Unbreak Me Read online

  And just like that, a little of my newly discovered self-confidence shrivels away.

  Ugh, I really hate having Sabrina around sometimes.

  “No, I’m good!” I respond, doing my best to suppress the hurt in my voice. “Are you going to be ready soon?”

  Sabrina steps out of the bathroom and smacks her lips, coated with bright red lipstick.

  “Chill, girl. You can’t rush perfection,” she adds with a wink.

  She bends over to tie the straps of her heels. God, but she really does look perfect. She wears a fitted white mini-dress that looks gorgeous against her alabaster skin. In her heels, she stands at least six feet tall. Ugh, she looks like a supermodel.

  The remaining few ounces of my self-confidence start to dissipate and I wonder if I have enough time to change into something else, or even better, hide in my room until the party ends.

  “I am so ready for this party tonight,” Sabrina says as she grabs her bag off my bed. “After Derek totally blew me off last night, I am in the need for some hot action. And I already know exactly whose name I will be screaming tonight.”

  A pit forms in my stomach and I spin on my heel to look at her, already dreading the answer I know is coming. But still, I have to ask.

  “Who?”

  Sabrina rolls her eyes and marches toward my bedroom door, swinging it open.

  “Damien,” she responds with a confident smile on her face.

  ____

  As Sabrina and I walk downstairs, the party is already in full swing. A waiter dressed in a Hawaiian-print shirt carrying a tray of oysters sways past us as we land in the main entry. Since six this morning there have been decorators, florists, caterers and party planners scurrying about to transform the house and the backyard into a tropical oasis to celebrate Carol and my uncle’s first wedding anniversary.

  My uncle spots me and gestures for me to come over. I wade through the crowd and when I reach him, he wraps me in a tight hug and I catch a whiff of his familiar cologne. I press a kiss to his cheek.

  “Congratulations, Uncle Robbie.”

  He smiles, his entire face lit with excitement and happiness.

  “Thanks, my dear.”

  He looks down at my outfit. “You look… so grown up.”

  Tears gather in the corner of his eyes.

  “When the hell did that happen?”

  I squeeze his hand. “I am still your little girl, Robbie. Don’t worry.”

  He shakes his head.

  “I always worry about you, Juliette. You’re my life and I love you so much.”

  His words touch me. I am so grateful to Robbie for raising me as if I was his own. I know the sacrifices he’s made for me. He was only twenty-eight years old when I landed on his doorstep, an orphan. And yet he never once complained.

  “I know, Robbie. And I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for me.”

  He looks down and pauses a moment before responding.

  “Sometimes I worry I’ve been too protective of you. You’ve never had the chance to explore the world or go live at college like your peers. I worry that you’re missing out on all the other things kids your age are doing.”

  I laugh and shake my head.

  “You mean like dropping Molly and going to sick raves or Coachella?”

  Robbie chuckles.

  “Well, I didn’t understand a single word you just said, so I guess I might be older than I realized!”

  He grabs my hands and holds them so gingerly.

  “I worry that I might have tried to protect you and in doing so, hurt you more.”

  I’m confused by his cryptic words. Gone is his easy smile. His brow furrows and I can see the wheels spinning in his head.

  “Uncle Robbie, you don’t need to worry about me anymore,” I say, wanting him to return to his carefree and happy mood. “I’m happy to stay here at home with you and go to school part-time. I love being able to continue the work of dad’s charity.”

  And I did. I knew it would have been hard for me to fit into a traditional college experience, anyway. I don’t enjoy partying, or sleeping around, and I still want to work. If I went full-time, then I wouldn’t be able to continue working at my father’s charity that he had set up long before his death.

  He had always wished that I would take his place one day, and I want to keep my promise to him. I love being able to help people every day and make a difference in the world. When I work in the offices, or volunteer with the at-risk teens we help support — those are the moments when I feel closest to my parents. I wouldn’t give that up for anything in the whole world.

  My uncle nods, but I can tell his thoughts are a thousand miles away. He squeezes my hands. “I want all the happiness in the world for you, Juliette.”

  I nod.

  “I know, Robbie. And I am happy. Truly.”

  He shakes his head.

  “There’s a sadness that is hanging over you more recently. One I haven’t seen for years. Not since …”

  His voice trails off, but we both know what he was going to say.

  Not since my parents died.

  I force a smile to my lips, but I need to get away. It’s still hard for me to talk about my parents without becoming overwhelmed with emotion. And seeing Robbie so serious and sad at his own anniversary party wracks me with guilt. I hate how I continue to be a source of worry for him.

  “I’m happy,” I tell my uncle, my voice convincing enough for him to let out a long breath. “You make me happy. Seeing you with Carol makes me happy. And tonight is going to be fun and we are going to celebrate! Now go get a drink and mingle — I am going to go do the same!”

  My uncle nods and his smile returns to his face. I give him a quick kiss on his cheek and push him back to his party.

  I need to get out of here. I look for Sabrina in the crowd, but she’s nowhere to be found.

  Likely in search of Damien.

  Ugh.

