Broken Things

I’ve never been much of a partier. When I drink, I prefer to do it in an intimate setting. That’s why I was uncomfortably shifting my weight from one foot to the other as Declan chatted up a girl at the bar.

Occasionally, his eyes would flicker to me, though I wasn’t sure as to why. I had the feeling that he wanted me to be his wingwoman, but I also felt as if maybe my presence was warding off any female advances he would otherwise be recieving. Either way, neither of us were very happy and I was on my way to getting sloshed. I had no longer finished with one drink that another was placed in my hand by a sighing Declan.

“At least we have each other, right?” he asked, his eyes lingering on a sleazy redhead in a skimpy dress who was crossing the room with a bearded man in his late thirties. I cringed, holding my glass up to clink against his.

The music was too loud and the bass too heavy. It was dark and sweaty, much like every other club I’d ever been to, and I took a long drag from the glass in my hand to forget what I was doing there. Watching men and women dirty dance on the floor beneath a kaleidoscope of laser lights wasn’t exactly my idea of a thrilling Tuesday night, but it was exactly Declan’s scene. Unfortunately, my mopey mood seemed to be weighing him down, too, and he set his drink down on the bar before gesturing for me to leave.

I wanted to protest, at least for his sake. After all, I was the one who had insisted we come, but he somehow sensed these things within me before they actually took form. He already had my jacket in one hand, his other on my lower back to half-usher, half-push me toward the exit. I stumbled into the cool night air, Declan a step behind me.

Only then did I realize exactly how much I’d had to drink. Beneath the lights, pressed against sweaty bodies that were rocking back and forth to the beat of an awful remix, it was easy to lose track of how much alcohol I had consumed. Everything was loud and bright and hot and woozy. On the street with my heels on Frank Sinatra’s Star of Fame, I was feeling a little less than up to the task of finding our car.

“Bloody hell, Sawyer,” Declan grumbled, putting an arm around my waist just as I lost my footing.

“Are you even okay to drive?” I asked, looking up at him as he held firmly to my body.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he answered. “Come on.”

I opened my mouth to alert him that I was in no state to walk the block and a half to the car park, but he was a step ahead of me. In one swift movement, he picked me up and threw me over his shoulder, my body folded in half as he began to move. I felt suddenly thankful that my dress hadn’t been “Hollywood Slutty”. Even with another three inches of dress to cover me, I felt an uncomfortable breeze as Declan maneuvered us through the streets to his car.

“What if I threw up on you right now?”

“You won’t,” came his immediate response.

“You can’t know that.”

“Sawyer, I’ve known you for seven years and I’ve never once seen you throw up. Not even on your eighteenth birthday when we took you out for Jägerbombs.”

“That doesn’t mean I haven’t ever thrown up.”

“The only proof of that is Harry’s word on The Great Flu Epidemic of 2009.”

Suddenly, I felt breathless.

As if realizing his words, Declan set me back on my feet, his arms moving to my waist to steady me as he looked into my eyes. I promptly looked away, trying to pull from his grasp, but he kept his hands steady on me.

“It’s been four years, Sawyer. Forgive and forget. You let it ruin you.”

“I’m not ruined,” I spat in protest, my hands pressing against his chest in yet another futile attempt to get him off me.

“You’re smashed in a Hollywood parking garage because you read his name on my phone.”

“Yeah? Well, I just don’t like to be reminded of assholes from my past, Declan. And besides, this was your idea.”

He sighed, relinquishing me from his hold as he ran a hand through his hair. Pulling the keys from his pocket, he unlocked the car that I hadn’t even noticed we’d arrived at. I ignored his gaze burning into me as he ran a hand through his hair tiredly, sliding into the seat behind the wheel.

“Why can’t we ever just have a fun night out?” he questioned, almost rhetorically.

I chose not to answer as my head fell against the cool glass of the window. My heart felt heavy with guilt. Declan was right; one of us always ended up upset or crying when we were drunk. We were just those kinds of friends.

My eyes shut for what felt like a few moments, but must have been much longer. I was vaguely aware of the car coming to a stop and Declan pulling me out of the passenger seat, folding me into his arms this time instead of over his shoulder. I’m not sure how he managed to get into the complex through the gate, but I woke the next morning in my own bed, tucked safely into the sheets.

The sunlight magnified through the window beside my bed, warming the duvet despite the roaring sound of the air conditioner coming from the living room. The door was cracked open, probably from the times Declan would poke his head in to check on me. Satisfied with the fact that I hadn’t choked on my own saliva and died, he was in the shower, the rhythmic sound of water almost enough to lull me back to sleep.

My throat felt too dry, and my mouth had that god-awful whiskey taste left in it from the night before. I managed to force myself up, my feet lightly hitting the hardwood ground below me. When the room stopped swaying, I mustered up the strength to push up and make my way down the hall, through the living room, and into the small kitchen.

When I’d first seen it, I thought it quaint. The walls were yellow, the counters had small white tiles caulked onto them. In my hangover haze, the yellow was too bright, the tiles rough and catching on my fingernails as I reached around for an Advil. I threw it back fast like the shots I’d had at the club last night, and I almost gagged it back up from the memory, but forced it down.

“Feeling better?”

I jumped at the sound of Declan’s voice behind me. Turning, my eyes fell upon him. He had nothing but a towel wrapped low on his hips, a smirk on his face as he leaned against the doorframe, watching me with amusement.

