Chelsea Fine - Best Kind of Broken

Jenna flops back down on the bed and watches me shove a cotton T-shirt and a tiny black thong into the bag. “Are you thinking about staying at Matt’s place tonight?”

I throw in a toothbrush, a hair tie, and a book. “Maybe.”

There’s no pressure with Matt. He’s one of those rare good guys.

My palms start to sweat as I search for my favorite black bra, find it, and toss it into the purse along with a pair of socks and a tube of sunscreen.

She plays with her bracelet. “You guys have been together for like four months, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“If you’re not comfortable with Matt, then maybe you should move on.”

I look up. “Who says I’m not comfortable with him?”

“Your vagina.”

I let out a snort because, gah, it’s true. My vagina is super picky and, apparently, still mad at me about the Benji thing.

I keep shoving random items into my bag like I’m packing for Gilligan’s Island and not an overnighter in a metropolitan city. Do I need a scarf? No. Am I cramming one into my bag just in case there’s a flash blizzard? Yep.

“Seriously, Sarah.” Jenna sits up. “Why are you still dating him?”

Because having a boyfriend is a normal thing to do and I’m desperate for normal.

“Because he’s loyal and patient and kind.” I sound like I’m describing a pet dog. “Matt’s a great guy,” I add. “I just need to relax and get the sex thing over with.”

She crosses her arms. “You realize how stupid that sounds, right?”

I point at her. “Don’t you dare get preachy on me, little Miss Sex-a-lot.”

“First of all”—she holds up a finger—“I may have had a lot of sex, but I haven’t had a lot of partners. Second”—she adds another finger—“every guy I’ve slept with has been a choice I made without any hesitations. And third”—three fingers—“we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m sick of talking about me.”

“Sarah doesn’t want to talk about something real? Shocking.” She pins me with her gaze. “Sex is not a requirement for a relationship. It’s a perk. And if you don’t want to get perky with Matt, then don’t.”

“I want to get perky with Matt.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Kind of.

“Okay. In that case…” Standing up, she reaches into the pocket of her rock-star jeans and pulls out a massive handful of condoms before sprinkling them into my purse, where they slip down among the many scarves, pop-up tents, and emergency snakebite kits I’ve deemed critical for tonight’s bar crawl.

I packed for a deserted island. Jenna packed for a porno.

I blink at her. “Did you just rain condoms into my purse?”

“You betcha.” She smiles. “But seriously, if you change your mind about tonight, you and your grandma sweater can always crash at my place, okay?” She sits back down. “So how are things going with Levi? Have you two talked yet?”

“Can we not do this right now?”

“You never want to do this. You’re always so weird about him.”

“I’m not weird about him.”

“You’re super weird about him.”

“Can you just stop?” I snap.

“Stop what? I just want to know if you guys—”

“I don’t want to talk about Levi!” I snap again. Like a bitch. I just bitch-snapped her.

The room goes silent.

With a slow nod, Jenna quietly says, “Okay. We won’t talk about Levi.”

Guilt washes over me and I hang my head. I shouldn’t get snippy with Jenna like that, and yet I do it all the time.

“Sorry.” I bite my lip.

She shrugs and gives me a small smile. “Don’t worry about it.” Without further argument, she drops the Levi thing and smoothly transitions into a conversation about her summer plans.

Jenna. She’s good at being patient. She’s good at being my friend.

And sometimes that scares the crap out of me.

Zack is living in a mansion. That’s really the only word to describe the enormous house I’m walking through. I’ve already passed three staircases, two grand pianos, and an indoor pool—and I’m not even halfway through the first floor.

Loud music bounces off the marble floor and vaulted ceiling as I weave through the heavy crowd. There are people everywhere. Drinking, dancing… riding life-sized lion statues while topless… business as usual for a Zack Arden house party. And a perfect distraction from all the things I can’t seem to escape at the inn.

Something furry wiggles past my leg and I look down to see a goat. A goat. Just hoofing along like it’s perfectly normal for a farm animal to be kicking it at a house party.

I blink for a moment and then continue through the drunken mass of college students until I eventually find a kitchen the size of a restaurant and, thus, my ridiculous best friend. Zack is standing on a chair in the center of the large room with his arms raised above a group of gathered partygoers and a red plastic cup in one hand.

With short black hair, a Latino complexion, and a set of dimples girls can’t seem to resist, Zack is a legitimate lady-killer—and he knows it. I watch as he winks at a nearby brunette before turning back to the crowd with a smile in his dark brown eyes.

“My good people!” he shouts. “There is plenty of beer to go around, but there is only one”—he holds up a finger dramatically—“cornhole champion!”

The crowd raises matching red cups with drunken cheers and hollers, everyone eager for the tournament to begin.

This is Zack’s thing. Cornhole.

The game of cornhole is basically a glorified beanbag toss where players take turns tossing bags at a hole in a wooden board. Throw in a few rules and drinking consequences, and you’ve got yourself a party favorite. I’m pretty sure Zack would abandon his potential football career if it meant he could play professional cornhole for the rest of his life.

From across the room, he catches sight of me and tips his chin. I nod back before I realize his face has morphed into a shit-eating grin.

Ah, hell.

“And for your viewing pleasure,” he yells above the noise, pointing to me, “I give you ASU’s favorite quarterback, Levi Andrews!”

Eyes and red cups turn in my direction, and more cheering ensues. I shoot him an I-hate-you smile as dozens of people rush toward me.

I spend the next twenty minutes fielding an onslaught of pats on the back, sexual invitations, and inquiries about where the hell I’ve been for the past six months—a question I still don’t know how to answer—before untangling myself from the well-meaning strangers and heading to the backyard.

Backyard is an understatement.

What I’m looking at resembles more of a golf course with a water park. Acres of green grass stretch behind the house broken up by a series of pools and small waterslides. I’m surprised I didn’t have to pay admission at the door and sport a neon wristband to get back here.

The cornhole tournament is already under way, with a dozen boards set up in a large, flat square of grass just off the back porch. Ornate lanterns hang strategically about the yard, shining brightly on the game and spectators below as music plays into the night from a well-hidden surround sound system. And a guy wearing a Speedo, a top hat, and a plastic margarita cup around his neck is manning a large scoreboard on the patio.