Pieces of You (Shattered Hearts) (2 page)

Claire

I
NEVER WANTED TO BE
like my mother. And for a brief moment in time I thought I had escaped that fate. But life has a lovely way of reminding you that you are no better than anyone else—even a dead heroin addict.

It wasn’t until three weeks ago I finally understood that being like my mother isn’t such a bad thing. She may have brutally removed herself from my life when I was only seven years old, but she left behind a foundation for me to have a better life than her own. She taught me how to keep myself safe, which really came in handy as I was shuffled from one foster home to the next for eight years after her death. And, of course, there’s the enormous trust fund she left me—though I have no interest in ever claiming a dime of that money.

So I guess things could be worse, but it’s hard to imagine how as I lie here on the twin bed in my dorm doing statistics homework on a Saturday evening while my boyfriend is surfing in Florida. Of course, judging by the tone of the conversation we just had, it doesn’t seem like Adam is really enjoying his trip. Just remembering his words and the sound of his voice makes my stomach stir.

“I’ll be there in six days. You can congratulate me then.”

His voice was husky with exhaustion and it only makes me miss him more. I want to be there with him in Florida. Instead, I’m stuck in my dorm playing catch-up. This is the price I pay for taking my sophomore year off from UNC.

I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand between my and Senia’s beds. She should be back from hanging out with Eddie in a couple of hours. The sight of the stack of photos on the nightstand makes my chest ache.

Chris came over this morning to drop off some pictures of Abigail on his way to the airport. He could have emailed them to me, but he insisted on bringing the actual photos in case I wanted to put them in a frame or an album. That’s bullshit. He’s trying to get under my skin. He wants me to feel comfortable around him again.

When he left, I laid the photos facedown on the nightstand so I wouldn’t feel that longing every time I glance at my alarm clock and see my daughter’s face. But seeing the pictures turned facedown is just as jarring. It fills me with a stinging guilt that I’m certain has become part of my DNA by now.

Against my better judgment, I lift the stack of photos off the nightstand and lie back on my pillow. The first photo is of Abigail—I don’t even know her last name yet—lying on someone’s bed and smiling at something above her; something out of frame. I can’t help but refer to her as Abigail Knight in my mind. She’s a piece of Chris, and one look at her soft blonde hair and pouty lips and it’s apparent that she’s a piece of me. But neither of those pieces belongs to us.

The process of an open adoption is much less complicated than I thought it would be. The only thing that needs to be hashed out is the actual agreement. Abigail’s adoptive parents have verbally agreed to send us pictures and emails occasionally. We get to know her. They’re just not sure whether they want Abigail to know us.

The second photo is a close-up and she has Chris’s dark eyes. I trace the curve of her eyelid and I can see the way it turns down slightly at the corner, just like Chris's.

My phone buzzes as it vibrates on the nightstand. I lay the photos on the nightstand and pick up the phone, hoping it’s Adam with a joke text to pull me out of this funk. It’s Chris.

Chris:
Just landed in London. I got a voicemail from Tasha. They want to meet us on Tuesday. I’ll be back by then.

Tasha Singer is the lawyer Chris hired to handle the adoption. I think it’s funny that her last name is Singer. Chris thinks I’ll find her name less funny when I finally meet her. He claims she’s the hottest thirty-two-year-old he’s ever met. He thinks this stuff makes me jealous, but it doesn’t.

I love Chris. Nothing will ever change that. But it’s not the same love we shared a year ago. It’s the kind of love shared between friends who know each other’s deepest secrets. The kind of love shared between friends who’ve forgiven each other’s worst sins.

Me:
OK. I have class from 7-2. Will be in my dorm by 3.

Chris:
I’ll pick you up outside your class at 2.

Me:
Fine.

Chris:
Don’t take that tone with me. Don’t forget I still remember all your most ticklish spots.

Me:
Stop being a jerk. And stop texting me. I’m trying to study.

Chris:
Goodnight, Claire-bear.

I don’t respond. Why would I respond to that? He’s baiting me.

I finish my statistics homework and start reading the text for my Family and Society class. This has got to be the worst class I can possibly be taking right now, but it’s pretty much required if I have any hope of being a superstar social worker.

I open
Public and Private Families
by Andrew Cherlin and I’ve only read three pages when the dormitory door flies open and Senia charges inside, her dark waves flying. She tosses her purse onto the desk and collapses facedown onto her bed. Her skirt flies up and her panties are showing, but she doesn’t seem to care as she buries her face in the pillow.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as I set down the textbook and sit up.

“Ugh!” she groans. “I’m so stupid!”

Even though the pillow muffles her voice, I can still hear the strangled sound in her scream. She’s crying.

I get up from my bed and take a seat on the edge of her mattress. I rub her back and she mashes her face even harder into the pillow.

“What happened?”

She shakes her head then flips over onto her back. “He’s been fucking someone else, that’s what happened.”

“Eddie?”

“Don’t say his name. He disgusts me.”

Senia and Eddie have been together for almost seven months now, but I never would have suspected Eddie for a cheater. He’s always been insanely jealous and possessive. I always assumed Senia would be the one to dump Eddie once she got bored of his clinginess.

“How do you know he’s been…?”

“I found the fucking text messages. They’re already exchanging
I love yous
!”

