Hearts Unbroken Read online

  Falling Hard

  Spirit Rising

  Estumin Like Cet Towa?

  A Higher Power

  A Star Is Born

  Déjà Who?

  Hello and Good Bylines

  Tiger Lily Has Always Been a Hot Mess

  Worker Bees

  Fledgling in Flight

  Story Circle

  The Tin Man

  Harmony Haven

  One September Mourning

  The Home Team

  Story Behind the Stories

  Landing a Role

  Match

  All-American Diner

  This Land Is Ours

  Rematch

  The Resistance

  The Underground

  Testing Fate

  The Unlearning Process

  A Strike

  Musical Reporters

  Mixed Messages

  Wrestling

  Deliciously Divine

  Hard News

  The Art of the Dodge

  Horrors

  That Man Behind the Curtain

  Interruptions

  Glass Ceiling

  Survival Strategies

  The Old Clicker

  Honor and Obey

  Home Improvement

  A Is for Apolitical

  Under the Weather

  The Fourth Estate

  The Freaking Niagara Falls of Babbles

  Teachable Moments

  A Cry in the Night

  Raise the Curtain

  Lower the Curtain

  Regrets

  #NDN

  Small Victories

  Courage

  Faith Renewed

  Turkey Trot

  Whirlwind Romance

  No Place Like It

  Giving Thanks

  Cokvheckv Omvlkat Enakes

  Mvskoke

  Mvskoke-English Glossary

  Mvto

  Half past nine a.m. in the residual haze of my junior prom, I ducked into a powder room off the kitchen at the swanky lake house where the after-party took place.

  It reeked of vanilla oil and was decorated with dead starfish.

  Then I tapped my phone to update my newish best friend, Shelby Keller. We had texted off and on the night before, but this morning’s conversation mandated face-to-face communication. She answered with “Good morning, Louise. Please tell me you didn’t waste your maiden voyage into sexy fun time on that narcissistic player you call a boyfriend.”

  “Not even,” I whispered to Shelby. “You know how Cam has to eat an entire cow or something every three hours? After the dance, we detoured to IHOP for a snack. On the way out, he threw up a whole bottle of champagne and a double-blueberry short stack in the parking lot. Then he passed out in the limo.”

  Her snort-laugh burst through the tiny speaker.

  I replied, “Yeah, well, I may never eat pancakes again.” After all, unbuttoning your semiconscious boyfriend’s vomit-splattered shirt isn’t any girl’s prom-night fantasy.

  “Sounds like I didn’t miss much,” Shelby said. With her part-time waitressing gig, she didn’t have much time to socialize. And her earnings went to necessities, not party dresses.

  “Definitely not,” I said out of loyalty, though the actual dance had exceeded all expectations. “Cam and I are supposed to be at brunch in a half hour, and he’s still out cold.”

  “Drooling?” Shelby asked.

  “Snoring,” I admitted.

  Her laugh was less affectionate than mine.

  The lake house decor was high-dollar rustic. The quarterback, Blake Klein, is one of Cam’s closest pals, and it’s Blake’s family’s second house. Not a trailer or hunting cabin — we’re talking steam room, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, and a motorboat in the detached garage. (It’s not so much on the lake as near the lake.)

  I didn’t doubt that they had a maid service, too, but Mama raised me to be a considerate guest. Besides, having ventured into the family room, I was mindful of how whatever was left lying around might affect (for better) the boys’ reps and (for worse) the girls’.

  While I was talking to Shelby, the other post-prom stragglers had already vacated the premises, including the unidentified human-shaped lump under a chenille throw on the sofa.

  So I tossed the scattered beer cans and red plastic cups. I retrieved and repositioned the couch pillows, wiped down the immense black granite counters, and used salad tongs to remove the condom wrappers littering the rugs. Then, after clearing more plastic cups and a few stray Doritos from the deck, I finished the job by hauling out the trash.

  Finally I returned upstairs to Cam. The night before, I’d crashed on the faux-distressed leather chaise longue in front of the bay window. He was still sprawled diagonally and bare chested on the king-size bed. Not his finest moment, but it didn’t matter. I was smitten.

