Beautifully Shattered (The Beautifully Series Book 1) (27 page)

“Then stop playing
games. She deserves better.”

“I know.”

Minutes tick by before
Connor says, “Be quiet when you go in.”

That’s my only
warning before I hear the click of the door opening. I feign asleep,
hoping that Jax can’t tell I’m awake. My whole body feels on
fire, just knowing he’s so close yet so far away. When he halts at
the edge of the bed, my heart is thumping, ready to jump out of my
chest.

What I wouldn’t give
to open my eyes and watch him as he’s watching me. When his fingers
brush over my face, it takes all of my willpower not to lean into his
touch.
I’m pathetic.
He
traces my cheeks, then slowly he runs his fingers through my hair,
like he used to do when we were younger after I patched him up. My
breath catches as he brushes his lips across mine.

Thankfully Jax is too
drunk to notice. He gives me a lingering kiss on my forehead before
leaving. I wait a few seconds to make sure he doesn’t return, but
when their voices trail away, I know I’m good. I touch my still
tingling lips. What the heck just happened?

I lay awake for awhile.
It’s almost four in the morning when I hear Jax leave. I’m so
lost in my own thoughts that I forget to feign sleep for Connor. I
wonder if I should act as if I’m just waking up, but I know he
won’t buy it.

Connor gives me a
sympathetic smile. “Sorry, I tried keeping him out.”

“I know, I wish I
knew what was going on with him.”

I scoot over in bed and
pat the space next to me. He climbs in and raises his arm so I can
cuddle into him. I feel mentally exhausted.

“Me too.”

I don’t say anything
and relax into Connor. He dozes next to me and I lay awake with my
eyes closed, thinking of everything and anything that involves Jax. I
hate that I don’t know how to fall out of love with him.

“How much did you
hear?” Connor asks, startling me.

“Enough.”

He lets out a deep
breath but doesn’t say anything. He gives me a reassuring squeeze.
I drift off to sleep in the comfort and safety of Connor’s arms.

I’m not gonna lie,
this entire week I thought things between Jax and I would have been
different. It’s not like I’m asking for much, I just want things
to get back to normal between us. But nope, he’s been avoiding me
even more, if that’s even possible. I just want our friendship
back. Especially now with my brother’s surprise party this weekend.

After work I spend the
entire day searching for the perfect present, but it’s tough
choosing something for Logan. He has more money than sense and
whenever he wants something he goes out and gets it, which makes
buying presents for him an impossible task. After spending two hours
with no luck, I give up. I won’t find anything at these stores. I
return to my apartment, considering the entire trip back if I should
buy him football tickets to his favorite team. Crap! I can’t do
that, that’s what I got him last year.

Ugh, times like these
is when I could ask my mom’s advice. She was the best present-giver
in the entire world. And then it hits me, I know what will be the
best present for my brother. With a bounce in my step, I rush into my
spare bedroom. When I’m standing outside the closet I take a few
deep, calming breaths, knowing that I need to do this even though it
seems like the worst idea right now.

Pulling open the doors
to the closet, I see the box from my old life on the bottom shelf. I
approach the box with shaky legs. I sit in front of it, but make no
move to reach for it, not yet. I’m too afraid of what the memories
will do to me. I hate that I know I need to do this. This is the only
box I have from my old life. After the accident, this is the sole
thing that I brought with me to New York. I’ve never been able to
open it, and never been able to depart without it either. I have no
idea what happened to everything else I owned. Logan took care of
everything because I couldn’t. I was too weak.

Closing my eyes, I
blindly reach out for the box and trace the pattern in the oak lid. I
trace over the seashell imprints my mother had made. Then, I trace
over the ocean carvings across the length of the lid. I finally open
my eyes and stare at the keepsake box my mother created for my
sixteenth birthday. A year before they died.

I carry it back to my
bedroom and rummage through my jewelry box for the key. After
shuffling around a ridiculous amount of earrings, necklaces, and
bracelets, I finally find the key with my watch collections. I hold
it up as if I just won a marathon and the key is my prize. I walk
over to my bed with the box, count to ten slowly, then count back
from twenty, trying to gain the courage to open it. With nervous
hands, I slowly unlock it.

I push the knickknacks
out of my way so I can locate all the pictures. I find a stack with a
pink ribbon around them, indicating my favorite photos of Hadley. I
set those back in the box and rifle through the stack with the blue
ribbon, Logan’s stack. Knowing exactly which picture will be the
perfect one for Logan’s present, I quickly thumb through them. I
pass the cliche ones of him as a baby and even a toddler. When I get
to the pictures of his soccer days, I slow down, knowing I’m close.
After about ten more pictures, I find the one I’m seeking.

Logan’s first goal
when he was about eight.

You can see our parents
cheering for him in the background. My mom is pregnant with Hadley in
the picture, and I’m on top of our dad’s shoulders, clapping. I
plan on changing the photo to a black and white shot. Then keeping
everything out of focus except Logan and our parents. I may even keep
them in color.

With that plan, I tie
the stack back up and place them back in their original spot. My
finger travels over the other ribbons, but decide I’ll save those
for another day. Today is about creating the perfect present for my
brother. My hand come across a stray memory card that should be in
the pouch with the other ones. After setting it on my nightstand, I
lock the box, and slide it underneath my bed. Curious, I pick up the
memory card again and turn it over and over in my hand. Finally I
insert it into my camera and review the pictures.

The first shot is a
closeup of a lane pool and I know immediately these aren’t just
random pictures from a swim meet. There are pictures I forced myself
to forget. This is the memory card that someone else put in here when
I wasn’t “well.” That’s why it wasn’t in the pouch.

