Broken Compass Page 8

  “Not sure yet. That’s the thing, though: I just know he does. Whatever this misunderstanding is, you’d better fix it quick. You need to sit him down, Sydney, and make him tell you what’s wrong.”

  Funny how this is the only boy I’ve ever kissed, and he calls me by my full name.

  “And what about you?”

  “What about me?” he mutters.

  “Will you tell me what’s wrong with you?”

  “No.” His mouth tightens, as if he hadn’t meant to say that. “Nothing’s wrong with me. I’ll see you at the party.”

  Chapter Ten

  West

  The apartment is filthy. So damn filthy. Crawling with germs, with slime, with rot and decay. Every crack between the bathroom tiles, every square inch of the kitchen floor needs to be scrubbed clean. My knees ache, but I’m not getting up until it’s done.

  So that I don’t have to think about other things.

  So that at least something in my life will be right.

  The bleach has seeped in through a tear in my rubber gloves, and my hand burns, but that’s okay. Pain is good. Helps me focus. Keeps me tethered to the here and now even as I float in a trance—the bliss of giving in to my compulsions.

  Grandpa yells something from the other room, but I ignore him, scrubbing harder, trying to ignore everything. I feel as if the back of my brain is itching. Thoughts demand to be let in.

  I miss my friends.

  Shit, no. I hiss, dipping the brush in the bucket and attacking the corner of the kitchen with more determination. Not that thought. Not that…

  It was during that stupid brunch. I don’t know what happened. I was going to talk to Nate about the bruises, I was concerned about him, and then I was so pissed at him I all but threw him out of the apartment.

  My best friend. My only real friend.

  Pulling off the gloves with a loud curse, I rub my hands over my face. Jesus Christ. It has been a rough month, I know that. My sister went nuts for the second time in a matter of weeks, Grandpa has been on my case for every and no reason, and being around Sydney was… is pleasure and torture.

  Knowing Nate wants her too? It’s crippling my rational side, making me see red.

  And then black, when I realize what it means. If Nate wants to date Sydney… I can’t get in his way. I won’t.

  If she wanted Kash, I could have coped. I could have tried. Fought him maybe.

  A duel. I snort. Whatever.

  But not Nate. I couldn’t fight Nate over her, and even without a fight I lost. I’d never win against my best friend, and I’d never give him up for a girl.

  Sydney, fuck. Not just any girl. She’s the only girl I can’t stop thinking about. I swore I wouldn’t lose either of them, and now it feels as if I managed to do just that.

  It’s my fault. Every time I thought about talking to Nate, telling him all this, my brain freezes, and I need to clean something, fix something, and by the time I’m done, the day and night have passed and I’m too damn tired.

  Too tired to think, unable to muster the energy to knock on Nate’s door and have it out with him. Fix the rift between us.

  Find out if he still wants to talk to me or if he’s done.

  That’s the fear that clamps like a vise around my chest. And the more time passes, the harder it is to take that step.

  If I fix this apartment and everything in it, if I scrub every dirty part of it, of me, clean… if I become who Grandpa wants me to be, if I use enough bleach to erase myself from the world, then maybe everything will be okay.

  Everyone will be fucking happy.

  Unlike in my dreams.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Bony fingers dig in my shoulders, hauling me backward until I’m on my ass on the wet floor. “Jeez, West, stop. You’re such a fucking disaster.”

  I grunt, shove off my sister’s hands as I fall all the way back, dizzy. “Get off me.”

  “God, look at you.” She sneers and straightens, and I get a clear view of her thin legs and her panties under her skirt. They’re stained. “You’re so useless.”

  Bile rises in my throat. “Go away.”

  “You’re crazy. I’ve always known.” She wipes her hands on her skirt, her face contorting in disgust. “You should be locked up in a nuthouse where you belong. You should be in a fucking straitjacket, not here, making our lives miserable.”

