Broken (11 page)

Today's one of
those
days. The bad kind.

Last night the nightmares were unending, the sleep nonexistent, and the pain in my leg unbearable.

I'm avoiding Olivia like the plague. I tell myself it's because I don't want her around. But really I think I'm avoiding her because she has this annoying habit of drawing me out of my bad mood. That scares the crap out of me.

It's a little before dawn, and normally we'd be meeting for our daily walk/run. Today, though, I'm letting her go alone. Today is one of those days when I don't feel worthy to be alive, much less enjoying life with a beautiful girl. Not when my friends are dead. Not when Amanda Skinner spends half her nights sleeping upright in a chair in a hospital room while her daughter's lying in the bed, hooked up to tubes.

I watch from the office window as Olivia looks around for me. I wait for her to start off on her run, but she doesn't. She's just standing there, waiting for me, and damned if I don't ache a little to go out there with her. I want to let her cajole me into walking or, as she's been doing more recently, challenge me to take a couple of steps without the cane.

Instead I turn away, flipping blindly through the pages of my book until I look up and see that she's gone.

I intentionally go to the gym before she gets back. Most days we go together. We've fallen into a pattern. I let her coax me into stupid leg exercises in exchange for another piece of information about herself. Generally I enjoy it, although I'm starting to get pretty sick of all her responses being of the PR variety. So far she's told me absolutely nothing about the real Olivia Middleton.

Today, however, I don't want to be cajoled out of my bad mood. Lately there have been too many times when I forget who I am. I've been slipping into the old Paul, the one who could flirt and laugh with girls. I need a day to remind myself of the new Paul, the one who should have died with the rest of them in the fucking sandbox.

After the gym, avoiding Olivia for the rest of the day is easy enough, but when four o'clock rolls around, I hesitate. Of all the habits we've established, the routine of reading by the fire is the one I enjoy the most. And it's for that reason that I force myself to lock the door, even turning up the music so I won't have to listen to her knock or the rattling of the doorknob.

Eventually an hour passes, and then another, and I manage to lose myself in my book.

But when my stomach rumbles, I realize my mistake: I'm hungry.

I naively thought Olivia would leave a tray outside my bedroom door when I didn't respond to her knock at lunch. I was wrong. And the absence of so much as a sandwich made Olivia's message clear: if I want to sulk alone, I'll do so without food.

That was fine at breakfast. And lunch. But now? Now I'm starving, and the smell of something meaty and spicy coming from the kitchen is too much for my stomach to ignore.

As expected, Olivia's in the kitchen, only she's not wearing a cute little apron or looking all frazzled from throwing together whatever's bubbling on the stove. Instead, she's wearing tight black pants, high-heeled boots, and a flowing, expensive-looking shirt that is clearly not meant for lounging around the house.

This is not domestic Olivia. It's going-out Olivia.

“Going somewhere?” I ask, tearing my eyes away from her ass.

She spins around, opening her mouth as though to ask where the hell I've been all day, but she catches herself and fixes a vacant smile on her face.

“Hey. I hope you like chili,” she says. “It's a little spicy, but enough cheddar cheese on top should tone it down.”

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” I say, noting that she's spent more time on her makeup. She's done that thing that girls do to make their eyes darker and more mysterious, and her mouth is pink and glossy.

“Hot date?” I ask, still fishing.

“Yeah,” she says with a snort. “I've met
so
many great guys since I've been holed up here in your house. The really hospitable and friendly type.”

I move toward her under the guise of inspecting the pot on the stove, but she sidles away before I can get close. Smart girl.

She grabs her purse.

“Where are you headed?” I hate myself for asking. For caring.

Olivia lifts a shoulder and fiddles with the strap of her purse. “Lindy says there's a bar not too far from here that I might like. Says you used to know the girl who's bartender there.”

“Kali Shepherd,” I say automatically. “What the hell are you going out for?”

“I get two nights and one day a week off,” she snaps. “I'm finally putting them to use.”

“Why haven't you taken them before now?”

“Because before now I've always had Lindy or Mick to talk to when you're having one of your childish episodes.”

“They're not
episodes.
And I'm allowed to have a break from people.”

“Well, then you'll understand why I need to get out.
I
need a break. From you.” She gives a condescending smile and moves as though to pat my cheek. My fingers wrap around her wrist and I squeeze. Hard.

