Broken (16 page)

“First things first.” I keep my voice matter-of-fact. “You should know that I'm a terrible cuddler.”

“There's no such thing,” he says.

“No, there is. I thrash and stuff,” I say, tapping my fingers against his knee to get him to lift his leg so I can pull the blanket all the way up.

He tenses a little, and I belatedly realize what I just did. I touched his leg—his bad leg. I was so busy trying not to stare at his junk that I completely forgot.

My eyes fly to his face, but his expression is unreadable. Typical. But at least he's not flipping out.

I snatch my hand back, but I let my eyes return to his leg. I don't know what I was expecting. Bones sticking out every which way and covered with alien skin, or something.

But it just looks…different. Like the skin is a different texture on one side of his thigh. Skin graft, maybe?

“You should have seen the other guy,” he says softly.

I let out a little laugh, even though it's not funny. He's talking about it. And he's letting me look.

As a reward for his baby steps, I change the subject again. “Listen, soldier, if you start wailing in your sleep again, this cuddle deal is off the table.”

“I don't remember making a cuddle deal.”

“You did,” I say confidently. “With your eyes.”

“A girlish delusion, clearly,” he says. But he lifts his arm to make room for me anyway, and I hunker down before he can change his mind.

As far as crossing the line goes, cuddling's almost as bad as making out with him, but there's nothing in the world that could make me leave this bed.

I hesitate only a second before resting my head against his shoulder. I shouldn't touch him. After what happened—almost happened—I really shouldn't touch him. But I can't seem to stop my hand from skimming over his shoulder and then along to his biceps. I start to trace my fingers down his forearm to his wrist when he jerks and tenses.

I glance up at him in surprise, but he's still staring straight up at the ceiling. He lets out a long, intentional breath, and I realize he's trying to force himself to relax. To not freak out about…

My eyes move to where my hand rests on his lower arm.

The marks aren't obvious. Nothing like the scars on his face. But something happened to his wrists. Something inhuman and brutal.

I swallow. “Do you want to talk?” I ask.

His fingers graze over my upper arm. Not sexually. Just…nicely.

“God, no,” he says gently.

“So what, we just lie here?” I say, even though that sounds like heaven to me.

“That's the plan. I'm counting on your shitty cuddling skills to keep the nightmares away.”

I snuggle closer. “Done. And in exchange, you can take back what you said about my hair and my pajamas.”

His fingers toy with the tips of my hair. “I'll admit that bedhead has a certain sexy appeal. But I stand by what I said about your tank top. It's ugly and inside out.”

“But hey, it
is
a tank top,” I say, “So at least you got to see the boobs.”

“See, but not touch,” he grumbles.

In my flirty, relaxed mood, it's on the tip of my tongue to say “next time,” but I catch myself before the words get out. Still, for the next hour I'm definitely thinking about
next time.

And if his agitated breath is any indication, so is he.

Olivia wasn't kidding. She really is a terrible cuddler.

For the first twenty minutes or so after she curls up at my side, it's nice. Really nice. Then, about five minutes after her breathing becomes regular and I'm just starting to drift off, her hand jerks, karate-chopping my jugular. I'm still recovering when she abruptly flops over onto her back, hitting my still-sore nose with the back of her hand.

Luckily, I catch her knee before it nails my nuts. Barely. She makes a little huff of irritation before spreading her arms out to the sides as if the king-size bed is all hers for the taking.

Which, of course, it is.

More alarming is that I'm afraid
I'm
becoming hers for the taking.

I roll onto my side to face her, although I keep my distance from her flailing limbs. For now, it's enough to be close to her. Never before was I so tempted to tell someone about my dreams. To lay my head against her and just talk. About Alex. About that day. About the godforsaken war that ruined my life and took so many others. About the Afghani insurgents and their lethal knives. About the fact that my best friend, bloody and barely breathing, used the last of
his
life to save mine.

I reach out a hand, resting my fingers against her palm as she sleeps, and try to let the simple contact with another person take away all of the bad memories. At least for now.

It apparently works, because when I wake up, it's nearly dawn.

I smile to realize that Olivia's still in my bed, although this isn't one of those sexy scenarios where the guy and girl fall asleep only to wake up tangled in each other. Nope. This is more her stretched in every direction while I get a tiny sliver of my own bed.

It's worth it, though, especially because my fingers linked with hers sometime during the night.

I ease my hand away and sit up, and she immediately scoots over to take up the newly opened space. I smile, and for the first time in a long time, the smile is easy. Genuine.

I pull out one of my workout T-shirts and reach for one of my many pairs of workout pants, but then I pause. I open a different drawer instead, and pull out gym shorts.

There's this weird thing I used to have about working out in shorts. No matter the time of year, except on the very coldest of Boston days, I liked to wear shorts. After I got back from Afghanistan, that, along with about a million other elements of the “old me,” disappeared. I couldn't bear to look at the skin of my own leg, much less watch other people's reaction to it.

