What's Broken Between Us Read online

  DEDICATION

  For Dani and Ingrid,

  who love each other no matter what

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ads

  About the Author

  Books by Alexis Bass

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  LIFELINE EXCLUSIVE: PATRICIA JOHNSON INTERVIEWING JONATHAN TART, DECEMBER, TWO MONTHS INTO HIS INCARCERATION. UNEDITED.

  Airdate: May 15

  PJ: Tell us in your own words what happened that night.

  JT: It was just a regular night . . . just another night out. And then, it turned into the worst night of my life.

  PJ: It was the night of your high school graduation—so it wasn’t really just another night, was it? You were celebrating.

  JT: Oh, but we were always celebrating.

  PJ: Tell me what you were up to that night.

  JT: Well, going to parties. But you want me to say drinking, right? We were drinking, that’s what we were up to.

  PJ: You’d left one party and were headed to another when you crashed.

  JT: That’s right.

  PJ: And the party you were on your way to was just six miles away . . . correct?

  JT: Probably, yeah. You’ve got the facts, though, so I’ll take your well-researched word for it.

  PJ: Did you think, because it was so close, and in a part of town you’d grown up in and were so familiar with, that it didn’t matter what state of mind you were in—that you’d be okay to drive that short distance?

  JT: Sure.

  PJ: It never occurred to you that you shouldn’t be driving?

  JT: No.

  PJ: Did anyone at the party try to stop you? Or ask you if you were okay to be driving?

  JT: Well . . . that’s . . . that’s sort of a bullshit question. I mean, no offense, but . . . have you even been to a party?

  PJ: Explain it to us. To me.

  JT: It’s not a bunch of [expletive deleted] kids dancing to pop music, passing around hors d’oeuvres, playing charades—

  PJ: Tell us what it’s like.

  JT: It’s also not what you’re thinking.

  PJ: What am I thinking?

  JT: That we’re all . . . you know . . . half-naked, snorting blow off each other.

  PJ: So what’s it really like?

  JT: It’s like . . . we do whatever we want. But Grace didn’t die at the party, did she?

  PJ: Okay, I see your point, but—

  JT: You definitely do not see my point. The party is not the problem.

  PJ: People are dying every day at the hands of impaired drivers just trying to get to the next party. What would you say is the problem? Or better yet, the solution?

  JT: I’m the problem. Me.

  PJ: Have you spoken to the Marlamounts since the accident—have you had the chance to reach out to Grace’s family?

  JT: What do you think?

  PJ: What did you say to them?

  JT: Thank you.

  PJ: Was that in response to their decision not to press charges against you?

  JT: Mm-hmm.

  PJ: And did you talk to them about Grace? What did you say?

  JT: I’m sorry.

  PJ: Grace wasn’t the only one in the car. Your girlfriend was also in the car, and critically injured. Have you been in contact with her?

  JT: Ex-girlfriend. I thought you had fact-checkers working at your fancy news station, Patricia.

  PJ: You went your separate ways after the accident?

  JT: Would you date me? Don’t answer that. You’re pretty attractive for a woman your age, you know.

  PJ: I’ll take that as a compliment and move on. What would you say to someone about to drive after consuming alcohol?

  JT: I meant for you to take it as a compliment.

  PJ: Jonathan.

  JT: Patricia.

  PJ: During your trial, your lawyers argued that there were additional factors that contributed to the accident. The roads were very wet, and a sign was missing from the highway warning about the curve in the road ahead. Do you think these factors affected your driving that night?

  JT: I think many things contributed to the accident. My lawyers told me I couldn’t say anything else.

  PJ: You were given an extremely short sentence considering the crime, because of these reasons I’ve mentioned, and because the Marlamounts decided against pressing charges. There’s been a lot of discussion in the media, including several articles published, about how a yearlong sentence doesn’t fit the crime, despite these other conditions. How do you feel about your ruling?

  JT: I feel exactly how you think I feel.

  PJ: How is that?

  JT: I’ll be glad to get out as soon as I can. And maybe it makes me a horrible person, but whatever. There’s a reason they call it an accident, you know.

  PJ: The court called it vehicular manslaughter.

  JT: Well, if you’re going to get technical on me, Patricia. It’s . . . it is what it is. . . . In here, or out of here—it doesn’t change what I’ve done.

  PJ: How are you going to cope with what’s happened when you’re released in a little under ten months? It will have been just over sixteen months after Grace’s death.

  JT: Oh, I’ll probably just drink whiskey sours until I black out. I’m kidding. I just wanted to see you smile. It’s your first smile since the camera started rolling, and it’s such a great smile.

  PJ: Sometimes when people smile, it’s a defense mechanism. A way for them to cope with something they don’t know how to deal with.

  JT: I had no idea I had such an effect on you, Patricia.

