Best Kind of Broken

36 Levi

The dam broke. The dam of tucked-away guilt Pixie and I had so carefully constructed over the past year split down the middle once Charity’s name was mentioned, and now the inn is flooded with denial.

I can’t look Pixie in the eyes. I don’t want to know she’s there or see my pain reflected in her gaze. I don’t want to feel emotionally transparent in her presence or helplessly heavy in her sadness. So for the next few days, I act completely cordial in her company.

Any and all conversations we have are business related and robotic, and my eyes never go beyond the surface when they meet hers.

Stoic, that’s what I am. Because anything else would force me to acknowledge the fact that Pixie feels guilty for Charity just like I do and that she might be broken inside just like I am.

So I hold the lobby door open when Pix and I reach it at the same time, and I say hello when I pass her in the hall, and I do these things with empty eyes and a hollow heart.

I don’t feel a thing. It’s safer that way.

The clicking of high-heeled shoes meets my ears as I spray glass cleaner onto a soft rag. Ellen is soon standing beside me, watching as I climb up the crappy inn ladder to reach a dirty window above me.

“So,” she says in a matter-of-fact way as she holds a coffee mug between her hands. “Things between you and Pixie seem pretty tense. More tense than usual. Could that be because of all the shouting I heard the other night?”

Leave it to Ellen to wait until I’m on a wobbly ladder, with no escape, to strike up an uncomfortable conversation.

“We need to add ‘ladder’ to your New Crap the Inn Desperately Needs list,” I say, keeping my eyes on the window I’m washing. Cleaning isn’t really my job, but Eva is too short to reach these high windows, even on the top step of the ladder—not that I’d let her risk her life on this thing anyway.

Ignoring my attempt at changing the subject, Ellen sternly says, “What was all that yelling about protecting Pixie?”

I stop and look down at her, my body going completely still. “I fucked with fate.”

“What?” She makes a face.

Setting the rag down, I run a hand through my hair and let out a long exhale. “I fucked with fate and I lost Charity.”

She studies me for a long moment. “Have you ever thought that maybe you fucked with fate and saved Pixie?”

Silence.

She wrinkles her brow in a look of heartache. “Maybe Charity and Pixie were both going to die in that car when Charity was driving drunk,” she says. “Have you ever thought that maybe you intervening that night saved Pixie’s life?”

I stare at her, speechless, because no. I hadn’t ever thought of that.

A beat passes, where neither of us speaks. Then Ellen casually takes a sip of coffee, glances at the window, and says, “You missed a spot.”