A Shattered Heart (Fractured Lives 2)

With a surge of energy that didn't match the pounding in my head, I leaped to my feet and cleared my counter of the weeks' worth of junk mail and empty Starbucks cups. Everything was tossed on top of the note, burying it from sight.

Still not satisfied, I pulled the trash bag out of the trash can and tied it up twice before carrying it out of my apartment. Barefoot, I navigated the asphalt, not even noticing the way it burned the bottoms of my feet. I just wanted to get rid of the bag and its contents. It had been a shitty twenty-four hours, and I was ready to put them behind me. If I'd learned anything over the last two years, it was that avoidance was the only way for survival. Mackenzie may have felt the need to keep the connection open in order to appease her sins, but I didn't. Mackenzie might be an asshole for leaving Zach when he needed her most, but I was no different. I'd allowed my love to be taken. I wasn't only an asshole, I was a selfish one at that. If I would have just held on to him a little tighter, he would be here. It was my fault he died.

Four

Over the next few months I buried the events of my visit to see Mackenzie and Brian's note deep inside me. Against my better judgment, I continued to see Dr. Carlton every week, but I refused to talk about that day. I sensed he would have liked to throttle me, but I was pretty sure that stepped over the whole doctor/patient relationship. Truthfully, I wouldn't have minded. I was picking for a fight, and I was pretty confident I could put bookish Carlton on his ass.

Fighting my therapist probably wasn't the best idea, so I did the only thing I could—I threw myself into my kickboxing at the gym near my campus. Now that classes were over for the summer I planned to be at the gym any time I wasn't working. The parts of me that had once been soft and a little fluffy in my old life were now taut and strong. Every muscle in my body was tighter now. I was no longer the slightly chubby girl with more curves than angles. That body no longer existed. It was just another way for me to shed my past.

"Damn, girl, are you trying to put my liver in my throat?" Travis, my sparring partner, asked after I put him on his ass for the third time.

"Don't be a wuss," I said, using my towel to wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead. I glanced at the time on my phone. "Crap, I'm going to be late." I tossed the towel over my shoulders and watched Travis stagger to his feet.

He was still grumbling and rubbing his side once he was on his feet. "Are you hyped up on steroids or something?" he asked, lifting his shirt to check the damage.

I took a gulp of my water before answering. "Maybe if you didn't stay out partying half the night you wouldn't be so slow. I think my grandma moves quicker than you and she's had two hip replacement surgeries."

Travis flicked his towel at me but missed by a mile. Though we'd been sparring for an hour I still had a storage of energy left. "Maybe if you had a life you wouldn't have to spend so much time in the gym," he countered. His words could have been viewed as harsh and even mean, but I didn't take offense. Travis and I'd been friends since I joined the gym a year ago. We'd hit it off when we both signed up for the same kickboxing class, despite our blatant differences.

Travis was the classic example of "partying your way through college." He had no idea about my past and was smart enough not to dig. He'd initially tried to move our relationship past our tentative friend zone, but I squashed the idea instantly. I wasn't looking for a relationship. Ever. It would be unfair to enter into a relationship missing a vital organ. My heart was no longer capable of love, and I was okay with that.

"Don't try to blame me for your wuss-ness," I told him, heading for the women's locker room. I had exactly an hour to get over to the YMCA in Winterpark to teach my new summer art class. The pay was crap and the location was less than ideal, but I took it to keep myself busy now that classes were out for the summer. Not to mention it looked good on my transcripts and got me one step closer to my goals.

Two years ago paying for college had been a major stress. Mom and Dad made just enough to take me out of the running for grants but not enough to actually help with my student costs. Unsubsidized loans had been my only option, or so we thought. What we hadn't counted on was a semi truck slamming into our life. Now money was no longer an issue. I could travel around the world for years and not run out of money, but I didn't like to think about the blood money that sat in my account accruing interest. It paid my classes and allowed me to live on my own, that was the extent of thought I'd allowed myself to give it.

Travis was waiting for me with his hair still wet from his shower when I left the women's locker room twenty minutes later. My own wet hair was pulled up into a loose messy bun on my head.

"You're wearing that to work?" Travis asked, raising his eyebrows at my Avengers T-shirt paired with my favorite jeans.

"I'm teaching a bunch of kids art. I'm pretty sure they're not going to care about my Captain America T-shirt. They'll be too busy wondering how they ended up in summer camp instead of at home playing on their electronic mind-sucks."

"Ain't that the truth. My youngest brother starts high school in the fall and he has one plan for his summer—video games and sleeping in. My mom has some delusional idea that she'll get him interested in outdoor activities, but he'd much rather hole up in his cave of a room all summer."

"Exactly."

"So, why are you doing it?"

I shrugged as he held the door open for me. "It's a job. And art is sort of my thing," I admitted.

He raised an eyebrow. I didn't blame his skepticism. I knew I didn't fit in the typical artist mold. I wasn't eccentric or cool. I didn't sit around in obscure coffeehouses contemplating the destruction of modern art or walk around with paint-splattered clothes with paint brushes stowed behind my ear or in my pockets. "I figured you were going to school to be a physical fitness guru or some shit like that," he said, swinging his gym bag over his shoulder.

I shuddered. "No, thank you. Touching people isn't my thing."

"Could have fooled me," he said, rubbing his side for emphasis.

"Oh, hitting people is a different story," I laughed. "I better jet," I added, taking another peek at my phone. "I'll see you on Wednesday?"

"Unless my spleen has ruptured by then," he joked, tossing his bag into the bed of his mud-splattered pickup truck.

I snorted as I opened the door of my Honda that looked small next to his redneck truck. Travis was one hundred percent southern boy. I was pretty sure his dad must have soaked his sperm in Jim Beam before conceiving Travis. Travis could have been the poster boy for every country song ever written. Weekends of drinking beer and mudding were his ideas of a great weekend. He talked me into going mudding with him and his friends one time. One time was all I needed—to know they were nuts. Driving through potholes the size of craters filled with mud with the windows open was not my idea of a good time.

I waved at Travis as I backed out of my parking spot and pulled out of the parking lot. Five minutes later I merged onto the highway, heading east and trying to ignore the part of my heart that picked up tempo the closer I got to my old stomping ground. Traffic was light. Go figure. It was still a little early for the typical afternoon backup on the highway. Poor planning on my part. I ended up getting to the Winterpark area with ten minutes to spare. I tried not to think about how achingly familiar the roads were. I knew this area well. I'd been back in Florida for a year, but I'd managed to avoid the majority of these roads up until now. Each week I drove to Mom and Dad's for an obligatory dinner, but I stuck to the same path that gave me the least amount of heartache each time.

Driving to the Y was a different story. It wasn't a straight shot like my parents' house. It was in the heart of all the streets I knew so well. Streets we'd played on. Roads we'd used to walk to and from school. It was a map to all my memories.

To calm my nerves, I swung through the Starbucks drive-thru for a shot of caffeine before I hea

ded to the YMCA for my first teaching class. My palms were damp with nervous sweat as I handed over my bank card to the cashier. Nerves. I needed to get over it. I needed this job if I wanted to continue down my career path. Teaching and nurturing a love for art had been my plan for as long as I could remember. My year abroad had set me back a year, but I was now ready to tackle that goal. With my first year of college under my belt I felt I was one step closer to realizing that dream. It was the only part of my old life I'd allowed myself to keep.