  PJ: The way you’ve behaved as we’ve conducted this interview . . . could it be you’ve put up a defense mechanism, too?

  JT: Could be, could be. But if you’re going to ask me if I feel remorse, the answer is: of course. [Muffled laughter.]

  PJ: Do you find that funny?

  JT: Oops, defense mec
hanism rears its ugly head.

  PJ: Is there anything else you’d like to say about the accident? What would you say to someone about to drive after consuming alcohol?

  JT: I’d like to say: Kids, remember the wise words of one Smokey the Bear: “Only you can prevent forest fires.”

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  Grace Marlamount was the first one to die. I sort of wish I’d realized sooner, as early as when we all used to sit around in a circle at Stony Day Elementary, that we all had numbered days. Look to the left, look to the right. We’re all going to die. But someone has to do it first. So who’s it going to be?

  And then maybe I would have paid more attention. Noticed more about the people I was spending so much time with, asked questions, been friendlier overall. Tried harder for a reputation outside of being Amanda, Jonathan Tart’s little sister. Sometimes I wish for that.

  Sometimes I think, What’s the use?

  The entire student body of Garfield High is here in the gymnasium, all 582 of us, sitting shoulder to shoulder as Principal Green introduces a group dressed in red T-shirts and acid-washed jeans, standing in tiers, the A Cappellas for Change. They open with a rousing rendition of “We Are the World.” There’s a slide show on display on the right wall, flashes of kids our age who have all been cut out of existence because someone drove them off the road or into a tree or a freeway median or a pole after downing too many glasses of liquid courage. Though the lights haven’t been dimmed, so we can hardly see the images.

  The last few photos are of Grace; everyone cups their hands over their mouths in an echo of gasps. We all recognize her, even the freshmen and sophomores, who never went to school with her. This is the first real tragedy to strike our seemingly safe and boring, run-of-the-mill suburb since the early nineties—according to our parents. And thanks to my brother’s national television debut on Lifeline and the flurry of articles that followed it, our sleepy town has turned into one of those suburban stories of We Didn’t See This Coming and warnings of This Can Happen Anywhere.

  “It’s so sad,” the girl in front of me says. She’s a freshman, I’m guessing, because of the way she’s declaring her grief, like she’s not familiar with the way sorrow can bury you alive. She glances back at me. Since I’ve already made eye contact with her, I give her a small smile.

  It’s a practiced smile, as all my smiles now are, calculated and for other people’s benefit. They are reassuring. It’s a shame, my smiles say, how the mighty have fallen. They are sad, too, so people will know that I’m in pain for them, for Grace—an overcompensation sometimes, to make up for Jonathan not being here to grieve and apologize himself. My entire appearance is deliberate now. I can’t look like I’ve just rolled out of bed and thrown my hair up. I wear mascara and lip gloss. Because when people look at me, they don’t excuse what they see. Not anymore. Being Jonathan Tart’s little sister used to give me a free pass for a lot of things—and ponytail hair is really the most trivial of them. Even the little things count now.

  So I don’t get to be sad however I want. At school especially, I have to be in the kind of mourning that apologizes.

  The moderators from a group called Chicago Cares come to the stage next: a woman with a stern voice and a man who looks like he’s about to cry. They spoke at an assembly last year, too.

  “It’s, like, best to hire a driver, I get it,” someone jokes from behind me, and the result is a burst of hushed giggles.

  “You lost one of your own in a drunk driving accident,” the woman on the stage starts.

  It sounds so generalized and cheesy, especially the second time around, but again, I feel my throat tighten up, and I have to suck on my lower lip to keep it from trembling.

  “Grace Marlamount was supposed to be a senior this year,” she continues. “She was supposed to be excited about the game on Friday, impatiently refreshing her email, waiting to hear back from colleges, thinking about what it was going to be like leaving home for the first time.”

  There’s a long pause where everyone is actually quiet. I bow my head. Tears are brimming around the edges of my eyes, but I hold in my desire to sob. Crying is taking it too far. It might look like I’m laying it on thick, swimming in self-pity. Or worse, people could think I’m crying for Jonathan.

  The truth is, even though we were the same age, I didn’t really know Grace Marlamount that well when she died. Not the girl she’d become. Sutton Crane’s partner in crime. The one who whispered the joke that triggered the loudest laugh in the room. The one yelling for my brother at the bottom of the stairs on a Saturday night—Jon!A!Than!—and who held the answer to the inevitable question, What’s going on this weekend?

  She was always magnificent—I remember that much—even before Jonathan declared it official. It’s no surprise that she’s the star of the homecoming assembly even more than a year after her death.

  “Grace had her whole life ahead of her,” the woman says, glancing back at the empty wall where the slide show had previously been playing. “And a single driver under the influence took it all away.”

  I exhale and try to collect myself now that she’s brought up my brother.

