Perfectly Broken (17 page)

* * *

Peyton set her phone next to the sink and stood at her bathroom mirror, brushing her long, brown hair. She wondered if Griffin would ever call her back. She left him a message apologizing for the way she overreacted and for Reed’s violent behavior. Griffin was such a good guy, a sensitive sweetheart. The man would never hurt her.

Going out with Quinn last night was just what Peyton needed to decompress, to try to get past her embarrassment, her brokenness on full display. But she hadn’t fully recovered. A chill ran down her spine hearing the porch railing snap and Reed’s fists crash into Griffin’s face, frightening her but at the same time, making her feel safe, like he’d never let anything bad happen to her again. Still, it made her question whether Reed could handle her past.

She knew Reed wouldn’t have attacked Griffin unless he thought Griffin truly had hurt her or posed some sort of threat. And she only had herself to blame for that. She draped a piece of hair over her scar then put down her brush and looked at herself in the mirror.
He was just protecting me.
She took a deep breath and looked forward to going out with Reed — and with Bret and Quinn, too, getting ready down the hall. They were always good for a laugh, and she wanted the four of them to be close. Plus, it was a chance for Quinn to hopefully build on whatever little positive movement she’d made towards Reed.

Her phone dinged with a text from Reed.
I’m downstairs. Take your time
.

Reed sat on the sofa and flipped on the huge TV. Then he heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

Bret entered the den and turned off the TV. “So it’s worse than I thought.”

“We’re double dating like we’re in middle school again,” Reed said. “How could it get worse?”

Bret plopped down on an adjacent chair. “Quinn has on her pissed-off panties.”

“Her what?”

“White cotton granny panties. She’s got her pussy under lock and key.” Bret laughed. “The only ones worse are her period panties.”

“Bret,” Quinn yelled from the doorway, “you did
not
just tell him what panties I have on!”

Peyton patted Quinn on the back then sat on the sofa next to Reed. “Yeah, he did. You have on your pissed-off panties.” Reed chuckled and gave Peyton a kiss on the cheek.

“My what?” Quinn cried, throwing a hand on her hip.

“Bret has a Panty Personality Gift,” Reed quipped, though Quinn didn’t crack a smile. Reed reached for his neck, and Peyton leaned over and rubbed it for him.

“A pair of panties is worth a thousand words,” Bret said, stroking his chin like a great philosopher.

“Peyton, are you hearing this?” Quinn asked.

“Oh, I’m hearing it.” Peyton looked down at Reed’s battered hands and rubbed them gently with her fingertips, offering him a reassuring smile.

“Maybe we should analyze yours?” Reed asked.

Peyton straightened herself. “I’m wearing hiphuggers that say ‘I dare you.’” She cracked a huge grin. “I also have a pair that say ‘SMACK!’”

“Don’t encourage them, Peyton,” Quinn said. “You’re not helping.”

“Sure she is,” Bret said. “Hiphuggers or boy shorts say a girl is laid back — always in a happy-go-lucky mood. No drama with that girl.”

Quinn sat down on the floor, defeated. “Please enlighten us some more with your panty wisdom.”

“Well, you’ve got the thong. This girl is feeling sexy. She’s a guarantee lay and probably a good one.” Bret flashed a smile to Quinn. “I know when you wear a thong, I’m getting lucky.”

“Or I just hate panty lines,” Quinn said.

“No, that would be the G-string, which is a dirty naughty girl,” Bret said.

Peyton whispered to Reed, “What does a pearl thong mean?”

Reed felt his dick twitch. “Can I find out soon?”

“What are you two talking about?” Quinn asked.

Peyton looked up, blushing. “Just wondering about Bret’s theory on going commando.”

“Easy,” Bret said. “You didn’t do laundry.”

Peyton sat up. “Let’s analyze the male underwear options, shall we?”

“Oh, we really must,” Quinn agreed. “Let’s start with tighty-whities.”

“Guaranteed
not
to get you laid,” Peyton said.

Reed gave her a crooked smile. “Good thing I don’t own any.”

“Bret does,” Quinn said.

“Hey!” Bret yelled.

“Oops,” Quinn said snidely. “How about boxers? It’s classic.”

“As long as no funny slogans or cartoons,” Peyton said.

“How about the boxer brief?” Quinn wondered.

