Fractured ( Fractured #1) (2 page)

“Is that it?”

I couldn’t think of anything else. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Here you go.” He reached over the counter and
his hand brushed mine as he passed me the stacked salads, including the container with the odd tan mush. My body felt as if it were humming with electricity. “Have a nice day. Come back again soon.”

I knew that was my cue to leave, but I wasn’t sure if my rubbery legs would let me walk away. The coolness of his eyes fixed on me
, and I stared at his flawless lips.

His left eyebrow
dipped on his forehead. “You okay?”

“Um, yeah. Fine. Thanks.” I took a last look at his one-dimpled smile before I forced myself
to turn around and walk away.

I
didn’t remember walking home. Maybe I floated. My thoughts were consumed with the hot “deli-god”. And that’s when I knew what I wanted.

Chapter Two

“Hey, Mandy,” Dad greeted from the barbeque. I was surprised to see him.
Where was he before when I called the shop?

The
aroma of burgers and hot dogs wafted through the air.

“Where’ve you been?” Mom asked from behind her glass.

I held up the package and said, “You had me go to the store for rolls, remember?”

“Oh, right,” she said, but I knew she didn’t have a clue. Then she
took a sip from her newly filled glass and drifted off on one of her alcoholic clouds. Bryan seized the bag with the hamburger rolls and ripped it open for a couple of buns. I placed the salads on the table.

“What’s that brown stuff?” He grabbed a couple of burgers as soon as Dad walked over to the table with the tray. Half of the first was gone with one bite.

I shrugged and tried to hide my mistake. “It’s hummus. It looked interesting.”

With every forkful of potato salad, I thought of the
hot guy from the deli counter.

“You okay, Mandy?” Dad asked
, as he passed the plate with the burgers in my direction. Grease outlined his short fingernails, even though I knew he probably scrubbed them when he came home.

“Yeah, Dad.”

“Seems like you’re somewhere else. Somethin’ on your mind?”

I took a burger and passed the tray to
Bryan, who was on his third. I couldn’t tell him about the gorgeous guy at the supermarket. Another of my dad’s double standards; it was okay for Bryan to be with as many girls as possible, but if a guy even looked in my direction, I’d get the third degree about him: who he is, where I know him from, what his social security number is... “You know, it’s summer break. I’m making a mental list of all the books I want to read.”

“
Puh-leeze,” Bryan said.

“What? It’s a great time to read what I want instead of what’s required,” I defended.

“Yeah, right.” He rolled his eyes. “That extra two minutes head-start into the world really gave you an advantage, Sis.” He took another bite of his burger. “Maybe if Cassandra would have lived past a week, she’d be smarter than both of us because she came out last and had the longest to stew inside Mom’s belly.” We were triplets. Bryan was the second born. I was the oldest by two minutes and three seconds. Cassandra was born last, but didn’t live past the first week after birth. Aside from both Bryan and me having brown eyes, we didn’t look anything alike. He had brown wavy hair, like Mom, and I was a strawberry-blonde, like Dad. And I had a sprinkle of freckles across my nose. Oh, and Bryan had a car, and two jobs, and got to do whatever he wanted. And, I didn’t—thanks to Dad’s stone-age views of males and females. I often wondered what Cassandra would have looked like; maybe she’d have been a mix between Bryan and me. Maybe Dad would have let her do what she wanted too.

“Stop being so
sheltered,” Bryan said. “You can’t hide behind books. You need to get out more, Mandy. Maybe you’d actually meet a guy if you left the house.”

“Bryan’s right,” my father agreed.

Wait.
Was this coming from the man who wouldn’t even let a guy breathe in the same vicinity as me? A man who said I had to stay home to make sure the house was running smoothly?

I smiled. Well
, I could just go to the supermarket. I looked over my burger at my brother. “Just because you don’t like to better your mind with good books, doesn’t mean you should make fun of me.” I tried to deflect his sarcasm.

“It’s not my fault that I prefer to have a social life,” Bryan said. “Besides, I’m just as smart as you. I finished with a 92 average this year.”

“I have friends,” I said. I thought about my last real friend, Meredith. She moved away three years previously, at the start of high school. She was my friend when everyone else avoided me. I sat up straighter in my chair and one-upped him. “My average was 98.”

