Their Broken Pieces by Jessica Gomez
Chapter Eleven
Alex
If someone had told me Jasmine would be sitting in my living room today, I would have punched them in the face, but here she is, on my couch.
When I glanced out the window to see what all the hooting and hollering was about and saw Jasmine surrounded by members of my gang, and one of them had their filthy hands on her, working his way up her waist, my heart sank to my stomach like a pile of bricks. Panic surged forward, throwing me headfirst into a fiery rage. I barely remember bursting outside and smashing Jose’s face with my fist.
Jose’s a member of my gang, but that gave him no right to put his filthy hands on what’s mine. I’m the only one who should ever touch her. Immediately, I reject the last thought, shaking my head to loosen those crazy ideas.
When I guide her into the house, she’s trembling enough for me to support most of her weight. Her eyes shine like blue diamonds, stars twinkling in the sky as she tries to avoid crying. She’s attempting to exude an I have everything under control persona, when in reality, she’s just like me—out of control, trying to keep our monsters at bay, and the past in the past. I understand how it feels to hurtle toward a future you can’t imagine.
She breaks down another piece of my wall when she apologizes. It was my father who killed her brother, her best friend, and paralyzed her father. I should apologize to her. She only spoke out of grief at what my father did to both of our families.
Over the last two years, my insides have shriveled, turned lifeless… dead. The only emotions that remain are sorrow and rage, so this protective and overwhelming drive to be around her is the last thing I expect. My priority is to stomp these notions out before it’s too late. I’ve spent the last two years forming a barricade around my heart; refusing to let another person pass. The agony that speared my soul the day of the accident is not an experience I’ll ever allow again. The rollercoaster of pain could have been manageable if I had my best friend to talk to, but my father killed him too. Some days I’m so angry with him that I’m glad he’s dead. How could he be so careless? But I’d give anything to bring them home.
Instead of dwelling on my feelings, I bottled them up, and turn on the Navarro charm, becoming the culo that’s expected of me. I’m leaning far too close to her, a gesture that can only be interpreted one way, while she talks about our class project.
The problem with this move is that I’m unprepared for my body’s reaction. Her proximity’s like a magnet; the closer I get, the closer I want her. And when I want something, I always get it, but complicating my life with my dead sister’s best friend is the last thing on the agenda.
“Are you ready for me to walk you to your car?” We need distance between us to squash this confusion gripping hold and taking me hostage.
My attempt fails miserably when I see the nervousness in her demeanor as she glances between me and the door. “Can I stay for a while longer?”
Already, there’s nothing I’ll deny her.
I nod… yes.