carpet, wedged with Post-it notes. Eversince I got home, Mom’s been writing away to every single alternative high school program on the East Coast.Not even an addict, she just kept saying when I told her, shaking her head, as if she almost wished I was.Really, Brynn. Well, I guess it’s about time you finish up school, then.

Erin fishes a Coke from her bag, pops open the tab, and takes a long swig.

“How was work?” I ask. She’s been working doubles all summer, sometimes as many as forty-eight hours on shift, and then two days off when she crawls into bed.

“Same as usual. Lots of old people.” Erin always talks this way, like she doesn’t give a shit, but I know that’s a lie. She’s busted ass to get through medical school, taken out tens of thousands of dollars in loans, and she still takes money out of her paycheck to buy gifts for her favorite patients. “Saw your friend Mia again,” she says through another slurp of soda.

“She’s not my friend,” I say quickly, and I’m surprised that it hurts. Stupid. We spend four days playing Scooby-Doo and now I feel lonely because the game’s over.

I’ve spoken to Mia only once since Moore brought me home. Went up to town for coffee and I ran into her at Toast. She was dressed like she always dresses, in neat little shorts that looked like they’d been pressed and her hair in a bun and a polo shirt, but she looked more relaxed somehow—less like she was moving with a yardstick up her you-know-what. She told me she was spending more time at her dad’s while her mom got help fromcounselors at North Presbyterian Hospital, where my sister is doing her residency. Apparently a whole team of people are treating her house for black mold spores and other nasty shit her father was afraid would ruin her lungs.

“Have you spoken to Owen?” I asked her, and her face got closed again and she shook her head. And then, because I couldn’t help it, I asked, “How’s Abby?”

Mia made a face. “Hanging out with Wade a lot. Can you believe it?”

“Star Warsfandom,” I said. “What can you do?” That made her laugh, but it was a forced laugh, like wincing.

I never thought there’d be a day when I’d actuallymissWade. Half the time I text Wade now, he’s with Abby. I nearly spilled everything to Mia then, standing in front of Toast with my iced coffee sweating through my fingers—about Abby, and how mean I was. How stupid I was. How I actually kinda like her.

How over and over I’ve replayed the kiss in my head.

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