“We all can’t be hermit geniuses,” he said
, before he squished the remainder of his burger into his mouth.

During the rest of dinner, Mom receded into her catatonic state of alcoholic oblivion, and I managed to keep track of the conversation about e
ngines and brakes that went on between my dad and Bryan, while I made sure that Dillon didn’t flip out because the potato salad on his plate was a millimeter away from touching his bun. And, I kept flipping my mental picture book to the gorgeous example of a human I’d seen earlier.

Hmm, I wonder what groceries
we need. I might have to the supermarket again, soon.

That nig
ht, I dreamt about the deli-god.

Chapter Three

Water crashed on the rocks and sprayed my toes. White silk ruffled
around my legs as it danced in the wind. Long, gossamer, strawberry curls rolled over the windy currents around my head in a rhythmic tempo. A set of muscular arms came from behind me and wrapped around my waist. He eased me toward him so that his strong chest was against my back, and his breath caressed my cheek. Being enveloped in his embrace made me feel safe, wanted. I could have stayed there for eternity. A few moments passed, and then his hands found my hips and he turned me to face him. The space between us was just narrow enough for a slip of paper. Crystal blue eyes pulled on my soul. His hands found my face and lifted it toward his. His eyes closed, he reached out with his lips. I imitated the action, eager for the gentle softness of his kiss. Emotional electricity coursed through my body…

“Manny! Manny!” Dillon burst into my bedroom. Even though he’s autistic, he was still a ten-year-old male, which meant he needed everything immediately.

Startled, I flung the blanket off my head. It took me a moment to realize I was in my room
, and not on the cliff, overlooking the water with the hot deli-god wrapped around me. Disappointed it was all a dream, and crushed it was over, I said, “What’s the matter, Dillon?”

He was motionless in the doorway with a teaspoon in his hand. “
Bekfast. Bekfast.”

Looking at the clock, which said seven A.M., I knew Dad
and Bryan had left for work already. I guessed Mom was nursing another one of her hangovers. “Okay, Dill. Let me wash up and put clothes on, and I’ll make you breakfast, okay?”

“Manny,
bekfast.”

“Yes, Dillon.” I threw back the covers and placed one foot on the floor. “Go wait at the table
; I’ll be right there.”

He turned and marched out of my room. His heavy footsteps told me he was headed down the stairs and toward the kitchen.
So much for sleeping past nine during summer break. When I heard the chair scrape back on the tile floor, I grabbed my clothes and walked to the bathroom. As quickly as I could, I brushed my teeth and hair, pulled on the clothes, and put on the basics of make-up, mascara, blush, and lip-gloss. I knew I only had a few minutes before Dillon would go into ‘melt-down’ mode, so I hurried to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. I pulled out two eggs and a pan from the cabinet. Dillon sat at the table, teaspoon in hand, staring off into whatever world he preferred to be in. I wish I could have gone there, too
.
Although he could spew out facts about almost anything, better than a thirty-year collegiate professor could, socially he was more like a six-year old.

Carefully cracking the eggs and disposing of the shells, I scrambled them in the small bowl that Dillon insisted on using for eggs. If it
wasn’t done exactly the way he liked, he would flap his hands and start to scream. Then forget about breakfast; I’d be spending the next hour and a half calming him down before I’d have to wash down the walls and start all over. Dillon bounced up and down in his chair.

“Did you comb your hair, Dill?” I asked as the fork whipped the yellow goo in the bowl. He didn’t answer. “You’ll have to do that after breakfast, okay? You can’t get on the school bus until you do that.” Unlike Bryan and me, Dillon
didn’t get off during the summer. He needed the consistency and structure of a twelve-month school program. He got a two-week break at the end of August, and one in December for the holidays. Again, no answer. That was fine as long as he did it. I’d have to check before he left the house.

I picked up the note that Bryan left on the kitchen table. “Happy Birthday, big sis!” it said. He must have gotten the sticky note I left on his bedroom door
, which said, “Happy Birthday to the best triplet in the world.” With the note in my hand, I thought about it; it wasn’t such a big deal to be seventeen. And I knew, other than Bryan, it would go unnoticed. Dad had already given Bryan his gift two months ago; a refurbished Mustang. I got art supplies last week.
Oh yeah, that’s fair… NOT!

