Page 18 of Fractured Heart

My hair is a matted mess coated in a thick layer of mud, and are those…? I look closer, and yup, there are twigs sticking out of my hair. If that's not bad enough, my ribs are covered in bruises, ranging in color from dark purple to a disturbing yellow-green. They form a pattern on my body like splattered paint or the outcome of an evil curse.

There's also a giant bruise traveling down the middle of my back, likely a combination of my impact with the fridge and my fall in the forest. My arms and legs haven't fared any better. They're littered with small cuts, like I’m the victim of an army of fairy tale critters. Considering I look like an evil witch, I wouldn't really blame the little guys.

With a dejected sigh, I glance at the hot tub. It’s only a quarter of the way full, which gives me enough time to wash off all the mud in the shower. I turn on the water so it’s scalding hot and step under it, letting it soothe my aches and pains. Then, I slowly examine the bottles lined up on the marble shelf.

There is a row of them, all from brands I’ve never even heard of. I examine them, one by one, taking quick sniffs and enjoying the different scents. There’s a small green tube that smells minty fresh. Definitely Tate’s.

The thought of using his body wash—of smelling like Prince Charming—makes my heart race.

I quickly set the tube back down and pick up the large, brown bottle. It smells dark and beastly, with hints of sandalwood and leather. I hazard a guess that it belongs to Charles. Carrying the evidence of his scent on my skin terrifies me and I quickly swap the bottle for a purple one.

I inhale the cool scent which makes me think of crisp mountain air. I like it, and it doesn’t remind me of Tate or Charles, so I squeeze some out onto my hand. It takes most of the bottle to clean away the dirt and grime caking my body. I try to rush so the water doesn’t grow cold, but after a few minutes, I realize it probably never will. I still hurry so I can get in the hot tub, but when I peek out, it’s only half full.

With a smile, I close my eyes and take my time. I like the feeling of the hot water hitting my bruised skin and my sore back muscles slowly start to relax.

My mind keeps drifting to my earlier encounter with Charles. I dream up a song about Beauty meeting the Beast. He doesn’t like her at first and glares at her the same way Charles glared at me. I start to sing, and by the time I’ve gone through the entire song twice, I’ve added a verse about their first kiss. I’m so busy singing that I don’t even realize any time has passed. Not until I notice that my fingers have started to prune.

I shut off the shower and it’s only then that I hear it. More water. Loud, flowing water. I glance out into the rest of the bathroom and let out a panicked cry.

The tub is overflowing. It’s more than overflowing!

There is soapy water everywhere—all over the bathroom floor—and more keeps pouring out over the edge of the tub.

I have to turn the water off! I slide the shower door open and slip and slide my way through the soapy, vanilla-scented moat. It reaches my ankles and I wade through it as quickly as I can while trying not to fall.

When I reach the tub, I realize I have no way of getting to the faucet. Some sadistic engineer put it on the other side, near the wall, and I have to get into the tub to shut it off.

I hold onto the edge for balance and try to lift my foot over the side, but the floor’s slippery from the soap. My foot flies out from under me, and I barely get a chance to scream before I land in the middle of the tub with a loud splash.

I surface, coughing and sputtering, and reach blindly for the faucet. Large amounts of water splash loudly onto the bathroom floor and I start to panic when my fingers fail to connect with metal.

“Roonie? Is everything okay?” Tate starts banging on the bathroom door.

The color drains from my face and I open my eyes, forgetting the soapy bubbles. They sting briefly, but I don’t care. I have to shut the water off!

The metal knob is mere inches from my hand. I give it a twist and the water flow finally stops. I should be relieved, but instead, I feel like I’m going to be sick. I’ve been here less than an hour and I’ve already managed to turn the fancy bathroom into a soapy moat.

Tears spring to my eyes, which helps with the stinging from the soap. My vision blurs and my panic grows. There’s no way I can clean this up! When Tate and Charles realize what I’ve done, they’re going to flip. I get this sudden mental image of an angry Father advancing on me with fists flying, but Tate and Charles aren’t like that. Even if they were, they haven’t been drinking. They’ll probably yell at me and call the cops, which isn’t any better.

“Why is there water on the floor?” Tate shouts, sounding panicked. The doorknob rattles, reminding me that I’m standing in the tub without any clothes on.

With a panicked yelp, I plop down in the middle of the tub. I manage to submerge myself fully in soapy water, so only my head is sticking out, and tons of water splashes loudly onto the floor.

“Roonie! What’s going on in there? Open the door!” Tate sounds about as panicked as I feel. I should just drown myself in the tub and be done with it. Except Tate will eventually break down the door and when he pulls me out I’ll still be completely naked.

“Hold on,” I shout over the gurgling sound of the overflow drain as it tries and fails to suck in the excess water from the tub. “Please, I just need a minute.”

I look around wildly. I have to get dressed before Tate breaks open the door. I can’t face him like this. When he kicks me out, I at least want to be wearing more than my birthday suit.

I scramble out of the tub toward my pile of clothes. The doorknob rattles again and I know I’m running out of time. After a second of hesitation, I grab the robe Tate left for me and pull it on. I pick up my clothes and feel the jeans pocket to make sure the fractured pieces of my necklace are still there. Then, I square my shoulders. It’s time to face the music.

Chapter 10

Tears stream down my face as I flip the lock and twist the doorknob. Tate’s going to hate me. He’s been so nice to me, rescuing me from the forest, taking me to the doctor, and letting me stay here. And how did I repay him? By flooding his apartment. It’s just like Father always says. I can’t do anything right!

I yank angrily at the door, and the sudden motion jars my ribs even as the door flies open.

“What the—” Tate gapes and the flooded bathroom floor. His sneakers and jogging-pant clad ankles are soaked and there are soap bubbles everywhere. The entire hall is filled with them, and I’m pretty sure the same goes for the living room. I remember the pristine, expensive-looking white rug on the floor by the couch and my heart lurches.