  On our first date, back in January, I’d mentioned that I’d only just recently moved to northeast Kansas from central Texas. I’d been convinced that Cam was all but ignoring me in favor of the basketball game on the sports bar TVs. Then, come Valentine’s Day, he’d given me a sterling silver souvenir charm in the shape of a longhorn.

  He’d been listening to me, even though there had been a game on.

  “Wake up.” I jostled his foot. “We’re going to be late.”

  Cam’s parents, the Ryans, were cohosts of the annual post-prom brunch (by which I mean annual for East Hannesburg High School students whose families belong to the country club, along with their preferred teammates and their respective dates).

  “Check your messages,” I said. “I bet your mother has already texted you.”

  Cam squinted at the rotating ceiling fan and reached out his hands. “Lou, save me.”

  “Are you hungover or still drunk?” I asked.

  “Drunk with your beauty, drunk with your booty.”

  “You can’t reach my booty from there.” I clapped loudly four times. “Up and at ’em, cowboy. Take heart: there will be food.”

  “I can’t get up,” Cam whined. “Help me, Loulou.”

  I hated when he called me that. But the night before, we’d dined on bacon-wrapped filet mignon at Pennington’s Steakhouse and swayed to classic Rihanna on the dance floor. By the magical light of the mirror ball, Cam had declared his love.

  It was heady, intoxicating, being in love. So far as I was concerned, we could’ve stayed at the lake house all day, except for his parents.

  “Shower! Now!” I risked taking his hands, and Cam, laughing, yanked me down on top of him. He tickled my sides. I curled up, trying to protect myself, but I was laughing, too.

  Cam’s mother greeted us in the posh country-club lobby. “Louise, dear! Don’t you look pretty this morning? How was the dance?”

  Before I could reply, she added, “You’ll have to excuse Cam so we can have a brief word. Family business, you understand.” She gestured with her Bloody Mary toward the reserved private dining room. “Don’t miss the crepes station.”

  Crepes! I crossed the mosaic tile floor to the freestanding sign: EHHS PROM BRUNCH.

  From the arched double doorway, I wandered in, marveling over the colorful art-glass chandelier, the crisp white table linens, the carved ice bowl of peel-and-eat shrimp, and the party of fifty or so, chatting, toasting, and taking photos. In addition to the crepes, I weighed the merits of an omelet station, a prime rib station, a silver platter of lox shaped like blooming roses, and a mirrored, five-tiered pyramid display of succulent-looking fruit.

  I’d never been to a wedding with such a fancy, expensive spread — let alone a Sunday brunch. Don’t get me wrong. My family isn’t poor. I guess you’d say we’re middle middle class.

  We’d moved to East Hannesburg, Kan
sas, immediately after the previous Christmas, between my junior-year semesters. It didn’t feel like home yet, not the way Cedar Park, Texas, had.

  Definitely not the way Indian Country, Oklahoma, does.

  I’d plucked three chilled shrimp from the sculpted ice bowl and served myself some smoked salmon and sliced cantaloupe when Cam’s hand cradled the small of my back.

  He steered me toward the prime rib station. “I’m starving,” he said.

  “What was all that about?” I asked, deciding to save crepes for dessert.

  Cam leaned in. “My brother got engaged. Mom wants me to talk him out of it.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “She doesn’t like Andrew’s fiancée?”

  “My mom barely knows her,” Cam said. “But the girl’s not exactly my mother’s idea of future daughter-in-law material.”

  He lowered his voice. “Get this. She’s only twenty, and she already has a one-year-old kid. Can you imagine the bride’s baby daddy showing up at a Ryan family wedding?”

  This from the seventeen-year-old guy who I’d planned to have sex with the night before. The one who’d left it to me to bring the condoms — not that we’d ended up needing them.

  “Your mom will get over it,” I said. “As long as Andrew’s happy —”

  “I don’t think so. The girl is a Kickapoo Indian, so you know. She works at a coffee shop on Massachusetts Street in Lawrence.”