“Don't. Touch. Me,” I say, my teeth clenched.
Don't ever touch me.

I release her hand with so much force that she almost topples backward, thrown off balance in her high heels.

I swear roughly and reach out a hand to steady her, but she steps back to avoid my touch. I drop my hand. I can't blame her for recoiling, but I hate it all the same.
I'm a monster.

“Olivia…”

“Don't apologize,” she says quietly. “I shouldn't have tried. I'm sorry.”

She reaches down to pick up the purse that she dropped, and scoops her keys off the counter. “Mick said I could borrow one of the cars. I won't be late, but I have my cell if you need anything.” She heads toward the door.

“Wait,” I say, moving toward her.

Olivia pauses, giving me a look over her shoulder. “What?”

“I…”

I have no fucking idea what I'm trying to say. I don't know if I want to tell her to stay, or have fun, or something even more godawful and unimaginable, like beg her to take me with her.

Take me with you on a Friday night where there are people and beers and laughter and shitty music, and my old friend Kali.

But I say none of those things, especially not the last one.

I don't go
out
. Not anymore.

“Thanks for making me dinner,” I say gruffly.

This time she doesn't even turn around. “Just doing my job, Langdon.”

I've never been to a bar by myself.

And I can't say I've ever imagined my first foray into solo drinking being at a tiny local bar on the outskirts of Bar Harbor, Maine. But tonight I force myself.

Lately I've been terrified that Paul's reclusiveness will be contagious. Like if I don't get some outside human interaction, I'll turn into a hostile turd like him and become this wretched beast who doesn't have to be accountable to anyone for my pissy moods.

Actually, that's only part of the reason I left the house tonight. Truthfully? I hoped he'd come with me. Not that I asked. I intentionally
didn't
ask, being stupid enough to imagine that the thought of being left all alone might be enough to spur Paul into leaving the house of his own volition.

My plan was to make it look very much like I
wanted
him to stay. I made what Google claimed to be the Ultimate World-Famous Chili, avoided him all day (actually, he avoided me first, but whatever), and I dressed carefully in an outfit intended to be sexy but understated. You know, a girl going out on the town for her own amusement, but if she happened to meet a cute guy, then hey, why not?

But Paul didn't take the bait. I guess I should count it as progress that he even came out of his lair in search of food, but the truth is, I'm disappointed. It's just not right for a twentysomething guy to be cooped up in the house for years. How long until all of that isolation turns him into one of those weird hermits who can't function in normal society even if he wanted to?

I'm parked outside of Frenchy's. I want to turn right back around and go home, but Lindy's lecture from earlier that afternoon is still rattling around in my brain.
Just because he wants to pretend he's dead doesn't mean you have to. We may not be New York City, but we have good people here. Work your thing, sister.

Okay, so the talk had been half sweet, half awkward, but Lindy made a good point. I don't want to end up like Paul: socially stunted and on a one-way street toward freakdom.

I get out of the car.

From the outside, Frenchy's—I assume the name comes from its location on Frenchman Bay—looks like a combination of ski lodge and roadside dive. The wood beams give it a homey, welcoming feeling, while the smattering of neon beer signs in the windows lends just the right amount of bar vibe. On the right side of the building is a covered deck, which I imagine is the place to be on a clear summer's day, but in late September it's deserted. However, the faint thump of music shows that inside, at least, there's some activity.

I take a deep breath and open the door.

My worst-case scenario is that the entire place falls silent as everyone turns to stare at the newcomer. Best case is nobody notices me and I can find a bar stool, preferably on the end, where I can sit and get my bearings.

The reality is somewhere in between. The old-school rock music rocks on as I step inside, and although the majority of the clientele is far enough along in whiskey and beer to be oblivious to my arrival, people at the handful of tables nearest the door turn to glance at me. And then glance a second time.

Lindy assured me that this was a local hangout, a place where I'd fit right in, but I think she may have been forgetting the not-so-tiny detail that I'm not exactly a local. I
don't
fit right in. Not even a tiny bit.

Even if my clothes don't scream city girl (which they do), I stand out just by virtue of being a girl at all. I count maybe five women, sure, but the majority of the clientele is men. Fishermen, judging from the attire.

