A Little Broken

Prologue

PROLOGUE

TATUM

Dear Archer,

Hi.

I screwed up. I’ve been hiding in my room too long. Now, my parents are forcing me to hang out with Ophelia and the rest of the girls.

Yeah. Like that’ll pull me out of this.

I know they’re just freaking out because I’m basically a hermit nowadays, but really? A hang out with Lia? Of all people? I still don’t understand what you saw in her. She’s kind of the worst, you know? No offense.

I scratch the words out.

Actually, I take it back. You can take offense to it, and so can she. The only person Ophelia’s ever cared about is herself, Archer. Honestly, I thought you had better taste.

My bottom lip wobbles, and a tear slides down my cheek as my pen hovers above the page. I always get to this part but can never write it. Not yet, anyway. The part where I admit my undying love for the guy. Okay, undying might be a bit of a stretch. Then again, he’s dead, and I still love him, so the term is pretty fucking fitting now that I think about it. It doesn’t make it any easier, though. Telling him the truth. That I love him. Love. Not loved. Because even though he’s gone, these feelings are pretty fucking real. And they’re only the tip of the iceberg. Admitting that his absence hurts. That it’s killing me. That I feel like I’m drowning with no hope of breathing ever again. Not when the man with the power to give it to me, to help me breathe, is six feet under. That’s the real doozy. The one I can’t figure out how to express, no matter how many times I open this stupid journal and write a letter to a man who will never read it.

It also doesn’t help that he was in love with my sister despite Ophelia choosing Archer’s twin brother instead. The reminder makes my chest ache, and I squeeze the pen in my hand, determined to alleviate the pressure in my chest even if it kills me. I feel like an anaconda is wrapped around my chest, slowly squeezing the life out of me. Second by second. Minute by minute. Day by day. Month by month. What happens when I get to a year? When the anniversary of Archer’s death finally hits? Will that be the day I stop hurting? Or will it be the day I stop breathing altogether, unable to fight the stubborn anaconda and its punishing hold?

A tear hits the paper, the splash making the ink spread and swirl. I drag the tip of the pen to the next line, desperate to wrap up the letter before I lose my nerve.

Really thought you had better taste, Arch. But it’s good to know you weren’t perfect.

Miss you.

-Tatum

“Tate?” Knock, knock . “Tate, you in there?”

I close my journal and wipe my cheeks. “Yeah, Mom. I’m here.” I let out a slow breath.

“Perfect! Your sister just pulled up.”

Of course, she did.

I fight the urge to climb into bed and cover my head with a blanket for the rest of the week, no matter how impossible it feels.

Come on, Tate.

“Tate?” my mom calls. I can hear the concern in her voice. It’s probably warranted, even if I wish it wasn’t.

Sucking my lips into my mouth, I answer, “I’ll be right out.”

Breathe.

With another deep inhale, I check my makeup in the mirror, fixing the black smudge beneath my left eye before opening my bedroom door.

Spending so much time alone in my room for too long finally bit me in the ass. My parents arranged a girls’ night with all their kids’ friends, aka my real and pseudo-cousins, depending on the girl in question. As if company will make this pain go away.

I wish.

Yeah, my parents are hoping a little girl time will pull me out of my funk. That it’ll fill the gaping hole in my chest, even if it’s only for a night. And I can’t even be mad at them for it. Because I know I’m spiraling. I know I’m drowning in an abyss of hatred and sadness and pain. If the roles were reversed, if I had to witness someone I love hurting like I am, I’d be anxious to fix it, too. To find a solution or a Band-Aid or…something. Apparently, desperate times call for desperate measures because they’re here, and if I want to stop hearing my mom’s concern tainting every single word she says to me, then I need to go.

My mom stands in the hallway, her messy red curls piled on top of her head as she scans me up and down.

“You look nice,” she says, taking in my ripped jeans and black tank top.

Tucking my chin-length hair behind my ear, I force a smile. “Thanks.”