“Did you run out of clothing?” I asked sarcastically, rolling my eyes.

“You’re living the dream for most girls and you have the audacity to complain?”

It was true that Declan was nothing less than a catch. His shaggy blond hair and British accent combined with his piercing blue eyes and toned body drew girls in left and right, but it was his easy-going personality that trapped them in. It was a wonder that he was single now, something he said was a personal decision after a bad relationship with a girl whom he described as “bonkers, but with a great arse.” He skillfully avoided giving me any details whenever I brought it up, so I didn’t press him for it.

Leaning against the doorframe in nothing but a towel, arms crossed over his chest, I knew there were girls who would kill to be standing where I stood. But to me, Declan was nothing more than a childhood friend, the first boy who was nice enough when I moved to Holmes Chapel from Chicago to befriend the new girl with the weird accent. Back then, he’d had a buzzcut and braces, acne peppering his face. There’s something about watching a kid like that grow into his looks that makes you proud rather than attracted to him. Declan was like my brother.

So rather than bothering to reply to his comment, I pushed past him into the living room. He followed me through the doorway, watching with an amused expression as I flopped down on the couch and ran a hand through my tangled mess of curls. Absentmindedly, I reached for the remote and turned on the TV, flipping through channels until I landed on an old re-run of The OC.

“Really, Sawyer?” he asked, gesturing to my choice of programming. I shrugged, letting my head fall onto my hand, a yawn escaping me.

Declan was still standing awkwardly beside the couch, eyes flickering between the me and the TV. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but was trying to figure out how he wanted to approach it. I let him have his moment, still jetlagged and too hungover to prompt him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked me after a few moments.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“It might help.”

“But it probably won’t.”

He sighed, running his fingers through his wet hair before finally taking a seat on the edge of the couch beside me.

“Why don’t we go out for lunch, yeah?”

“I’m not going to talk about it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I just woke up. I want breakfast.”

“We’ll go to a café. And I’ll show you the real town after that.”

I frowned, contemplating his offer. On one hand, I could use some food in my stomach to soak up the excess alcohol and acid. On the other, I couldn’t help but feel as if this was a pity offer for how wasted I was the night before and how obviously hungover I was now. He was going to try to pry it out of me, all of it, and I was in no state to discuss any of it.

“Fine,” I grumbled after a few minutes of indecision.

I didn’t need to look over at him to know he was smiling triumphantly. He leaned over, patting my knee reassuringly before he stood and turned toward the hallway to his room. The sound of wet fabric hitting hardwood floor preceeded his departure and I knew he’d dropped his towel purposefully. Biting my lip, I resisted the urge to pick it up and carry it to the hamper where it belonged.

It took me a few moments, but I finally gathered up enough strength to push myself up from the couch. I turned off the TV and walked over to the towel, picking it up and tossing it in the dirty clothes on my way to my room.

The emptiness of the room was off-putting. Back in Holmes Chapel, my room was filled to the brim with memories, photos and notes plastered so thick on the walls that you couldn’t tell what color the paint beneath it was. I’d torn it all down in a rage before buying my ticket to the States, but I couldn’t help but miss it now, the touch of personalization that made a room my room.

I shut the door behind me before I began to dig through my bag for something to wear. There wasn’t much; I left the majority of my things in England rather than deal with trying to get it all over here. It was a fresh start that I had been after, so it made sense to leave as much behind as possible.

I settled on a white bohemian top with crochet detailing along the collar, and a plain pair of denim shorts. I had taken a shower the night before, and honestly in my hangover haze, I wanted nothing more than to sink into a bath, but I knew I would have to wait. If I took a bath now, I’d have to deal with blow-drying my hair, re-applying make-up, and everything else. Declan would become impatient, and that was just something I didn’t want on my first full day in town.

Instead, I raked my fingers through the waves of my hair in an attempt to brush through it without flattening it. As quickly as possible, I put on mascara and eyeliner, my daily minimum, and forced myself out the door and into the hallway.

“You ready, Dec?”

I cautiously poked my head into his room, my eyes landing on a boxer-clad Declan who was looking at me with a puzzled expression.

“I haven’t even dressed yet. How did you...?”

I rolled my eyes, pushing off the doorframe to head into the living room. Had I known he was going to take his sweet time, I would have opted for my bath.

My eyes settled on a newspaper, the day’s date printed at the top. Curiously, I reached for it, rifling through the pages until I found the classifieds. There were several listings for roommates and apartments, but I couldn’t be sure of where they were located. It dawned on me I’d probably need a little help from Declan to figure out the best areas to live. Still, I flipped through the pages, scanning the adverts and taking mental note of a few neighborhoods.

I was immersed in COMFORTABLE TWO BEDROOM, UTILITIES INCLUDED in Sherman Oaks when I heard the doorbell ring. Startled, I jumped.

“Dec!” I called.

“I’m changing!” he responded.

I huffed in frustration, folding the paper back up and tossing it back onto the coffee table. I didn’t really feel comfortable with answering Declan’s door on my first day in town. I couldn’t be sure that he’d warned anyone that I was even staying with him, so I didn’t know what to expect when I pulled open the door.

I do know that I was not prepared for the green-eyed, curly haired boy who stood on the welcome mat, staring at me wide-eyed.