Still, it's not quite the painful scene I was fearing. It's uncomfortable, sure, but most of the looks are curious, not lecherous or leering. I give a tentative smile at a middle-aged couple, and the woman gives me a half smile back as her companion turns back to his phone and beer, totally disinterested.

Although there are plenty of available tables, sitting alone at a table somehow seems a little too lonely considering I'm after human companionship, so I make my way to a cluster of empty bar stools.

Almost immediately a glass of water is in front of me, followed by a white paper coaster with
Frenchy's
scribbled across the middle in a no-nonsense font.

“What can I get ya?” asks a friendly voice.

The bartender is a cute brunette with freckles and warm honey-brown eyes. Her hair's pulled up in one of those messy buns that some girls make look adorable. She's one of those girls.

“Um, white wine?” I ask, hoping it's not a terrible faux pas in a place like this.

“I've got a chardonnay or a pinot grigio. The chard's way better.”

“I'll have that, then,” I say, returning her friendly smile.

She plunks a glass in front of me before heading to the fridge and pulling out the wine bottle.

“Not a lot of wine drinkers?” I ask, noticing that the bottle is unopened.

She shrugs. “Beer's definitely the drink of choice, but more people are getting wine now that I got rid of the sugary swill they used to serve here.”

“Oh, wow,” I say as she fills my glass way beyond the typical pour.

“You look like you need it,” she says with a wink before sliding back down the bar to check on the other patrons.

She's right on two fronts—the chardonnay is delicious, and I
do
need it.

I watch the bartender out of the corner of my eye as she chats up an old guy at the end of the bar, her laugh long and genuine as he tells her some story about his grandson's antics.

Lindy didn't describe the mysterious Kali to me beyond saying that she's a “good sort,” but the age is about right, and I wonder if this is Paul's childhood summer friend.

When she makes her way toward me again to refill my water, I get up the nerve to ask.

“Yeah, I'm Kali,” she says, looking a little surprised by the question. “Have we met?”

“Nope, I'm new to the area.”

“Yeah, I guessed that by the silk shirt,” she says in a confidential whisper. “I'm betting it costs more than a car payment for most of us in here. Tourist?”

“Sort of,” I hedge. “I'm working over at the Langdon house.”

Her smile slips. “Paul's place?”

“Yeah.”

She stands up straighter, her palms flat against the bar as she studies me, almost protective. “You don't look like Langdon employee material.”

Her tone isn't unkind, but it's clear I'm being evaluated. “What do I look like?”

She shrugs. “A few years ago I would have pegged you as girlfriend material for Paul. But now…”

We make eye contact and have one of those weird moments of female understanding. We both know he doesn't do girlfriends anymore. “I'm the new caregiver,” I say quietly. “Although that word never quite feels right.”

“Yeah, Paul's never really been one to be taken care of. At least, not as I remember him.”

I lean forward a little, desperate to keep her talking, but not wanting to come off as prying. “You haven't seen him since he came back?”

She shakes her head and needlessly tops off my wineglass—a good sign that she's not trying to get rid of me. “Nah. My folks' place isn't too far from his house. The Langdons used to rent that place where they live, you know. Paul's father only bought it a couple of years ago when he needed a full-time, um,
retreat
for Paul. I live closer to town now, but back when we were kids I
lived
for the day when Paul would show up for those couple of weeks in the summer.”

I quickly stamp down the surge of jealousy. They were just kids, for God's sake.
Friends
. At least I think they were just friends. And not that it's any of my business if they were more.

“He know you're here tonight?” she asks, her tone casual. Too casual. I know what she's really asking:
Why hasn't he come to see me?

“He, um…he's not so much the social type,” I say.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “I gathered that after getting turned away at the door every day for a month after he moved in.”

My heart twists a little at the sadness in her voice.

What the hell, Paul?
It's clear to me now that he's friendless and alone because he wants to be. Not because everybody shunned him.

“How's he doing?” she asks. “I mean, we all hear things, but you know small towns and their rumors. It's hard to pull out the facts.”

“He's probably about like you've heard,” I say, maintaining eye contact. “Rude, angry, and generally unpleasant.”

“Well now,” a low voice says from behind me. “There's something to make a guy's heart skip a beat.”

