Page 13 of Every Single Broken Piece
He lets out a sigh while pulling me into a hug and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “If you come to Naperville and you put some distance between yourself and this town, you’ll start getting better.”
I close my eyes, and not responding to what he says, I just stand still in his embrace.
Jordan will never understand.
After a few minutes, he lets go of me, and I finish preparing our tea before handing him a cup.
“Chamomile?” he asks as he follows me to the living room.
“Yes.”
Mom’s favorite.
I move the blanket and pillow to the side and sit down on the couch. Jordan takes a seat beside me, and we stare at the black TV screen and the window that looks out onto the front yard.
“The grass is getting long,” Jordan mentions.
“I’ll cut it tomorrow.”
“Want me to do it?” he asks, his tone soft as if the fight has left him.
It always happens when he spends time with me. My depression rubs off on him, and I hate it.
“No,” I reply, my tone hollow. “It’s something to do to keep me busy.”
Everything feels devastatingly empty around us. It’s as if I stopped living the night our parents and Sage died. I barely manage to exist.
At least Jordan still has Natalie and Brady to live for.
“You don’t have to drive out here anymore,” I whisper.
“Don’t start,” he grumbles.
“The phone calls are fine.” My fingertip traces the rim of the cup.
“Drop it, Kelcie. Driving from Naperville to Verona once a month won’t kill me.”
The moment the word leaves his mouth, my body jerks, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Shit. I’m sorry.” He lifts his arm and wraps it around my shoulders. “I like the drive. It gives me some time alone.”
“Okay.”
“Talking about driving. Have you taken your car for its yearly service?”
I give him a sheepish look. “I haven’t driven in a long while. It probably won’t even start.”
Jordan lets out a sigh as he climbs to his feet. “Come on. Let me take a look.”
“You don’t have to. I can ask Malakai or Asher to check the battery.” The brothers took over the gas station and auto repair shop from their father when Mr. Woods retired.
Ignoring me, Jordan asks, “Where are the keys?”
I walk to the kitchen and pull open a drawer I use as storage for random things. I dig around, and finding the keys, I hand them to him before reluctantly following him to the garage.
While watching Jordan tinker with the battery, I stifle a yawn. I usually sleep between twelve and six in the afternoon. Since the attack, I sit up every night as if I’m waiting for the killers to come back, even though I know they’re locked away.
When my thoughts threaten to go down the dark path that leads to the worst night of my life, I shake my head and force myself to focus on Jordan.