  My heart thumps heavily in my chest, even if I’ve heard it all before. I struggle to clear my thoughts, the pull of the brush and bleach still gripping my mind. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing from you, that’s for sure, not in the state you’re in.”

  That’s rich, coming from her. How many times did I have to drag her indoors when she was too wasted to stand? “What do you want, Della? Spit it out.”

  She purses her lips. “Just some cash. To tide me over till the end of the month.”

  “And you seriously thought to ask me?”

  “You never know. You could be of use for once. Miracles happen.”

  The thought of sitting up makes my stomach roil worse, but I do it anyway. The fumes of the bleach sure aren’t helping. “Screw you.”

  She grimaces, and it makes her eyes narrow, those blue eyes so similar to mine. “Thought so. You’re such a bastard, West.”

  No doubt about that.

  I watch her go, hunched over myself, feeling cold and sick and old. Older than her, though she has at least ten, twelve years on me, if not more.

  Strange how I don’t know all that much about my own sister. I don’t know much about anything. I wonder sometimes if all families are like that, and then I call myself an idiot, because of course no other family is like mine.

  If I can call this a family.

  I was a mistake, as both Della and Grandpa never fail to remind me. A bad mistake, one that ruined their lives, though they never elaborate on how. They’ve never told me who my parents are, where my mother is. Who she is. Is she related to Grandpa? If Della’s eyes didn’t look so much like mine, I’d think I was adopted.

  Grandpa waved a picture at me once, claiming that was my mom, but later he denied the existence of such a photo. Much like my existence, that of my mom is dubious, unverified.

  Unwanted.

  With a groan, I get back on my aching knees, grab the bucket and brush and get back to work.

  Dimly aware of a ringing sound that’s been going on for a while, I put down the brush and listen.

  Here it comes again.

  The doorbell.

  Where’s Grandpa? Trying to orient myself in space and time, I sit back on my heels and think. The old clock on the kitchen wall says it’s eight PM. Della left hours ago.

  What day is it?

  That takes a bit longer to figure out. Thursday. Yeah, pretty sure of that, and Grandpa is probably playing cards with his friends down the street. I’m alone in the apartment.

  With someone leaning on the doorbell like the end of the world is at hand.

  Getting to my feet is harder than I expected. Truth is, today was harder than usual, and not because of the encounter with my sister. No, that’s normal. It’s as if I can’t get out of my head today, no matter how hard I try. And it’s been getting worse.

  As I stumble toward the door, my vision swimming, I keep thinking I’ll never puzzle this out. Who I am. Why I am the way I am. What I want. How it all ends.

  But then I open the door and a missing piece of the puzzle is right there.

  Sydney.

  The wave of relief her presence brings me almost brings me back to my knees. “Syd.”

  “West.” Her face is a pale blur. I hold on to the door and wonder why I can’t feel my feet. So weird. “West, are you okay?”

  I shake my head, or I think I do, and then I’m going down, and all I can think of is, she’s here, and I can let go.

  I’m sitting with my back to the wall, Sydney’s arms around me, holding me down as dream images chase one another inside my head.

&nb
sp; Bloody hands. Contorted faces. Broken bodies.

  Vomit. Tears. A wind stirring decomposing leaves. Dead eyes, wide open.

  “West.” She shakes me. I think she’s done it several times already since she arrived. There’s a hint of hysteria in her voice. “I said talk to me. You’re scaring me.”

  That gets through to my shivery mind. “Sorry, Syd.”

  “Don’t be.” Her voice is fierce. “Look at me.”

  Slowly my eyes focus on her face. Her mouth is trembling. Her eyes are a bit too bright. Is she upset? Dammit, I scared her that much?

  “I’m here.” Not what I was going to say.

  No idea what that would have been, honestly. I can only give her the truth, and the truth is that I get lost inside my mind sometimes.

  Her hand slides up to my cheek, smooth and warm. She studies me as if she can see through to my soul. “Now you are.”