  My uncle’s talk has me feeling emotional. We don’t bring up my parents very often. It’s just too painful and I feel a well of tears forming in the corner of my eyes. I scan the room. I know I won’t be quick enough to make it back to my room before the tears fall, and I don’t want to make a scene and ruin Carol and Robbie’s party.

  I decide the bathroom in the kitchen will give me the most privacy. We designated it as a bathroom for the staff and most of them are busy working the room. All I need is a few minutes to collect myself before having to go back to the party and mingle.

  Every passing second is excruciating. I refuse to let myself be seen crying during this happy time. I would never be able to forgive myself for ruining Robbie’s party. I push through the crowd until I make it into the kitchen, which is thankfully empty. Rounding the corner to the small hallway leading to the bathroom, I’m stopped instantly in my tracks as I collide with someone leaving the bathroom. I mumble an apology as I try to push back, but a hand wraps around me, stopping me.

  I snap my eyes up to look at the stranger grabbing me, only to find it’s no stranger. It’s Damien. And before I can break away, a single tear snakes its way down my cheek and I break.

  Chapter Four

  Within seconds, I’m ushered into the bathroom, the door closed behind us.

  Has this bathroom always been this … small?

  Damien’s hand leaves my wrist and travels up to my face. Gently, he lifts my chin to look up at him. My breath stalls as I see the concern overtaking his face.

  “Jules? What’s wrong?” He asks.

  Jules. The nickname breaks my heart. He hasn’t called me that in months. Not since he turned a cold shoulder to me. More tears continue to fall, but I refuse to let him see me break down. I hate how he pretends like he cares.

  I swipe my hand across my cheek and push his hand away.

  “I’m fine,” I whisper.

  Damien exhales. I feel his warm breath against me.

  “You’re not fine, Jules. I can see that you’re not. Please, tell m
e what’s wrong. Tell me what I can do.”

  His voice is pleading and I force myself to look at him again. I’m surprised to see that the sincerity in his voice matches the concern expressed on his face as he carefully assesses me.

  “I’m just … I just needed a few minutes alone.”

  He shakes his head and clenches his fists at his sides.

  “Did someone say something to you? Was it that bitchy friend of yours? Serena?”

  “Sabrina?” I ask, surprised at his sudden mood change. He looks so angry. I take a half-step back until I meet the cold tiled wall behind me. “Wait, I thought you liked her?”

  He laughs, shaking his head. “Her? No way. She’s a snob and I’ve heard the way she talks to you. I don’t like it. I wish you would stop hanging out with her.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing,” he says, thrusting his hand through his hair. He leans back on the edge of the vanity and places his palms on his thighs. “Please just tell me why you’re sad, Jules.”

  “It’s nothing … I just was thinking about my parents,” I answer, my voice just above a whisper.

  Damien exhales and nods.

  “I’m sorry. Today must be hard for you. I should have realized.”

  I look up at him, and when I do, a lone tear escapes and snakes its way down to my chin. Before I have the chance to wipe it away, Damien’s thumb is on my cheek again. He gently swipes away the moisture and his hand lingers on my cheek, unsettling me. He’s too close and the look in his eyes is too sincere.

  I recognize this man: this was the Damien I first met one year ago. The one who then promptly disappeared, breaking my heart. But is he back now? And why? For how long? I have too many questions and feel too many emotions, and it’s suddenly all too much for me.

  “I should go,” I say.

  “You should,” he responds. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull his hand away. Doesn’t stop intently watching me with his emerald green eyes.

  “Damien, why do you...” I pause. My voice is shaky and I am worried I might break into a thousand pieces right in front of him. “Why are you acting like you care about me?”

  He recoils and pulls his hand away.

  “What do you mean? ‘Acting like I care?’ What do you mean by that?”

  I shake my head.

  “For nine months you’ve just ignored me, pretending I didn’t even exist. And now you’re acting like … like how you did before, back when I thought you cared for me.”

  The words rush out before I have a chance to edit them. They’re raw, but they are real.

  Damien looks pained by my question and he lets out a long exhale before locking his eyes intently with mine.

  “I never stopped caring, Jules. Fuck, I doubt I can even stop. You can’t see it’s all a stupid act? I do it all to make you hate me. I want you to hate me.”

  A thousand more questions run through my mind. Damien is presenting me with a puzzle that I cannot help but feel is missing some critical pieces.

  “I don’t understand, Damien!” I cry, throwing my hands up in the air in frustration. “Why do you want me to hate you?”

  He shakes his head.

  “I don’t just want you to hate me, Jules, I need you to hate me. I can’t … we shouldn’t even be having this conversation. I made a promise.”

  He turns to leave, but I reach out and grab him by his jacket, forcing him to turn around and face me.

  “What are you saying, Damien? Why do you need me to hate you? What is this promise? I don’t want to hate you!”

  My voice is hysterical, but I don’t care anymore. Not only do I see the pain in Damien’s eyes, but I recognize it. The same sadness mixed with hurt and pain and anger and loneliness: I recognize it. Broken people can recognize other broken people.

  Gently, he removes my hand from his jacket and lifts it up to his lips. He turns my hand over and presses a light kiss on the center of my palm before lowering my hand back to my side.

