Best Kind of Broken

21 Pixie

When I was seven years old, I spent nearly every weekend at Charity’s house. On one of these nights, while sleeping beside my bestie in our matching My Little Pony sleeping bags under the glow of her night-light, I woke up shaking from a nightmare, convinced there were monsters out to get me.

I tiptoed out of Charity’s bedroom and headed for the bathroom—for some reason I thought bathrooms were monster-free zones—and on my way down the dark hallway, I heard a voice.

“What are you doing?” Levi whispered.

He scared the crap out of me, and I totally jumped and started crying and blabbing about my scary dream and how there were monsters everywhere and how I was going to die.

He looked at me like I was crazy as tears and boogers ran down my face.

“Don’t cry, Pixie. Hey…” He stepped out of his room and hesitantly pulled me into an awkward boy hug. “If I see any monsters, I’ll punch them until they turn into mush, okay?”

My tears and boogers started to subside as I shook in his skinny arms. If Levi would mush monsters for me, I knew I was safe.

“Want to see something cool?” he asked, no doubt trying to distract me.

I nodded.

He led me to an upstairs window overlooking their backyard, opened it, and climbed out onto the porch roof below, motioning for me to follow. I did, and we sat side by side on the roof and stared up at the night sky.

“This is what I do when I have a bad dream,” he said. “There aren’t any monsters out here.” He sounded very matter-of-fact, in his Superman pajamas and messy hair.

As I took in the twinkling stars and quiet shadows of the night, I realized he was right. There weren’t any monsters outside. Or at least none when I was sitting beside Levi.

That was the first time Levi Andrews was my hero.

And yesterday, when he thought I was hurt and he looked scared out of his mind, it was like he was that eight-year-old boy again. Protecting me. Looking at me like I was worth saving. And it made me want to cry for everything that we’d lost. Everything I’d ruined the night I let Charity drive drunk.

I swallow, trying to push the memory back into the cold corner of my mind where most of my childhood is locked up, and step out of my bedroom.

Levi’s in the shower, hogging all the hot water again, and I’m both mad and relieved. Yesterday’s scare broke the silence between us, and with it came an unspoken truce. And I’ll take a cold shower over a cold shoulder any day.

When he finally emerges from the steamy bathroom, I put on my best “I’m pissed” look and stare him down in the hallway. He’s wearing only a towel, of course, and I’m momentarily distracted.

“Waiting outside the door, Pix?” He slants his eyes with a cocky smile. “Have you been missing me?”

I raise a bored eyebrow. “Only with my shotgun.”

Okay, it’s a cheesy line, but come on. It’s early. And he’s only wearing a towel. I can’t be expected to whip out witty comments when I’m sleepy and aroused.

I try to step around him and enter the bathroom, but he blocks my path. With his bare chest just inches from my face, the textured skin of his nipple catches my eye and white-hot desire darts through me. It’s all I can do not to lick him.

This is what I’ve been reduced to. Nipple-licking fantasies.

“If you want to see me naked that bad, all you have to do is ask.” He winks.

“Move, asshole.” I push against his chest with my hand, damp heat wrapping around my wrist, and move him out of the bathroom and into the hallway.

When he speaks, his chest vibrates and the current runs up my arm. “Ah, Pix. You know you love me.”

I remove my hand from his chest. “I know I loathe you.”

“Promises, promises,” he says with a crooked smile as I start to shut the bathroom door.

But for a moment—for a super-tiny second, right before I close the door on his face—our eyes meet in a vulnerable gaze.

No facades. No snarky remarks. Just him and me, seeing each other. Knowing the hard things we wish we didn’t and wanting to undo things we can’t. It’s raw and it’s honest and it makes me want to cry.

But he blinks.

And I blink.

And then it’s gone.

The bathroom door latches shut, and I’m left alone in the spearmint bathroom with my scar and an endless supply of cold water.