These are the photos I
took the last day my family was alive.

Holy fuck, I can’t
breath. Why couldn’t I have left it alone?

I set down the camera
and step back, wanting to be as far away as possible from those
memories. Without any other thought but needing to release the pain,
I run to my bathroom. On my knees I grab the razor blade I have taped
underneath my sink. Lifting my shirt, I press the steel blade to my
hip. When the first trickle of blood escapes, I realize what I’m
doing and throw the blade across the bathroom.

Dropping my face into
my hands, I will myself not to cry.
I
will not cry over this. I’m stronger than this.
I try
not to feel the relief that washes over me as I watch the trail of
blood. As much as I wish that my action sickened me, it doesn’t. I
can’t lie to myself. I already feel better. I ignore the signs that
I still need help, and clean myself up. With shaky legs I get off the
cold tile floor and trudge over to the discarded camera.

I force myself to view
the pictures again. I have to do this. This is yet another step in
the right direction. I want to remember them happy, all of us happy,
together. I want to remember their last moments.

I load the photos onto
my MacBook Pro and slowly start flipping through them. Because I’ve
re-played that disastrous day in my head for the past six years, I
know the perfect pictures for Logan’s present are here. I just have
to find them without falling apart.

After a couple more
minutes of searching, I arrive at the picture of the guys from my
last swim meet. Connor and Logan sport smiles, while Jax stares
thoughtfully at the person holding the camera, me. Their arms
encircle each other’s shoulders, the best of friends. Jax is simply
perfect. Even in a photo it’s unmistakable how truly handsome he
is. It physically hurts to look at him and realize that I lost such
an amazing friend. I focus on his sad, tired eyes. For some reason I
think it’s because of me, but I can’t remember why. There’s
something important I’m forgetting, but I can’t grasp what it is.
I don’t pry too hard because I’m afraid of what I may reveal.
Instead I continue flipping through the rest of the pictures,
ignoring the truth that I need to uncover.

My fingers pause over
the button to view the next picture; Logan has one hand on Hadley’s
shoulder. His other hand makes a fist pump in the air as they cheer
me on at the end of my lane. This is the perfect picture. This was
exactly what I was searching for . . . I’m so thankful to whoever
captured this moment. Hadley looks stunning in her yellow shirt and
creme tutu, making me have to catch my breath. She loved tutu’s,
always insisting to wear them with every outfit. She was thirteen
when she died; she never even had a chance to live. She had such a
promising future ahead of her. I still don’t know how I can live
without my kid sister.

She would be nineteen
if it wasn’t for me. I miss her so much that I’m riveted to the
screen, not wanting to blink or even change the picture. I want to
memorize everything about her. I love how she was bouncing up and
down with excitement, her long blonde hair flying through the air. I
love that I was the reason for this smile on her last day. She drove
me crazy, but was able to made me smile when I felt sad. I was never
able to stay angry at her for long. I miss her each and every day.

I click to the next
one, wanting to finish this project before I can’t handle it
anymore. It’s not until the last picture that I have to fight the
urge to find the razor blade. It’s of all of us, the family that is
no more. Our parents are on the ends, Logan, Hadley and I in the
middle.

This picture breaks me
. . . like I broke them.

The darkness takes over
as I stare into my parent’s laughing faces. I feel guilty that I’m
alive and they’re not. They were my world, they were the type of
parents that you read about in books, the parents that are always
there for their children no matter what. They were always
understanding. Even when we were fighting, I knew that I was lucky to
have them. Of course at the time I didn’t, but reflecting now, I
know that I couldn’t have had better parents. There wasn’t a day
that went by that I didn’t know they would always love me.

I didn’t have the
horror of growing up in a crappy situation that some children face,
like Jax. I was loved by them and everything they did, they did for
us. I wish that I could still make them proud. I know that I haven’t.
Since the accident, I’ve let the happy memories of them fade away
and be replaced by their last hours, my worst nightmare come to life.
I’ve let Logan down, too. I need to remember that I’m not the
only one who lost them that day, Logan did, too. He continued to
live, to make them proud. I need to do the same.

I don’t know how long
I’m transfixed to the computer screen. It feels like hours, but I
know it could have only been a matter of minutes when I finally I
drag the three photos over to Photoshop.

Being as rusty as I am,
it takes longer than necessary to edit them. It’s like riding a
bike, hard to forget the basics, and soon everything else comes back,
just slowly. It takes me an hour to finish. When I’m finally done,
I go to a local store to buy a few picture frames. I only intended to
buy four, but I end up carrying twelve back to my apartment because I
want to hang up a few pictures of my own. Hopefully they will make my
place feel more like home.

After setting
everything down on the table, I force myself to eat a granola bar
even though I’m not hungry. I hear my phone chime with a text as I
finish my last bite, but ignore it. Oops, I forgot to bring it on my
errands. I’ll check it when I’m ready for bed.

Crawling into bed, I
set my alarm for the morning. Before I press the icon for my text
messages, someone bangs on my door, making me jump. I watch in slow
motion as my phone flies out of my hands and onto the floor.

Please
don’t be broken. Please don’t be broken.

“Great!” I say when
I flip it over.

A huge crack mars the
screen, but at least it still turns on. Setting my now cracked phone
on the nightstand, I jump out of bed fully intending to kick
someone’s ass. It’s almost two in the morning. Too focused on
wanting to murder my late night visitor, I open it without checking
to see who it is.