But last night Olivia looked. And touched. And there wasn't an ounce of disgust or pity or morbid curiosity. It was merely an observation, like,
Oh, so that's what that looks
like.

I take a deep breath and put on the shorts. Maybe it's time to let the old Paul back in, even in a tiny, insignificant way.

I sit on the edge of the bed as I tie my tennis shoes. Olivia rolls onto her side, her body sort of curling around me, although she doesn't wake up. For a moment I contemplate waking her for her morning run. She'll be pissed that I didn't. But it's my fault she didn't get much sleep.

That, and because I want to be alone for what I'm about to do. If I fail miserably, as I'm likely to do, I don't want there to be any witnesses.

Gently unfolding her fingers from where they're tangled in the fabric of my shorts, I slip out of the room with only the briefest of glances at the cane in the corner.

I'm about to head down the stairs when I hear a sharp beeping coming from Olivia's room. An alarm clock. It makes me smile to know that she's not naturally an early riser the way I am. It means that she very deliberately sets her alarm to make our daily walk/runs together.

I enter her bedroom. She uses her cellphone as an alarm, and it's going crazy on the nightstand. I pick it up, sliding my finger across the screen to turn it off.

She has eight new text messages.

Eight?

Somehow I've let myself forget that just because I'm cut off from the outside world, it doesn't mean she is. Of course she'd stay in contact with friends and family.

I'm tempted to read the messages.

I want to know if she tells her friends and family that she's happy here.

I want to know if she says anything about me.

I want…

Pull yourself together, Langdon.

And then, God help me, I'm unlocking her phone. Not to read the messages, just to scan who they're from.

My eyes catch the names Bella and Mom and Michael. Who's Michael? She's never mentioned him. She's allowed male friends, of course, but…what the hell. I'm resigned to the fact that I'm no longer one of the good guys. Might as well act on it.

I open the message, ignoring the jab of guilt that tells me I'm a sick son of a bitch.

I miss you.

The short text says volumes, and the jealousy that rips through my gut is as foreign as it is unwelcome. There are no other texts to or from this Michael, which either means it's the first time he's contacted her in quite a while or she's deleted previous messages. I want to know why.

When it comes to Olivia, I want to know everything, but I want to know because she tells me about it, not because I went snooping.

I close my eyes briefly as I realize what I need to do. If I want her to trust me, I need to start by trusting her. I need to tell her everything.

I slowly put the phone back on the nightstand. With any luck, her groggy morning self won't register that it's already been read, and if she does, I'll come clean. The alternative is deleting the message altogether, and that's a line even I won't cross.

It's misty outside, and there's a definite nip in the air. It's October, after all. But I stand perfectly still for several minutes, relishing the feel of the cold air against my bare legs. How long has it been since I did something as simple as wear shorts? Too long.

It's been
way too fucking long
in so many areas of my life.

I walk toward the path, waiting for the twinge in my leg that will halt my plans in their tracks. But there's no pain. There's nothing but the glorious feel of damp sea air against my damaged skin.

I start to walk a little faster now, still giving the leg a chance to protest the lack of support from my cane. And although I do feel a little off balance, I can't tell if I'm
actually
limping or just mentally limping.

A lone seagull cry pierces the perfect quiet of the early morning. I increase my pace.

A drop of water runs down the center of my forehead, and I realize that the mist has turned to rain.

And then my walk turns into a run.

I'm running.

For the first time in three years, I'm
running.

Not a fast run. To anyone else, it probably looks like some awkward speed walk or failed jog. But I know the importance of it. I'm running.

It's raining harder now, and I don't care. Hell, I barely notice.

I'm concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, careful to make sure that my left leg hits the ground squarely each time. I still feel a little off balance. My good leg is doing more of the work, and the shitty leg is definitely letting me know that it's not used to this.

But I'm running. I'm fucking
running.

Of course, I reach my limit quickly. I make it less than a mile before the slight awkwardness starts to dip into discomfort. Still, it's a start. And that's what really has me feeling like taking on the world. It's the start to normalcy.

The leg's never going to be pretty—I'm always going to get a stare or two on a beach vacation—but for the first time in a long time,
normal
seems within reach.

And I know exactly whom to thank.

I take my time walking back. The rain is heavier now, and I'm soaked but invigorated. Cheesy as it sounds, it's one of those good-to-be-alive moments.

I pause inside the back door long enough to peel off my shoes and soaked socks. I need a shower, stat, but first, coffee.

I can't help it. I grin when I see Olivia perched at the kitchen counter with her laptop. She's changed into long flannel pajamas with pink and white stripes. Her hair's still a mess, but she looks adorable. Lindy's nowhere to be seen, and Olivia's humming tells me she has her headphones in like she usually does when she's checking email or shopping online.