She covers her face with her hands and my heart breaks for her. Senia has never cried over a guy since I’ve known her. Even when she was a shy freshman two years ago, she’s always kept her head about her when it came to relationships. I’ve always admired her ability to compartmentalize her emotional life. Her relationships never affect her studies and school never affects her social life. I’m the one who quit school when my personal life became too much for me to handle. She’s always kept it together. It’s not like her to fall apart like this.

Then I think of what she just said. “What text messages?”

“I was trying to look up times for that new Jack Black movie and a text came in. I can’t even tell you what it said. It’s gross. He’s a fucking pig.”

My mind instantly flashes to the text Chris just sent me.
Goodnight, Claire-bear.
Or the text about knowing my ticklish spots. Would Adam flip out if he saw those?

I spring up from the mattress and grab my phone off my bed. It takes a while to scroll all the way to the bottom of the list of texts I’ve been exchanging with Chris, mostly about adoption stuff, but there are some texts from him that could be construed as flirty.

“What are you doing?” Senia mutters.

“Trying not to be a fucking pig.”

“Are you cheating on Adam?”

“What? Hell, no. I just want to make sure there’s nothing remotely incriminating on my phone. Chris is trying to get under my skin.”

Senia sits up and cocks one of her perfect eyebrows. “Are you really that afraid of Adam’s jealousy?”

“I’m not afraid. I’m trying to avoid misunderstandings.”

She shakes her head before she lies back down on her stomach with her head at the foot of the bed. “I need to get drunk tonight.”

I look up from the screen of my iPhone, which I will probably have to trade in soon because I can’t afford the data plan without my job at the café.

“I’ll be your designated driver.”

“We don’t have to drive. We can take a cab. Please drink with me tonight.” I stare at her for a moment until her shoulders slump. “I was only kidding. You can drive.”

We decide to go to an Irish pub near campus. Eddie never wanted to take Senia to this pub, so we’re certain we won’t run into him here. She’s lucky she and Eddie don’t have any classes together this year, especially considering they’re both chemistry majors.

Not sharing any classes together was a major selling point when Senia was considering whether to take their relationship to the next level after the first few dates. But Eddie’s intensity was also a huge turn-on for her. He matched her intensity and wits, ounce for ounce. I was so certain that Eddie and Senia would one day get married. They fought a lot, but it seemed he couldn’t get enough of her feisty attitude or five-foot-ten Amazonian body.

But appearances can be deceiving.

We enter the pub and I’m hit with the stench of beer and testosterone. Social Distortion is blaring and people are yelling to be heard over the music and each other. Apparently, the hostesses don’t work Friday nights. People just come in and sit or stand wherever they choose. The booths and tables are all full. There’s a small area near the back of the pub, about the size of my twin bed, where people are thrashing to the music. It’s way too bright in here for this place to have a nightclub feel, but the atmosphere is total chaos.

I’ve been to plenty of clubs and parties with Senia, but I have a bad feeling about this place.

Senia leans over the bar to order her first drink—a gin and tonic with a lime twist—and I roll my eyes as some neck-beard ogles her ass. Senia has never had a problem attracting guys. Her model-perfect features and athletic body that she spends hours sculpting at the gym are really just bonuses. She oozes sexuality while I probably ooze “too much subtextuality.”

With her drink in hand, her eyes scan the crowded bar. “Eddie said this pub was on the corner of Drunk and Loser. I’d say it’s on the corner of Getting Over and Your Ex.”

“I think your jokes are becoming as bad as Adam’s.”

“That’s impossible. Adam’s cheese-level is off the charts.” She grimaces as if she’s in pain. “You have such a cool boyfriend. Why did I get the cheating douche-nozzle? Do I deserve this?”

Oh, no.
She hasn’t even taken her first sip and I already sense a drunken meltdown coming.

“Don’t even think something like that. You always said there was something a little off about Eddie. Remember the time he asked you to do
that thing
in the shower?”

I can’t even say it aloud. It’s too gross.

“All guys have at least one weird fetish,” she says, looking a bit hurt that I’ve insulted Eddie.

I want to tell her that Adam doesn’t have any weird fetishes, that I know of, but it seems I’m going to be standing on the corner of Eddie is a Douche-nozzle and Eddie is a God tonight. I lean my back against the bar and consider ordering a water, when a hand waving in the distance catches my attention. It’s Tristan, Chris’s bass player, best friend, and an even bigger douche-nozzle than Eddie. He’s sitting at a booth with his arm around a blonde that looks somewhat familiar, like I’ve had her in a class or something.

“Is that Tristan?” Senia asks.

Tristan tried to hook up with Senia at a Memorial Day barbecue last year. Tristan, who can drink more than anyone I know without getting drunk, didn’t hesitate to challenge Senia to a game of Quarters. And they almost had sloppy sex on the bathroom counter until Senia threw up on his shoulder.

“Let’s go say hi,” Senia says as she grabs my arm and hauls me through the crowd.

As we approach, Tristan’s gray eyes are locked on my face. Tristan has always made me uncomfortable. When Chris and I were together, I would often catch him staring at me when Chris wasn’t around. The problem with Tristan is that he doesn’t stare at girls when he wants to fuck them. He’s only been in one serious relationship since I’ve known him. When we were seventeen, Ashley and Tristan were together for over a year until she crushed his heart. I used to catch him staring at her the way I’ve often caught him staring at me. Chris once noticed it and nearly beat the shit out of him. I guess Chris isn’t around tonight.