“They’re outside,” she adds, stepping back to give me more space.

My body feels like concrete, but I force it to move, wrapping my mom in a stiff hug and heading into the blustery weather. It’s not that I don’t love my mom. I love her more than pretty much anything. My parents are awesome. Like, literally the best. But it doesn’t mean they can fix what’s broken inside me, no matter how much they want to. I know it, and I think they know it, too. Which makes all of this so much harder.

The girls are all piled in one car, making this a squishy adventure at best. Dylan is behind the wheel, and Finley rides shotgun. Rory, my not-blood-related cousin; Raine, my cousin’s girlfriend; and Ophelia, my I-wish-we-weren’t-blood-related older sister are in the back.

Ignoring her, I head to the opposite side of the car and squeeze in beside Rory without a word. We’ve never really been close, but there’s something to be said about broken hearts. And when they’re broken because of the same man? I don’t know. Maybe we’re more alike than I gave us credit. I might be in love with a dead man, but Rory lost her brother.

Not that it matters. I still have to survive this night with Ophelia, so the sooner we pull out of the driveway, the sooner we can get to the restaurant, fake a happy meal, and I can go home again.

To what?

I don’t have anything.

I shove the thought aside.

Finley turns the volume up on the radio, and I rest my elbow on the edge of the passenger window, staring through the glass as my hometown whirs past.

When we stop at a light, a motorcycle pulls up beside us. It looks like a nice one. Black. Chrome. Leather. Shiny. Like it’s been washed recently. The guy driving it sits back, balancing on the behemoth between his legs as he stretches his arms over his head. He must’ve been riding for a while.

When he catches me staring, my head snaps forward. Then, I peek again. His face is shielded thanks to the black helmet, but it’s angled and faces me head-on. He’s watching me.

Slowly, he draws a frown on his face shield, then points to me.

You’re sad.

It’s like I can read his thoughts.

Instead of confirming or denying his assumption, I lift my shoulder an inch and suck the inside of my cheek between my molars.

Why are you sad, Tatum?

He’s in a better place, Tatum.

Everything’s going to be okay, Tatum.

You need to let him go, Tatum.

With a slow nod, the stranger raises a fist into the air, moving it up and down a few inches.

One.

Two.

Three.

He flattens his palm.

My brows pull downward as I’m dragged back to the present and mouth, “What?”

The stranger tosses his hands in the air and repeats the motion.

One.

Two.

Three.

He holds two fingers up this time, making them relatively parallel to the asphalt.

Scissors.

He wants to play Rock, Paper, Scissors.

I roll my eyes, caught off guard but also grateful for the distraction. He lifts his chin, curling his hand into a fist for a third time. Giving in, I mirror his movements, dipping my closed hand a few inches down and up in rhythm with his.

One.

Two.

Three.

His hand stays fisted, choosing rock, and I flatten mine, creating paper.

Paper covers rock.

I win.

The biker tosses his hands into the air again and shakes his head in defeat. Giving me his full attention once more, he draws a smile in the air with his index finger. It’s stupid and playful and corny, but my stomach flutters, my mouth lifting into a ghost of a smile before I can stop it. He wants me to smile. To stop being sad. If only it was that easy. And maybe if I knew who the stranger was, I’d argue with him. I’d point out how delusional his request really is. I can’t choose to be happy when I feel like my world’s been ripped apart. But I also can’t deny how a stupid game of Rock, Paper, Scissors at a stoplight has lifted the suffocating pressure more than my countless sessions with my therapist or sob sessions with my parents. And that’s…something.

Isn’t it?

Satisfied with the minuscule bone I’ve thrown him in the form of a weak smile, the stranger bends over his bike, twists the handle, and flies down the road.

As I watch him disappear around the corner, the familiar weight I’m used to carrying settles back on my chest. But it was nice. The tiny reprieve. Even if it only lasted a minute.

At least it was a minute.

And maybe, with enough time, I’ll be able to collect more.

Or maybe not.