  “Because if you hated me, you wouldn’t be able to see how much I actually cared for you.”

  And with that, he turns, opens the door, and leaves me behind, where the tears I’ve been holding back finally fall.

  Chapter Five

  I need a drink.

  And the last thing I want to do is be around any people. My body is radiating with so much energy, I’m practically shaking.

  Drink. Now.

  I push through the crowd gathered in the main entry, hall and living room. A few stragglers spill into the formal dining room, where a twenty-foot long marble table is covered with platters of rich desserts that Robert had shipped in from a bakery in New York City. In the center is the grand display: the six-tier cake that cost more than I would make in a week back on the streets.

  I continue down the hall until I find the door to Robert’s study. In reality, it’s more his man cave. It houses an ornate and beautifully custom-carved chess table in one corner of the room. A red-velvet couch faces a 100-inch mounted television on the other side.

  Along the walls are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather bound books and souvenirs from all his travels. Framed photographs of him and my mother are prominently featured on his desk and I pick up a gold-framed photograph of the couple dining in the Eiffel Tower.

  I have never seen my mother so happy before. Robert has truly been her knight in shining armor. I’m grateful she met Robert and found a man who treated her as she deserved.

  I put the framed picture back down and cross the room toward Robert’s giant mahogany liquor cabinet. I don’t touch the expensive stuff, but instead go for the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label and pour a generous amount into an empty glass. I carry it to one of the leather seats in the center of the room and sit down before taking a long swallow of the amber liquid. I only begin to relax once I feel the familiar burn of the scotch traveling down my throat and into my gut. A few more swallows and I finally feel my pulsating nerves start to ease.

  Shit.

  I replay the entire conversation with Jules in my head. Why did I have to follow her into that bathroom? I should have just walked away. But how could I have left her side when I saw those tears in her eyes? The pain all over her face? Every fiber of my being screamed: protect her.

  All I wanted was to be able to hold her, protect her and be the kind of man that she could love. But that’s just wishful thinking. I’m a fool to think that someone as pure and good as Jules could ever care for a broken man like me.

  And with that miserable thought, I reach for another drink from my quickly emptying glass. As the cool glass reaches my lips, I hear the click of the door opening and I turn to see Robert slipping inside.

  Shit. Could this day get any worse?

  It takes a minute for him to notice me, so I clear my throat so as to not alarm him.

  “Sorry about being in here, Robert. I just … needed a breather.”

  He waves his hand and walks toward me.

  “For the last time, Damien — this is your home now. You don’t need to apologize for being here. You doing okay?”

  I nod and sit back down. I gesture to my glass.

  “Just needed a drink and some quiet.”

  “Yeah, I get that,” he says, exhaling a long breath. “What are you drinking?”

  “Some Johnnie Walker Black.”

  Robert makes a disapproving sound and shakes his head. He walks toward the liquor cabinet.

  “If you’re going to drink, man, then at least drink the good stuff.”

  He reaches for a dark cylindrical bottle on the top shelf and pulls it down. He then swipes two glasses before taking the seat beside mine. He pours me the first glass, handing it to me, then pours one for himself.

  Holding up his glass, he clinks it against mine.

  “To the good things in life.”

  I lift my glass. “To the good things in life.”

  I take a long sip and nod appreciatively. This is good stuff. I
didn’t have much in common with Robert. He grew up in the lap of luxury, into a famous family of renowned doctors and psychiatrists, whereas I had been born to a teen mom and raised on food stamps. But one thing we did have in common was an appreciation for good liquor.

  Robert smiles at my approval. “Notice the difference? Much smoother and bolder taste.”

  “This is definitely some good stuff,” I respond appreciatively.

  Robert doesn’t speak for a long moment. He twirls the glass in his hand and stares off into the distance.

  “Why did you grab the Johnnie Walker and not the top shelf stuff?”

  “Uh, excuse me?” I ask, thrown off by his question. It’s the second time already he’s mentioned it, and I am unsure why he keeps referring to it.

  “I’ve told you dozens of times over the past year that my home is your home. You are welcome to anything. And yet, I notice you continue to buy your own groceries, you still drive that beat-up Ford truck despite my numerous offers for you to drive the number of my cars in my garage, and … ” he pauses, taking a long sip from his glass, “you pull the cheapest bottle of Scotch when pouring yourself a drink, ignoring the other vastly superior bottles.”

  I stiffen, uncomfortable with his comment. A shrink to the richest in the Valley with his own wildly popular radio show, Robert is a world-renowned expert in examining and diagnosing. He has written at least a dozen books and published dozens more academic articles. He’s prolific and the guy’s no idiot. But what he has in book smarts, I have in street smarts. And while I might not have all his fancy degrees, I can tell when someone is trying to work me over. It’s an uncomfortable feeling.

  “Are you trying to diagnose me, Robert?” I ask, forcing a smile to my face, despite my discomfort.

  Robert shakes his head and takes another sip from his glass.

  “No, just trying to understand my new stepson. I know you had a tough relationship with your father, and I don’t want that for us.”