Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(26)

Of course, she says nothing. And can I really be surprised after what  she overheard me telling my father? You might as well have bought me a  puppy or a hooker, for all the use she's been.

It was an asshole thing to say, and yet . . . I wasn't that far off. All  of her kindness, her posing as the agreeable workout buddy, all that  cozy reading by the fire, even the kissing-those moments are for my  sake, aren't they? It's clear to everyone in this room that I need her a  hell of a lot more than she needs me.

I risk a sidelong glance at her, and the relief on her face at my  father's offer of a day off is obvious. "Thanks. I'd like that."

And suddenly, just for a moment, I hate her. I hate both of them.

"Enjoy your day off," I say, idly tapping my cane against my foot. She  turns her eyes to me then, and I go for the kill. "You know, since you  have some time to yourself, maybe you should catch up on the social life  you left back in New York. Maybe call some old friends? What's Ethan up  to? I bet he could use a little dose of your special TLC."         

     



 

I regret the words as soon as they're out of my mouth. I may not know  what the hell happened with her and Ethan, but I know it's a painful  topic, and I very deliberately dumped salt into that wound.

I'm no stranger to being mean these past few years, but I'm pretty sure I  just hopped over the line into barbaric territory. I deserve a slap,  but the flash of raw pain in her eyes is so much worse. She's out the  door before I can apologize.

All of a sudden, everything hurts. Leg, nose, head. Heart.

"What was that about?" my father asks, looking nervous. I wonder if he's  starting to realize that his conniving plan to "fix" me using a blond  princess might be doing more harm than good.

"Nothing," I mutter. Just me being a monster, as usual.

My father leaves that afternoon. I don't know why he bothers coming at  all. It takes him longer to fly from Boston to Portland than it does for  him to dole out whatever gloomy, sanctimonious message he's feeling I  need at the moment.

I grunt out some half-assed agreement that I'll "think twice" before  going to Frenchy's in my "condition." I don't bother to tell him that  walking into that bar after years of solitude was the most human thing  I've done in a long time. I certainly don't tell him that I worry it had  nothing to do with the bar and everything to do with the girl waiting  in the bar.

I don't see Olivia for the rest of the day. I keep the door cracked so  I'll know if she goes out, but as far as I can tell, she doesn't leave  her room.

My dad texts me from the airport. Don't forget I gave Olivia the day off. You're on your own for dinner.

I snarl. Why is it everyone seems to think that I was once fit to defend the country, but now I'm unable to make a sandwich?

I think about telling Olivia about Amanda and Lily. I think about  telling her everything: about the war, about how Alex is dead because of  me, about how his wife and daughter are all alone . . . But if I tell  her now, it'll sound like an excuse. A sympathy ploy.

And nobody knows about those monthly checks to the Skinners. I don't  want anyone getting the wrong idea. I don't want Olivia thinking I'm a  hero. She'll only be disappointed.

I'm not much in the kitchen, but I throw together a sandwich and open a  can of soup. For the first time since Olivia's come to Maine, I eat  dinner by myself, a sad, lonely affair at the kitchen counter.

After I clean up my dishes, I pour the rest of the soup into a bowl and  make another sandwich. Turkey, no mayo, lots of cheese, the way I know  Olivia likes it, as well as a bottle of water.

As far as peace offerings go, it's pathetic. I take the sandwich upstairs anyway. The closed door doesn't bother me.

But the sound of soft sobbing nearly kills me.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Olivia


Paul and I don't talk about what happened.

It's been nearly two weeks since his father visited. Two weeks since he  lost control of his inner bully and my inner patheticness fell victim to  it.

Things are weird. I know he thinks I'm mad at him. After so many years  in a relationship with Ethan, I can read the signals. There's a  carefulness in the way he talks, as though he's bracing for me to lose  my shit and call him out on something long past.