Still in a ridiculously good mood, I move up beside her, wanting to wrap my arms around her and beg her to take a chance. On me. On us.

There are things I need to tell her. Steps I need to take, admissions I need to make. Stories to tell, ghosts to expunge, and all that. I'm ready.

My smile slips as my eyes catch on her laptop. Thanks to the headphones, she doesn't seem to realize I'm behind her. If she knew, she'd make every effort to hide what's up on her screen.

All the euphoria running through my veins turns to ice water immediately as I register the headline of the story she's reading. It's old news, but achingly familiar. My heart feels lodged in my throat.

Olivia senses me then, spinning around with a gasp, even as she frantically slams the laptop shut. Her face crumples when she realizes she's too late.

I take a step backward, unable to stop the images conjured up by the words in that painfully understated headline: “
Weston-Area Soldier Lone Survivor in Afghanistan Torture Tragedy.”

“Paul.” She reaches out a hand, her expression a combination of regret and horror.

“I was going to tell you. I was going to tell you everything.” My voice is raspy.

Her face crumples. “I
know.
I just—”

“You just what?” I sneer. “Wanted to know exactly who you let cuddle up against you last night? Wanted to know who—no,
what
—you almost fucked?”

“Stop.” Her voice is firm, and her hand drops. “I just thought…You never want to talk about it, and—”

“You never asked!” I explode. “Nobody ever asks! Sure, you tiptoe around it. ‘Wanna talk about the dreams, Paul? Anything you wanna discuss?' Everyone asks, from concerned nurse to poor victim, but nobody ever looks me in the eye over dinner and asks me, person to person, ‘What happened over there?' You think I
want
to carry it around by myself? I don't. I
want
to tell someone. I wanted to tell you. But not when you were looking at me like a damaged child.”

Her eyes fill with tears.

“It was
mine
to tell, Olivia. My story.”

“Then tell me.”

I jab my finger in the direction of the laptop. “No. You'll have to satisfy yourself with that watered-down half-truth.”

“Paul.”

This time when she moves closer, both hands are outstretched, as though to pull me to her.

Damn it, I'm tempted to let her hold me, even after she belittled everything that I've gone through, all of the progress we've made by fucking
Googling
me.

My hands find her shoulders before she can touch me, and my fingers tighten briefly in the urge to pull her closer, before I very deliberately, almost roughly set her back. I don't hurt her. I'd never hurt her, not physically, but the pain on her face tells me that my rejection hits something deeper.

Good.

“If it were up to me, you'd be on the first flight home to New York,” I say.

She gives me an incredulous look. “Oh, come
on
. Because I was reading a news article on you? News flash—I could have done that at any time.”

“Yeah, but you didn't!” I hate the savage pain in my voice. “You waited until
now,
waited until I trusted you, to go behind my back. Waited until I
wanted
you.”

It's hypocritical, of course. I read her text message. But somehow me reading one tiny text message from a guy she's never even mentioned doesn't feel as huge as what she's done. We're both guilty of snooping, true. But she
knew
this was something I wasn't ready to share. She didn't give me the chance.

“I didn't know that! You're being melodramatic and ridiculous, Paul.”

I shake my head. “You want to know the real reason you're still here? The real reason that I didn't throw you out on your tight ass the second you walked through the door, like I did the rest of them?”

Nervousness flits across her face. “Because we connected?”

I make a harsh buzzing noise. “Nope. See, Olivia, I
have
to tolerate you for three months or my dad throws me out.”

Her jaw slackens a little, telling me she definitely didn't know about my father's ultimatum.

“Yeah,” I said, feeling a little victorious at the pain on her face. “The cozy afternoons by the fire? All those painful, vapid dinners while I listened to you ramble about your childhood? Those were all carefully manufactured to make sure you stuck around long enough for me to get my inheritance.”

Her lips press together. “Stop.”

I don't stop. I go in for the kill, moving closer and bending my knees just a little, so I'm in her face, eye to eye. “Oh, and about last night's kiss? And that kiss by the fire? And every other time I've tolerated your girlish, boring touch?”

She turns her head away, but I place the tip of my finger against her chin and force her to look at me. “Those weren't about us. I had to make sure you felt
wanted
to keep my dad from cutting me off.”

Her eyes go dark and furious as she meets my gaze, and this time it's her turn to push back at me. “Poor,
poor
Paul! You mean your father actually expects you to be a contributing member of society instead of a sulking coward? I had no idea you were being so victimized!”

I feel rage roll over me. She doesn't know anything. She doesn't know about Lily's leukemia, or the fact that only I know that Alex's death wasn't mercifully fast, or that the only way Amanda can afford to pay rent and the costs of Lily's treatment is because I've sold out and taken my dad's money.