The two gluten-free slices of bread popped out of the toaster
, and I placed them on Dillon’s Thomas-the-Tank-Engine plate, the one we used for breakfast. Then I shimmied the well-done scrambled eggs across the top of one slice, careful that none of the egg touched the other piece of toast. If it even grazed the other slice of bread, Dillon wouldn’t eat any of it, and I’d have to start all over.

“Here you go, sir,” I said, placing the plate down in front of him. Dillon looked down at his breakfast. “Now eat all of it so you have enough energy to last until lunch.”

Dillon approached his breakfast as if he were a heart surgeon. With very precise movements, he maneuvered the teaspoon so that the edge cut into exactly one-eighth of the egg sitting on the toast. Then, with the support of the spoon, he cradled the dissected piece and lifted it to his mouth. He pressed the egg to his lips before inserting it. I knew he’d chew fifteen times before swallowing. This is what he did with all of his food.

Once I was sure Dillon would be all right with his breakfast, I said, “I’m going to get my art stuff, okay?” He didn’t answer
, and that meant he was okay with it.

Back in my room, I brushed my hair for a second time, trying to get the curls down to a minimum. Realizing it was a lost cause
, I tied back my mane with a purple ribbon to match my tee shirt. I grabbed my bag of colored pencils, charcoal sticks, and the new sketchpad from my closet, and walked back down to the kitchen.

Dillon had just finished his breakfast. “Okay, put the dishes in the sink,” I instructed, and he did. “Hair,” I reminded, and he walked into the downstairs bathroom. The squeak of the vanity drawer told me that he was getting the extra brush we kept in there just for him. He walked back into the kitchen holding the brush in one hand like a microphone. I tried my best to get his
curls under control, but all of us Stewarts suffered from incredibly wavy hair. At least mine was long and I could put it back into a ponytail. Bryan kept his very short, but Dillon, well, Dillon didn’t like to get haircuts. Slasher movies were more timid than Dillon was when getting a haircut. So I resorted to trimming it while he slept. Whether it was a decent job or not depended on how often he moved while I cut.

When I was done, I took a moment and looked at him. “Very handsome, Dill.” When I gave him back the brush, he disappeared, and I heard the squeak of the drawer before he came back to the kitchen.

A horn signaled that Dillon’s bus was out front. He opened and closed his hands several times. I handed him his lunchbox. “Have a great day, Dillon,” I shouted, but he was already out the door, down the walkway, and stepping up onto the bus. The matron gave me a wave, and I closed the door as the bus pulled away.

Just then, Mom shuffled into the kitchen. Her pink terrycloth bathrobe hung off one shoulder
, and her hair looked like a rat’s nest. Her movements were slow as she reached into the cabinet for a coffee mug.

“Bryan made a fresh pot this morning,” I said, but
I knew she wasn’t interested in coffee. She opened another cabinet, reached all the way in the back, and pulled out a dark green bottle. I was immediately frustrated at myself for missing one.
Then she sat at the table, unscrewed the cap, and poured a generous amount of amber liquid into the mug.

I knew this was not an argument I could win. Instead of saying anything, I grabbed my art supplies, peeked in the mirror
near the door, and headed out for the Hanleys.

Mr. and Mrs. Hanley
lived in the oldest house in Wood Oaks. It had been in Mr. Hanley’s family since the 1790s. Of course, there had been additions made to the two-story farmhouse, but not during the Hanleys’ time. The picturesque scenery that surrounded the house was a nice subject for sketching. The rich blossoming flowerbeds under the deep green shutters on the whitewashed shingles of the house made it look very romantic. Even the evergreens that framed the house on either side of the door gave it balance. The Hanleys were in their early 70s and liked when I came to visit. Their daughters had moved away after they each got married. Since Mr. and Mrs. Hanley hardly saw their grandkids and I had no friends, we kind of adopted each other. They told me to think of their property as my own, so I frequently came to draw the surrounding nature. They didn’t even mind when I wore down the grass and weeds off the main road to make my own dirt path that led to the creek.

Usually, I
was the only one on the road heading toward their house, but I noticed that there was someone else on the street.