Broken Pretty Things by Amber Faye

Chapter 1

Two weeks later…

You can saywhat you want about me, about my family, but one thing will always be true.

When it all went to shit, everybody looked to me.

It is affirming, but it isn't surprising. In many ways, Cole Waller ruled Torrent Bay, but in just as many, I was always right there with him. He was homecoming king, I was class president. As far as Torrent Bay Academy went, we had equal rule of the school. Equal pick of the girls, good grades, great friends.

But the king is dead, and it's time for the president to pick up the pieces.

I stand at the podium, looking out at a sea of black jackets, ties, dresses. I grip the sides and I'm aware my knuckles turn white, but I can't let go. The microphone sings when I sound out a greeting. "Thank you all for coming," I say, and my voice is hoarse, rehearsed, robotic.

It occurs to me that even if Cole were still alive, a duty like this would still fall to me. He may have been Mr. Popular, but I've always been “Mr. President.” Always been able to turn charm on and off at will, especially when I have an audience.

And, man, do I have an audience right now.

It couldn’t be for a worse reason, but the whole town is taking in my every word. If ever there were a time to go off script, it's now.

"We lost a great guy when we lost Cole," I begin, feeling the heaviness in the air like rain on a hot night. "And I know everyone says that at every funeral, and they have since the beginning of time, but it’s true. No one was kinder, more patient, more generous than Cole Waller.”

A yelping noise comes from his mother in the audience and I grip the podium harder still. It hurts, but I can’t let my hands shake. If I start to shake, my voice will start to waver, and I will lose them. And I still have something I need to say.

“The thing is, usually when somebody’s life is ripped from them at seventeen years old, we talk about what a tragedy it was. We talk about whatever faceless, sometimes nameless thing it was that took them from us. We redirect our hate to a sickness, an accident, a substance. Sometimes there’s no place to pour our blame, and that becomes a sickness in itself, twisting us into something …” I look up and see I’m losing some of them. I readjust my tie and wet my lips. “This time, we’re lucky,” I say finally.

A couple of people, those who aren’t wrecked right now, look confused as I let my silence stretch on.

“In this case, we do have somebody to blame,” I say, leaning into the microphone and hearing my words echo through the church. Now people are looking around, muttering to themselves, and I feel the rumbles of their confused chatter like ASMR in my ears. I summon up every ounce I have left of oratory skill, and I make sure my next words ring loud and deep through the room. I make sure every single person will hear them echoing through their minds for as long as possible.

I lift my hand, numb from its death grip on the wood in front of me, force it into a fist, and then point.

“Andrea Palmer.”

I’ve been avoiding looking anywhere near her for the entirety of my speech. She was sitting at the back of the church, as if we wouldn’t see her. Holding hands with her mother, her head dipped forward in reverence. Her normally washed and styled dark blonde waves are tied up in a messy knot, and mascara is in streaks down her cheeks.

She looks up at me like I issued her a death sentence. Shock, betrayal, hurt. Then when the pews creak as the entire town turns around to face her, her expression finally lands on a single emotion.

Fear.

I know her expressions as well as I knew her. Or thought I did. I know it from countless nights spent watching horror movies, then sneaking up behind her and grabbing her waist until she screamed and beat me and I laughed.

She was my best friend.

“The town would be better off if you left,” I conclude. Shakily, her mother stands. Jen Palmer probably had more of a hand in raising me than my own father did. She shakes her head at me with disappointment, but I don’t feel the gut punch I should. I don’t feel anything. Maybe I never will again.

I am numb to my core.

And, even though it might not seem like this is the best thing for her, it really is. I know this for a fact when little JJ Waller — head shaved now; he looks like a puppy-faced wannabe thug — leaps from his seat and launches at her. He must not have known she was here.

He’s restrained by Logan, in his too-tight, funeral-inappropriate tux, long enough for Jen to usher a despondent Andie out of the church.

Hopefully this was the push they needed to move to the other side of the country. Rumors were going around that they were thinking of fleeing to the West Coast. Good.

“Let her leave. This is for the best,” I can hear Logan saying, clapping JJ’s vibrating back.

If Andie stays in this town, they’ll put her through all seven circles of hell, and she sure as shit won’t survive that. I have no idea what these people will do to her if she stays.

I have no idea what I’d do.

I crane my neck to catch one last look of her, but before I can, the heavy double doors of the church shut with a boom.