“My personal favorite,” Peyton said, winking at Reed. “Usually worn by athletic, well-built guys who are confident in their bodies and in their bedrooms.”

“I’m going shopping,” Reed said.

“What about the man thong?” Peyton asked Quinn.

“No way,” Quinn said. “Worse than bikini briefs. Only weird European men wear those.”

“I think this could be your next big story, honey,” Bret said. “You could really break some news asking people about panty personalities.”

Quinn paused for a moment, seriously considering the topic. “Maybe so.” Then she got up off the floor. “Let’s get going I’m starving.”

“Me, too,” Bret said. “Let’s talk about edible underwear at dinner.”

IT HAD ONLY
been the usual seven days, but it seemed so much longer. So much had happened. It took Peyton most of her session to tell Dr. Lorraine about everything — the date under the moonlight in Audubon Park, the double date with Quinn and Bret, the flashback at the worst possible time, Reed’s fight with Griffin. Dr. Lorraine reminded Peyton what to do when the flashbacks came: better to turn on loud music, grip ice, or bite into a sour lemon than smack an unsuspecting, lovesick friend across the face. And she wondered if the flashback on the porch had anything to do with Peyton getting increasingly close to a man.

“Tell me more about Reed,” she said, sitting back in her chair.

With a gleam in her eye, Peyton reminded her that Reed was an architect and went on to describe the way his steel blue eyes contrasted with his messy, dark hair. She then talked about how he always tried to take care of her and always seemed to flash a smile at the right time, in such a flirty way. She then spent several minutes describing the way his pants hugged deliciously from his hips, giving a glimpse of his washboard stomach if she looked at just the right angle. Then she stopped, catching herself, realizing Dr. Lorraine probably wasn’t looking for a physical description.

“Keep going, girl!” Dr. Lorraine said, her eyes popping. “I was getting all fired up!”

Peyton laughed but knew she’d spent far too long already on his physical appearance. She took a deep breath before continuing. “He’s got some family problems and a not-so-stellar sexual past.”

Dr. Lorraine twirled a pen in her hair. “Sound familiar?”

“What?” Peyton asked, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Aren’t you all those things, too?”

“No, I’m not sexy....”

Dr. Lorraine cut her off. “I wasn’t asking about that, but since you mentioned it, what’s wrong with you being sexy?” Peyton gave a look that Dr. Lorraine was a complete idiot. “Rape therapy 101, darling. Rape is not about sex. It’s about power.”

“I know, I know,” Peyton said, having heard it all before. “I just can’t help but think if I’d had on looser clothes or jeans or if I wasn’t showing a little cleavage that night....”

Dr. Lorraine cut her off again. “You know all this, but I’ll say it again. Sometimes rapists do pick victims because of their clothing — not because it’s sexy, but because you can’t run as fast in high heels, or a dress is easier access. It’s not about your body or your sex appeal.” Peyton cocked her head to the side and twirled her locket, considering words she’d heard so many times. “The fact that you have a nice tight ass and full round boobs isn’t why you were raped, girl.” Peyton laughed slightly and turned bright red. “Now, would Reed describe you as sexy and smart?”

“Yeah.”

“Miss Peyton, you need to think about how Reed thinks about you. You need to see yourself that way. You need to think that he probably doesn’t feel worthy of
you
because of whatever things
he’s
done.” Dr. Lorraine pointed a finger at her. “Think about the possibility of that!”

Peyton shook her head. “It’s different.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I know Reed would like us, um, to progress in our relationship.”

“
Progress
? You mean have sex?”

“Well,” she said quietly, “more than kissing at least.”

Dr. Lorraine raised an eyebrow. “Y’all been going out like a month and all you’ve done is kiss?”

“Yeah,” Peyton said, embarrassed.

“What do you want to do? Do you want things to progress?”

“I guess I’d like things to move along, but....”

“You haven’t told him?” Peyton shook her head. “You’ve got to talk to him. You can do this, Peyton. It’s time to put down your armor. You need to share your heart — especially the darkest part — before you share your body.”

* * *

Bret and Reed walked through the old warehouse development. Bret noted a few more changes to the plans, while Reed picked off the last scab from his knuckles, the last reminder of his fight with Griffin. He’d otherwise put it behind him, and it seemed Peyton had, too. It took a day or two for her to calm down, for them to get back on track, though it had taken longer for his hands to heal. It took a good week or so, even with some careful nursing from Peyton. He flicked the scab onto the dingy floor.

