Free Broken by A. E. Rought

it.”
    She arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow, accompanied by Bree’s patented I-know-there’s-more expression. “And how’d that work out for you?”
    “Depends…” I flick a glance at Alex, his navy hood up and blocking most of his face from my view. “I might’ve broken my writing hand. But Alex Franks held it afterward.”
    Why did I just say that? My brain/mouth filter must be on the fritz.
    “He really did?”
    “Yeah. Y’know…to see if my hand was broken. Ask the dozens of witnesses in the main hall…”
    “Already did! I just wanted you to confirm the rumors.” She slides closer like a co-conspirator in a play, the one who stirs up trouble, and then stage whispers, “What was that at the Walk-Up window? You two looked really cozy.”
    I wish I knew. Something is definitely there between me and Alex. Does he notice? Is my heart even ready for another guy? I might have let Daniel go, but I still hurt with every thought of him. I’m not sure I’ll ever be over him. Bree squeezes my shoulders, and wiggles her fingers in a friendly little wave when Alex pointedly stares at us.
    “That was Alex saving me from Tiny.”
    She waggles her eyebrows and nudges me with her elbow. “The way he keeps looking over here, I’d say that’s not all.”
    I suck down the rest of my coffee, then sling the cup at the garbage can to hear the empty bang and think dismally how much I echo its hollow sentiment.
    “Can you please just let it rest?” I say and turn on my heel from the storm heavy air, the eyes of Bree and Alex.
    Was that all? It felt like something more.
    Do I want it to be more? Am I even ready?

Chapter Eight
     
     
    Invisible storm shadows cloud the main hall of Shelley High. The normal jostling and joking has a meaner edge. People ebb and flood, jostle and bump.
    The tide splashes me from the main surge at my locker. Josh Manson is thankfully not here to harass me. With a droop and twist motion, I shuck my backpack and hook it with my left hand. The traitorous bag has other ideas, and continues its path toward the floor. A long, cuff-covered hand catches it before it crashes down.
    “I’d say meeting here is getting to be a habit,” Alex says, dangling my backpack from his fingers, “But I get the feeling you’re not in the mood for joking today.”
    I blink, and give him my best innocent expression. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
    “Basically the feeling ya wanna bite my head off.”
    “Yeah… About that.” I toe the front of my locker rather than look into his disconcerting gaze. “Sorry.”
    “Apology accepted.” His voice is softer, his mood more gracious than mine. Then he compounds my guilt by continuing the Nice Guy thing and says, “Want me to open your locker?”
    My shoulders sag in defeat, cue enough for him to hook my backpack over his arm and take up position between me and my frustrating lock. He spins the dial through the numbers, pushing each one in, then nudges it with his hip again. The exact sequence used by Daniel day after day last year to open my locker for me. A chill slides down my spine. And the locker pops open.
    “No offense, but I hate having you do this.” Why is the ugly pouring from me? Alex’s dad may have hurt me, but Alex has been almost too kind.
    “None taken.” He holds my bag out. The surprised expression has disappeared, replaced by a soft smile that reaches his eyes, tugging down a pale, thin scar outside the corner of his left eye. “I’d be frustrated too. Have you talked to the school about it?”
    “Numerous times,” I huff. Taking my backpack, I turn my focus to getting things ready for class. “The janitor greases stuff, fiddles with other stuff, and it works better for a couple of days.”
    “Sounds like you need a new locker door.”
    I jerk my right thumb, the only mobile part of my hand, in the direction of the office. “Tell it to them.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind.”
    His long fingers make nimble work of opening his