  We got in line for the carving station. “So . . . I know she’s a barista?”

  “Let’s be real,” Cam replied. “She probably took one look at Andrew and saw dollar signs. Why else would she be working at a place like that, if not to hit on college guys?”

  I maintained a conversational tone. “Why would she be working at a coffee shop? Off the top of my head, I’d say it’s convenient to where she lives or she enjoys interacting with the public or she believes in the power of caffeine. Maybe she’s putting herself through college.”

  “Mom says Kickapoo sounds like a dog. Like cockapoo or peekapoo. Get it?”

  I got it. The three senior couples ahead of us in line for beef were chatting sororities, fraternities, rush, and legacies. Cam joined in their Greek alphabet soup of conversation.

  Meanwhile, my Native identity appeared to be nowhere on his radar.

  Cam mentioned that his grandfather, father, and older brother were Sigma Nus at the University of Kansas. “It’ll piss off Dad if I end up pledging another frat,” he said with a calculated glance at his parents’ table. “But I’m going to keep an open mind.”

  It was a discussion we’d had before, mostly, I suspected, so that when Cam finally accepted the bid from Sigma Nu, he could at least pretend he was his own man.

  Once the other couples had moved on, I reminded him, “I’m Native.” I pointed at myself. “One Muscogee (Creek) Nation citizen, live and in person, right here.”

  Cam offered me a gold-trimmed white plate from the tall stack, and I shook my head.

  “You know how my mom is,” he said. “She’s obsessing over what people will —”

  “What if it was me?” At his perplexed look, I clarified, “What if she was freaking out because you got engaged to me?”

  “Are you proposing, Loulou?” Cam chuckled. “Shouldn’t you be down on one knee?”

  It was like he was determined not to take me seriously.

  “Uh, sir?” A slender guy in his early twenties stood poised at the carving station. Jake, according to his name tag. “Sir, if you want your beef served on that plate, you’ll need to give it to me. What I do is take one of these plates here”— he gestured to the stack —“place a cut of meat on it, and then present it to the guest.”

  Which made more sense and was clear from the station configuration. We simply hadn’t been paying attention.

  Cam never loved being told he was wrong, and now two people were correcting him at the same time. “God!” Ignoring Jake, he held on to his plate. “Girls are so sensitive.”

  My WASPy boyfriend drew himself up, emphasizing the height and girth difference between us. “Look, Louise, I’m sorry if you have a problem with . . . whatever. But I’m a good guy. And, like I’ve told you, I’m part Cherokee on my mom’s side. Don’t get all —”

  “Sanctimonious?” Fact: he’s not a citizen of any of the Cherokee nations. He can’t name a single Cherokee ancestor who was. I profoundly doubt he’s even a distant descendant.

  Cam’s entire basis for conveniently claiming Cherokee heritage is a combo of uninvestigated family mythology and the fact that his occasionally insufferable mother is proud of her bone structure. He’d never identify as Indian when it could cost him something.

  “Whatever,” Cam said again. “Do you really want to fight at prom?”

  No, and in fairness, Cam had been mostly parroting his mom’s talking points.

  “Excuse me, sir. Beef?” Jake asked again.

  Two junior couples had come up behind us since he’d spoken last.

  At the interruption, Cam did a double take but handed over the plate. “Unclench,” he said to me. “It’s not like you’re Indian Indian. You live in East Hannesburg. Your dad is a dentist.”

  “What does any of that have to do with it?” Not me talking. The guy with the knife.

  “None of your fucking business,” my boyfriend said, reaching to seize the plate of newly sliced, bloody meat.

  Ninety-eight percent of the time, Cam radiates charm. He’s the all-American golden boy, six foot five, with a promising football future. But that other two percent . . .

  “Cam?” I turned away, defusing the situation. “Let’s say hi to your dad. He’s probably wondering why we haven’t gone over there yet.”

