Love Me Broken Read Free

eyes, and I know that his door is closed. “No,” I say. “He won’t care. Let’s just mail the thing.”
    We don’t say anything as we work our way down the stairs. We stop for a moment by the front door to slip on our shoes, and Nicole looks outside. Our house, like most in Astoria, is a restored Victorian. There is a bay window overlooking the porch, and Nicole looks out through the gauze curtains.
    My mother is outside, with her back to us, staring out to the street. She hasn’t cut her hair since the accident. It’s almost down to her waist now, the loose strands twisting in the wind. She’s bent over in a wicker chair with her head in her hands.
    “How’s your mom?” Nicole whispers.
    I shrug. “The same, I guess.”
    We walk out the front door and Nicole stops to wave to her. “See you later, Mrs. Harper.”
    My mom doesn’t look away from the street. Her face is as expressionless as a wax figure’s. That is, until she reaches down for a wine glass, and brings it to her lips.
    I don’t bother to say good-bye. I shut the front door and clomp down the steps to the sidewalk. Nicole walks next to me, and we work our way down the street.
    When I say we work our way down, I mean it literally. Astoria is a small town built along the side of a steep hill facing the Columbia River. As we walk down, we face a panoramic view of the water. Huge shipping vessels are anchored in the distance, and across the massive river, over a mile away to the north, is the state of Washington. From here the other side is merely a stretch of green forest, with a massive steel bridge connecting the two states.
    My family’s house is toward the top of the hill, and it’s about a five-minute walk down to Commercial Street, a sort of main street of shops and restaurants that runs parallel to the waterfront.
    It’s June. The air is crisp and clean. Nicole and I are wearing tank tops and jeans. The day is beautiful, a perfect day really, but it’s hard for me to be grateful for it. The days shouldn’t be so perfect without Conner. It makes me feel guilty, to think of what he’s missing.
    When we reach Commercial Street, there are cars everywhere. At the sight of them, their sounds and smells—it triggers a knee-jerk revulsion in me that I can’t control. I reach for Nicole’s hand and grasp it tightly. “I’m sorry,” I say, dragging her to a stop. “I’m sorry.”
    I hate this part of my life now. Ever since that night, I can’t be around cars without feeling the same terror and helplessness of that night last summer. I can’t control it. I’ve tried to ignore it, but it’s too much for me. The only way I can even get through town anymore is with someone holding my hand as we cross the street, someone else to take responsibility for guiding the way while I close my eyes and try to shut myself out of the moment.
    Nicole says it’s PTSD. To me it just feels like death is coming. Death is coming and I can’t do anything to stop it.
    We wait at the stoplight. I watch the concrete as I hear the cars pass by a few feet away from me. My lungs feel empty, but I try to be strong and hide my panic from Nicole. I know she knows already, but it’s embarrassing.
    The light turns green and I can’t move. A van is idling in front of the crosswalk, the exhaust billowing up behind it like storm clouds. The driver stares at me. A car horn blares, and I start to gasp.
    Nicole squeezes my hand and pulls me into the street. We cross. Nicole waves at a driver in apology for my slowness. When we finally reach the other side, I have to stop and lean against a lamppost, struggling to even out my breathing.
    “Sorry,” I gasp to Nicole. I can’t think of what else to say.
    She puts a hand on my back. “Don’t worry about it.”
    We don’t talk anymore about how I can’t stand to look at cars, or how the thought of being inside one again makes me want to vomit. We don’t talk about the fact that the only colleges I applied to were in