I freeze at the familiar voice. Too late I realize that the place has grown mostly quiet, save for the music. I turn around and realize that the awkward staring I've been expecting has finally commenced.

Only they're not staring at me.

They're staring at Paul.

His eyes hold mine for several seconds, his thumb doing that slow stroking over the head of his cane before his eyes move over my shoulder and lock on the girl behind the bar. “Hey, Kali.”

Please don't reject him,
I silently beg of her.
Please understand how big a moment this is for him.

I don't know if she hears my unspoken plea or if she's just a really, really good sort of person, because she doesn't throw a beer in his face or make any kind of snotty remark. Instead she launches herself across the bar and winds her arms around his neck. It's a hug. The stunned look of pleasure on his face almost breaks my heart.

When Kali releases him, Paul gives an almost shy smile and starts to sit on the stool to my right, but then inexplicably moves around to sit on the other side of me.

The pressure in my chest tightens as I realize what he's just done. He's intentionally sat with the scarred side of his face toward me, his good side facing everyone else.

He trusts me.

The realization makes me ridiculously warm.

“What can I get you?” Kali asks. “Last time we drank together, it was sneaking citrus vodka out of your dad's liquor cabinet.”

Paul laughs. “I've graduated. How about whiskey and Coke?”

Kali plops the drink down in front of him before reluctantly moving back down the bar to attend to a gesturing patron.

Several people are still looking our way and whispering, but Paul seems determined to ignore them, and I follow suit.

“So my chili was that bad?” I ask, taking a sip of my wine.

He stabs at his ice with the stir stick. “I had some. It wasn't awful.”

“It was amazing, and you know it. Take back what you said about me not being able to cook.”

The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. “I found a sandwich in the fridge. I'm guessing you made it for lunch and then took it away because I was hiding like a little bitch?”

I tap my nose.
Bingo.

He smirks. “Well, I had a bite of the sandwich. Completely pedestrian.”

“It was turkey and cheddar on wheat. What the hell were you expecting for lunch, some sort of asiago soufflé and escarole salad?”

Paul snorts. “Your New York is showing.”

He has a point. I've long been part of the high-priced wine bar and froufrou café set. Asiago soufflés used to be part of an average Wednesday. Even though I've been holed up here in Maine for all of a few weeks, those days feel like they were forever ago. It somehow feels
exactly right
to be perched on this worn leather stool at a wooden bar that looks older than I am, sitting next to a guy who's one part beautiful mystery and one part unpredictable beast.

“You can relax,” I say quietly. “Everyone's gone back to their business.”

“Only because they can't see the scars from this angle. If they could, they'd be heading toward the door or puking up their onion rings.”

“
I
see them, and I'm not running toward the door.”

His eyes flick to mine then, and for a second there's this
moment
between us.

Kali comes back and the moment's gone. I don't resent her. Not really. She represents a normal side of Paul that I haven't been able to access—his pre-Afghanistan self. And her response to his new appearance couldn't have been more perfect.

But that doesn't mean I have to like the way he keeps laughing at every other thing she says, or the way they're both dropping names of mutual friends I've never heard of. Five minutes ago I thought Kali was just about the cutest, nicest thing on the planet—definite Maine BFF material. Now I
hate
that she's the cutest, nicest thing on the planet. I also hate the way Paul is smiling so easily around her. He never smiles like that around
me.

Pull it together, Olivia.
This is what I want for him. A normal social life. Human interaction. Cute girls who can see beyond his scars.

Annnnnnnd
now Kali's hand is on his arm. And he's not removing it.
Awesome.
I take a huge sip of wine before leaning in and breaking up the sweet little tête-à-tête.

“Hey, Kali, ladies' room?” I ask.

She shifts her friendly smile over to me and removes her hand from Paul's arm—
good girl
—to point me in the right direction. “Follow the bar along this way, and then take a left. Ladies' room is at the end of the hall on the right.”

Since the restrooms are in the opposite direction of the front door, I pass a whole new set of tables and realize I may have been a little bit hasty in my assumption that I'd avoided the worst of people staring at the “new girl.” There's a couple of middle-aged men in the corner who do that up-and-down leer and are either too crass or too inebriated to care how obvious they are. Whatever. We have those kinds of creeps in New York, too. I move on.