But while the signals Paul's giving off are pretty standard guy, this is  different from any spat I ever had with Ethan about how he talked to  that super-flirty girl with the huge boobs for twenty minutes longer  than necessary, or how he was late to pick me up because he and Michael  were playing Call of Duty-again. With Ethan, it was as though he was  always bracing for a fight. We both knew a mini-explosion was coming and  were putting our respective boxing gloves on.

With Paul . . . there's a haunted quality to his wariness. Like he's not  just expecting me to lose my shit and throw my eyelash curler in a fit  of righteous female rage. No, Paul is braced for something else.

It's like he's bracing for me to leave.

We've both done our best to pretend that afternoon never happened. We  pretend he didn't belittle my very existence in front of his dad, as  though he didn't say outright that I was a fluffy piece of ass with  absolutely zero value to him. I pretend not to care. He pretends not to  care that I don't care.

But like I said, things are weird. Strained. Awful.

Lost in thought, I rinse the lunch dishes and put them into the dishwasher.

"Want to talk about it?"

Startled, I almost drop a water glass. "Lindy! Sorry, I didn't know anyone was in here."

The older woman sniffs. "Probably because you've been avoiding me. And Mick."         

     



 

I don't bother to deny it.

"So that's a no on the talking about it, then?" she asks.

I shrug. We're silent for several seconds as she goes through the now  familiar routine of setting up her KitchenAid mixer and pulling out  flour and sugar.

"I'm in a baking mood," she says. "You pick."

She doesn't have to twist my arm. "Chocolate chip?"

Lindy rolls her eyes but smiles. "Boring but easy. Back when I used to  let Mr. Paul pick, it was always some complicated tart, or a cake with  three different fillings."

"Really?" I ask, struggling to reconcile the guy who seems to exist on  sandwiches and whisky with someone preferring elaborate sweets.

"Yes, well, that was before he went away," she says, her smile fading a  little. "I'm not sure he'd even notice if I made him a cake now."

She looks so sad. I wish I could comfort her, but there's not much to say beyond He's an ass.

I take up my usual perch at the counter, and we sit in silence for  several minutes. Lindy doesn't reference a recipe as she makes the  cookies. The process of measuring flour and sugar and salt seems as  natural to her as brushing our teeth is to the rest of us.

"Hey, so I never asked," I say, reaching out a finger to trace through a  pile of spilled flour. "How was your and Mick's vacation?"

She lifts her eyebrows. "It's taken you two weeks to ask?"

Busted. "Sorry. I've been sort of wrapped up in my own stuff, I guess."

"It happens," she says, letting me off the hook. "But our vacation was nice. Really nice."

This time it's my eyebrows that lift at the inflection in her voice. I  lean forward a little, and now it's my turn to ask: "Want to talk about  it?" Then I stifle a laugh, because Lindy actually blushes.

"So it's like that, then," I say.

"Like what?"

"No separate rooms, I take it?"

"Do I ask about your love life?" she says primly. Nice. Turning the tables.

"I don't have a love life." Not a healthy one, anyway.

"Don't you?"

I narrow my eyes. "Nope."

Is it my imagination, or does she look disappointed?

Curiosity gets the best of me. "Hey, Lindy, did you know before I came that I was younger than the other caregivers?"

"You mean did I know you were young and pretty?" She shakes her head.  "Nope. Mr. Langdon is a good, fair boss, but he's not the chatty,  confiding type. Mick and I don't get more information than is strictly  necessary. A name, arrival date, et cetera."

I nod. I figured as much. We're silent as she cracks eggs into the  batter, but she studies me as she lets the mixer do its blendy thing.  "What happened that weekend while we were gone? Mick was appalled that  Mr. Langdon drove himself here from the airport, but he's never come  without warning before. . . ."

She trails off, leaving room for me to fill in the blanks. I fiddle with my earring. "I'm not sure it's my story to tell."

"Ah," she says. "So there is a story."

Isn't there always?

Lindy opens the bag of chocolate chips and surprises me by popping  several in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully before offering me the  bag. I take out a few myself, eating them one by one as we study each  other.

"I'll tell you if you tell me," I say, the words coming out in a rush.

Her chewing slows. "What is it you think I know?"