  Here, with the smell of bleach and my hand burning where the chemical touched it, though my body is burning hotter where she touches me, and my heart is pounding as if I’ve run ten miles.

  “Tell me what happened,” she whispers, but I can’t.

  Her mouth is so close I can smell her peppermint toothpaste and cherry lip gloss. I can almost taste it, taste her.

  Not fair to ask a guy to think, not like this. Her warm body draped over mine is everything. It could almost make me forget the mother of shitty days I’ve just had.

  But my leg and arm muscles twitch, and my back aches, reminders of the whole afternoon spent on my hands and knees. A headache is beating at the backs of my eyes and inside my temples.

  “West.”

  “Yeah.” Her fingers slide to my jaw, every movement sending pleasure through me, and I’m staring at her lips, my throat dry. “Just…”

  Her lashes lower, her lips part, and every place where we touch burns. My dick is rock-hard in my sweats, and the way she’s sitting, one leg thrown over mine, I bet she can feel it. How couldn’t she? I’m pitching such a tent it’s a miracle fabric isn’t tearing right now.

  “You were cleaning the apartment again,” she says, and I frown, her words not computing. “Oh my God, this has to stop.”

  “What?”

  “How miserable you and Nate are without each other.” She pulls away from me, her hand leaving my face, leaving a breath of cold behind. “You know I’m right.”

  I blink and reality returns, like a punch to the plexus that leaves me winded.

  But then her words sink in. “Nate is miserable?”

  “You heard that, huh? He sure is.” She looks away, and I’m fascinated by the way her small white teeth sink into her lower lip. “I am, too, not that you’d care.”

  I blow out a long breath. “I care. Syd.” I’m reaching for her before I realize what I’m doing, drawing her back into my arms. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she says, voice muffled against my shoulder. “Just don’t do it again.”

  A snort escapes me.

  Syd is right. Not having her and Nate around has been messing with my head, taking me back to a place I haven’t been in years. A hopeless place.

  Is it the same for Nate? Is it why he’s gone back to getting into fights at school?

  “Okay, I lied,” she says, letting me hold her. “I’m not forgiving you this easily. I need you to do something for me first. Deal?”

  “Anything.”

  Anything to keep her here, against me, her tangle of copper curls tickling my nose, the sweet weight of her on my legs shutting out the voices in my head.

  “Awesome. Come to a party with me?”

  “Party?”

  “Yeah. The one Mercy Johnson is throwing. Saturday night. Please say you’ll go with me?”

  Fuck. I draw her scent into my lungs, and nod. “Okay.”

  It feels like a fair deal.

  Well, until she pulls back, her eyes wide. “For real? That’s great!”

  Is it?

  Because now I remember that I’m not supposed to hold her like that, wish for her lips, wish for more.

  But we stay like that a while longer, because I’m weak, and I want to keep her.

  No matter how much harder it will be to let her go later.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kash

  Yeah, I know, I have no fucking clue what I’m doing. Not only am I still here, in this apartment, in this neighborhood, when I’d decided it was high time I left, but I go and kiss a girl, and then I’m setting up the scene for her two boyfriends to make up and get all cozy again.

  What the fuck, right?

  And at a party. Last place I wanna be. But I promised Sydney to help, and besides… who knows? I could get lucky and score what I need there. Bound to, with all those crazy high school students looking for release.

  It’s a plan, and that’s how I find myself on my first night off sitting in my room as the evening falls, wondering how crazy I must be to be doing this.

  Batshit.

  My journal is open in front of me, but I haven’t written a word in it.

  I kissed a girl and who gives a shit? Nobody, that’s who. And I shouldn’t, either.

  Only that kiss twisted up a key inside me, and parts of me are changing. Moving. I don’t know what’s happening to me, only that I’m not okay.

  Haven’t been in a long time now, but I’ve ignored it, mostly, burying myself in work and living day to day, self-medicating and writing down my past.

  Not enough. Not anymore.