  I appreciated Jake’s solidarity. It was all I could do not to flash him an apologetic smile. But Cam seldom backed down, the slightest gesture could trigger his jealousy, and I didn’t want anyone getting fired on my account.

  Across the room, the Ryans reigned over a half dozen other parents at a large round table. The women were talking landscape architects. The men were talking golf.

  It never failed to amaze me how fast my boyfriend could slip on his public face.

  Cam gave me his plate to hold so he could shake hands with the dads, flirt with the moms, and bask in glowing forecasts about his senior-year game.

  We’d bickered before. Usually about the way he puffed himself up or talked about other girls or cut off whatever I was trying to say. The burden fell on me to soothe him, to keep the peace. I knew Cam considered the matter closed, and he’d act incredibly put out if I raised it again. But I was tired of his ego and his attitude.

  I still loved Cam, but I didn’t like him very much. I’d defer only for the moment, for the sake of the occasion and the hefty parental presence.

  Mrs. Ryan glanced over at my plate. “Is that all you’re having, Louise?”

  I could hear the admiration her voice. (The woman lived almost exclusively on vodka, raw veggies, and low-cal protein bars.) I wondered if Andrew’s Kickapoo fiancée would ever find herself on the receiving end of such an approving tone.

  I spoke up. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve had enough.”

  “Damn it, Lou!” Two hours later, Cam pounded the steering wheel of his SUV, which was parked in my driveway. “Stop being so dramatic. I can’t second-guess every fucking word that flies out of my fucking mouth. If you pick, pick, pick at every goddamn little thing and ignore what I’m really trying to say, you’re the one who’s not respecting me enough to listen.”

  I opened the passenger-side door. “I’m not going to let you turn this around on me.”

  “I can’t believe you,” he shot back. “And after all the money I spent on prom!”

  I jumped out and ran into my house, into Mama’s waiting arms.

  That evening, I could tell from Cam’s barrage of texts and voice mails that he had written off what had happened as just another spat. He made some half-hearted apologetic noises, blaming PMS for my moodiness
. He piled on the flattery, claimed our relationship had been “moving in the right direction,” and declared that he wanted to get “back on track,” which was his way of saying he still wanted sex. But after talking to Mama and Shelby, my decision was confirmed.

  The New Girl who Cam Ryan had put on the social map was going to dump him.

  I was dreading it. I didn’t want to hear him explain how manipulative I was or how dramatic I was or how I wasn’t that hot anyway or how he’d been so patient with me and I was so ungrateful and a nobody without him. I didn’t want to hear him whine about all the girls he could’ve been with when we were together, how he’d sacrificed by staying loyal.

  Should I send a text? No, too casual. He might think I was kidding.

  A letter? No, his mom might screen his snail mail.

  She would screen his snail mail.

  E-mail, I decided. Never mind that the only people I e-mail regularly are my grandparents and a couple of my great-aunties. Football may be Cam’s signature sport, but he’s also on the baseball team, just for kicks. The head coach routinely e-mails the team, so Cam checks his account daily.

  I hauled myself out my bed and logged on to my laptop.

  I thanked Cam for the good times. I wished him the best of luck this season.

  As gently as possible, I said we were over for good.

  At a quarter till ten, I pushed Send.

  Monday morning, before the bell, I returned to the sign-up sheet for Cheer tryouts on the door of the girls’ locker room. I grew up with the cheerleaders in central Texas, and I missed being one of them. I’d been looking forward to joining the East Hannesburg squad.

  (That might sound presumptuous, but EHHS Cheer is nowhere as competitive as Cedar Park Cheer.)

  The appeal? Gymnastics, dance — I’ve taken jazz and ballet since I could walk. I enjoy the sense of belonging that comes with participating in a team sport. Plus a cheerleading uniform doubles as social armor and eliminates the pressure of figuring out, day-to-day, what to wear. All you have to do in exchange is kick, punch, chant, blend.

  On the other hand, making the squad would also ensure that Cam and I went to the same parties, had the same friends. The kind of friends I’d always had.

  My move to Kansas had been a new beginning. Life without Cam was another one.