  The girls behind me whisper. Grace was so nice, they’re saying.

  This would be the part of the assembly where I’d turn to my best friend, Dawn, and we’d exchange a knowing glance, because that’s exactly what Dawn and I used to say about her all the time, and though it sounds like a simple and small thing to say—Grace was so nice—when you’re a pretty sophomore girl and your best friend is a senior, Sutton Crane, who’s known for her sharp tongue, her ability to fill out a dress, and her charismatic boyfriend, you can be anything you want. Not everyone would have chosen nice. But Dawn’s not here anymore; she’s in college across the country. Another downfall of having an upperclassman as a best friend. If Grace were alive, maybe she’d be feeling like this, too—left behind.

  It’s ironic when you think about it, though I try not to, how the night of Jonathan and Sutton’s graduation, Grace thought she was the one losing her best friends.

  “You can’t let this happen again,” the woman says, her forehead pinching as her voice rises. “You all can prevent this.”

  The man takes over the mic with as much passion as his partner. “You all owe it to her. You have to promise. You have to be safer, smarter, more aware.”

  His eyes meet mine, but I think it’s by mistake.

  “You have to be the exact opposite of Jonathan Tart.” Someone behind me says this, their voice cruel and bitter. The comment gets a few snickers, and again, I know these must be from underclassmen who don’t remember the way Jonathan was worshiped. And that he was so nice, too.

  It’s been sixteen months since Grace died. Five months since Jonathan’s Lifeline interview aired. Exactly three hundred and sixty-four days since Jonathan was locked up. And in twenty-four hours my brother will be getting out of jail. I don’t think the man at the podium will bring this up, but I look at him for clues that he might decide the messy controversy about Jonathan’s short sentence will help honor Grace.

  “That’s how you’ll pay your respects to Grace Marlamount,” he says. “By doing everything in your power to prevent this kind of reckless death in the future.”

  When the man and woman start to clap, the A Cappellas for Change group starts to clap, and then Principal Green joins in, so the rest of us do, too.

  The starting string of the football team stands, preparing for the part of the assembly where all the fall sports teams are introduced. But everyone keeps applauding. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, and just like that, I’ve pulled it together.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  My days are numbered at Garfield High, and this, more than anything else, comforts me. I’ve made it through September and most of October. There are only 144 days to go.

  One hundred and forty-four days of school after Jonathan has been released and will be living at my parents’ house.


  I plan to carry on how I always have since it happened, walking tall with my hair done and my clothes pressed, in adorable shoes that pinch. Smiling apologetically. Shaking my head whenever someone asks me about him, or the accident. That’s where Graham Sicily will come in, blocking unwanted conversation.

  “Wasn’t it so emotional at the assembly this morning?”—Stacey Millbrant: fellow Stony Day Elementary survivor.

  “Sometimes I think they need to show us photos of the car again; you know, something that will shock people more so they’ll never forget. Especially for the freshmen.”—Caleb Ruiz: self-proclaimed reformed pothead, who actually made T-shirts with Don’t Let the Party End Early ironed across the front.

  “Yeah, wasn’t the car practically split in half? Did you see it, Amanda?”—Katie Easton: dance team captain; always wearing glitter.

  Enter Graham Sicily. “Hey, you guys don’t know why Trevor broke up with Leticia, do you? Everyone heard them screaming in the stairwell.”

  Graham is my boyfriend. It’s really generous of him. He’s getting the short end of the stick. He gets to date Jonathan Tart’s baby sister right when it’s no longer cool to be associated with Jonathan Tart. And I don’t have sex with him. I blame it on my virginity, and on his, and a lot of times on a nonexistent migraine. But Graham is someone trustworthy. You can rely on him to change your flat tire. You can believe him when he makes a promise. He’s good grades and good breeding and good fun. Graham Sicily is captain of the soccer team and student-council something—it always changes—and I’m fairly certain he’s dating me because he feels like he’s rescuing me, and he likes that feeling.

  To be fair, most of the time he is rescuing me, warding off our shameless classmates who want to ask me about the details of the night Grace died, who are curious about how Jonathan’s holding up in prison and want to talk about the unfairness of his sentence. Graham is there making excuses and ushering me away when I’m about to lose it, so no one ever has to see me fall apart and wonder if all my tears are for Jonathan.

  “Try not to think about it,” Graham says to me by my locker, a mere five seconds after successfully bringing up tomorrow’s homecoming game to thwart another unpleasant conversation, this one comparing Jonathan to that kid who used affluenza to get off his murder charges—Graham’s sixth rescue of the day, complete with a bit of advice. This is his solution much of the time. He used to put his hands on my shoulders, look deep into my eyes, and tell me, “None of this is your fault.” Like he’s watched that scene from Good Will Hunting one too many times. But I never mind.