  This isn’t good. I’ve managed to keep going by locking up my broken parts so deep inside of me I can’t feel them, but now they’re shifting like broken glass, cutting me up inside.

  Dear Journal.

  Dear Fucking Journal.

  This sucks ass. This world. My every day. Having to run when I wanna stay. Kissing Sydney when she wants two other guys. Everything I feel, everything I experience, is borrowed, stolen. Not really mine.

  Including my life.

  Someone is banging on the door, and I snap my journal closed. Grabbing my denim jacket and my tobacco pouch, I drag my feet up to the door and open it in Nate’s face.

  He nods at me, one hand braced on the doorframe. “Hey, man. About that party…”

  “I’m ready to go.” I clap him on the shoulder and push past him.

  About time. I was starting to get claustrophobic in there with my dark thoughts.

  “Not sure I can go after all,” Nate says, following me through the living room. No sign of his dad, thank God.

  “Your dad won’t let you?”

  “It’s not that. Dad isn’t even here tonight. But with West not talking to me and all, I just… I don’t give a shit about the party.”

  Dammit. I spin around to face him and jab a finger into his chest. “I’m sorry your little bromance isn’t going so well, man, but you don’t get to chicken out on me now. I took the night off for this. We’re going.”

  “Nah, I dunno…”

  “Yeah, you do. Come on. It will be great.”

  “Jesus, what’s with the fucking sudden enthusiasm?” he grumbles as I all but haul him out of the apartment. “You didn’t even wanna go when I first asked you last week.”

  “Changed my mind. Guess you were damn persuasive.”

  “Didn’t you hear me just now? Sydney and West aren’t going. Why the hell would I wanna go?”

  “Because it’s a party?”

  God, the guy’s got it bad for the girl. For the guy, too, no clue. Sydney’s fault for mentioning a kiss to make up and putting ideas in my head. Nate and West never gave me the impression they’re anything but straight as arrows, but hell, you never know.

  Whatever this is, it’s fucking complicated, and if I’m as smart as I want to think I am for having survived so long, my next move should be to leave.

  I ask for an Uber on my phone and wait in the warm summer night for our ride to arrive, Nate scowling beside me, arms folded over his chest.

  Hey, all this was his
idea.

  Plus, I’m fucking doing it for him. I hope later he appreciates it and loses the murderous look.

  Dickhead.

  I’m such a stupid moron for doing this for him. A fucking idiot. What am I trying to prove with this? That I’m in control? That I can save others from themselves when I can’t save myself?

  Screw this shit. I’m about to stomp back to the apartment, and to hell with it, when our ride arrives, and somehow I find myself inside the Uber with Nate beside me, heading to this goddamn party.

  He’s glaring out the window, and I’m sweating and uncomfortable, and still pissed.

  Fun…

  The party is at a house in the ‘burbs. Did I say a house? It’s a mansion, really, and the street it’s on makes ours seem like a back alley.

  Here the houses rock the faux-Victorian look, with sloped chocolate roofs and turrets and porticos, or whatever they’re called. There are beautiful trees, trimmed hedges, perfect lawns, lights in the windows and if the scent of water in the air is any indication, swimming pools in the high-fenced yards.

  After the Uber spits us out, both Nate and I stand on the sidewalk, staring. I have no idea what’s going through his head, but I know what’s going through mine.

  Déjà vu.

  “That’s the place,” I eventually say, to break the silence. “Friend of yours?”

  “Not really. Just some girl from school. Didn’t know her folks were millionaires.”

  “I don’t think they are millionaires, just… rich. I mean, I guess. Come on.”

  I really need to stop slipping around these guys. Sooner or later I’ll say something I can’t unsay or take back.

  Nate is lagging behind, and I turn to see what the hold-up is. Is he seriously still having a tantrum over my insistence to come to the party? If so, fuck him.

  What I don’t expect is to find him limping, a grimace on his face, and it strikes me then that a bad mood wasn’t the only reason he didn’t want to go to the party.