Each night she’d tended to his hands with ointment and bandages. It was all unnecessary to him but important to her, so he held his tongue. He actually wished she’d be more attentive to other body parts. But he didn’t want to complain and certainly didn’t want any more fighting and in the end, was grateful for Peyton’s care. He looked at his hands. It appeared he wouldn’t have any scars.

He thought of Peyton’s scar near her temple. It must have been a bad fall for it to still be there — an unfortunate life-long reminder. He wondered where and how she fell, and whether she was hurt or bleeding, and if she ever considered having the scar removed, figuring most women would do that. But Peyton had left it. It seemed as much a part of her as her pink lips and baby blue eyes. He could design a skyscraper from top to bottom but couldn’t picture her without her scar.

“I think you’re growing on Quinn,” Bret said. “She actually suggested another double date.”

Reed groaned. “Will she hit me if I don’t go?”

“Probably.”

“I’ll go. I’m actually starting to like her a little. A
little
. She’s not quite who I thought she was.”

“I’m glad you’re starting to like her because I’ve actually been thinking about asking Quinn to marry me.”

“What? Are you serious?”

Bret gave a nervous smile. “I don’t have a ring or anything, but maybe in the next couple months.”

Reed leaned against an old wooden staircase to brace himself. “Well, you know what they say,” he teased, “first the engagement ring, then the wedding ring, then the suffer-ring.”

Bret winced. “Thanks for that wisdom.”

“I’m kidding.” Reed shook his hand. “I’m happy for you.” He was stunned, too — that the guy who’d screwed almost as many girls as he had was now thinking of getting married. And truth be told, he was slightly jealous, too — that Bret seemed so sure, so settled. Reed wondered what path he was on with Peyton. Their relationship was still so new, with an endless string of issues to work through. If it wasn’t Griffin, it was Heather, and if not one of them, it was his father. And he wasn’t even getting any action for all the trouble.

Bret’s phone rang. Reed turned his attention to some old industrial pipes, now largely corroded, seemingly leftover from the nineteenth century, obviously needing to be replaced.

“Yeah, Reed’s with me.” Reed looked up from the pipes. “What’s wrong, Quinn? Why are you crying?” Bret’s face turned white. “When?” He listened for another moment before hanging up. Then he turned to Reed. “Gram just died.”

* * *

In the foyer of Peyton’s house, Quinn greeted Reed and Bret with tears in her eyes. She hugged them both, then they all walked to the kitchen, where Bret took a seat at the island. Quinn pointed Reed towards the back door leading outside.

He carefully started that way before Quinn reached for his arm. “I know I’ve given you some shit,” she said, “but you must be doing something right.” She forced a tight smile. “When the call came, all Peyton wanted was you.”

Reed nodded and started again towards the backdoor, looking through the glass at Peyton sitting alone in her church pew, her hands neatly on her lap, staring blankly at water sprinkling from her small fountain. He hesitated before going out, unsure whether Peyton wanted to be disturbed.

“Go on,” Quinn encouraged him.

He took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked outside, careful not to step on the blooming flowers. As he approached, he remembered sitting in Adelaide’s Pie Shop for so many nights, only wanting to take Peyton to dinner, never imagining he’d now find himself in this situation, apparently charged with consoling her after the death of Adelaide herself.

He drew closer to the church pew, but Peyton kept her eyes firmly fixed on the fountain. He sat down beside her, without any idea what to say or do, unable to recall the last time he even sat in a church pew. He patted her leg with his hand, her only response a single tear falling down her cheek, then another. Then he wiped her cheeks with his fingers, seemingly activating something inside her, the tears now coming more quickly, flowing faster, like water spilling from the fountain before them. He cradled her to his chest, and she soaked his shirt with tears.

“Whatever you need,” Reed promised and kissed the top of her head. He didn’t say another word because there was nothing else to say — nothing that could possibly comfort a woman who’d now lost her entire family at the young age of 26. He wrapped his arms around her, as she clung tightly to him and wept.

After a few minutes, Peyton lifted her head and wiped her eyes. It didn’t seem fair or possible that Gram wouldn’t wake up this morning, so unexpectedly, without letting her say “goodbye.” But Peyton knew all too well life wasn’t fair and that
everything
in life was possible — some good and some truly awful. She leaned back into Reed’s chest and cried some more.