Page 106 of Broken Pieces
Meanwhile, I’m stuck in the same busted loop.
No fucking clue where I’m going. No plan. A borrowed roof and a string of bruises I keep hidden under a fake smile.
We both came out of the same system, both dragged through the same shit. But he’s moving. Evolving. While I’m still spinning my wheels in the mud.
Maybe that’s what fucks me up the most. He’s not stuck in the mess anymore, like I still am. I need to figure out a way to pull myself out, get some kind of plan together before the weight of it buries me.
“That’s good, Zane,” I say. “Are you related to him or something?”
Zane shifts onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow.
“Nah. He’s some guy who looks out for me, I guess. I was digging through the skip out the side of the workshop, trying to find shit I could clean up and sell. Old tools, scrap metal, whatever I could get my hands on. He came out, stood there watching me. I thought I was fucked. Figured he was gonna call the cops, maybe come out swinging. Figured that was it. That I’d have another night in a holding cell… another mark on my record.
I blink, trying to picture that version of him. “He didn’t though.”
Zane shakes his head. “Nah. He asked if I’d eaten. Took me inside, gave me a sandwich, asked if I wanted to sweep the floor. Said if I didn’t steal anything, I could keep coming back.”
A gust of wind cuts across the rooftop.
It lifts the edge of my skirt and I reach down fast, pressing it back to my thighs. But not fast enough. Zane’s gaze dips, catches on the movement, tracks across the tops of my leg slowly before he looks away.
I glance over at him. “He sounds decent.”
“Yeah, he is. He doesn’t ask questions and most of all he doesn’t treat me like a lost cause. That’s fucking rare.” Zane pauses again, dragging a hand through his hair. “Rainer lost his wife years ago. He has no kids or any family. There’s just him and that workshop. It’s the only thing he’s got.”
“You’re lucky you found someone who gave a shit.”
Zane doesn’t answer at first. His fingers toy with the tin, his nails scratching over it like he’s thinking too hard.
“I didn’t find him,” he says. “He found me.”
Zane turns his head, eyes finding mine through the dark. There’s something quieter in him now. Something focused.
Every part of him tuned in, as if the rest of the world has dropped away.
“I’ve wanted to ask you…” His voice is low. “That scar. The one above your eyebrow. How’d it happen?”
I wasn’t expecting that.
No one ever asks. Most people glance away, pretend it’s not there. They smile, talk over it, act like if they ignore the scar, they won’t have to ask what made it.
But not Zane. He just puts it out there.
The breath I take feels sharp in my chest.
“When I was seven, my mother threw a beer bottle at me. I told her I was hungry.”
Zane’s jaw ticks. His knuckles curl against the tin.
“She was drunk,” I add, not to excuse it but because it’s the only explanation I’ve ever had. “Missed the wall. Got me instead.”
I remember the crack of the bottle. The way it spun through the air, catching the light before it shattered against my face. The sting hit first. Then the heat. Blood spilling fast, hot, into my lashes until I couldn’t see. It burned my eyes, but I didn’t cry. Not then. Not in front of her because I knew it would piss her offeven more. I just stood there, stunned, and dinner was still out of reach.
“Split my skin open,” I finally say.“There was blood everywhere. I remember the floor being red.”
“I figured it wasn’t from something small,” he says, voice low. “But that… fuck.”
“Yeah.” I nod.
