Page 1 of Fractured Heart

Chapter 1

I tighten my grip on the scrub brush and attack the bathroom floor. The cleaning solution smell fills the tiny room. The artificial lemon burns my nose and permeates my hair and clothes. My hands throb, my back aches, and I sympathize with Cinderella. Not the ball gown-clad princess, since my Prince Charming hasn’t shown up yet. I mean the servant girl, minus the wicked stepmother and ugly step-sisters.

At least I’m finally done washing the old, creaky stairs. The bathroom may be tiny but the acoustics in here are amazing. I marvel at how deep and resonant my voice sounds when I start to sing. I may not have Cinderella’s little animals to help me clean, but I lose myself in the magic of music, until the world around me disappears.

“Roonie Hill!” Father’s angry voice thunders across the house. “You stop that racket, you hear? And get down here. Now!”

My heart nearly explodes out of my chest and I jump to my feet. My heart-shaped, onyx pendant slams against my collarbone. I instinctively reach for it and the cold stone gives me a modicum of comfort.

Why is Father home so early? He doesn’t get back on Fridays until—I grab my phone and glance at the time—eight o’clock!

The blood drains from my face. I should have had dinner ready for him five minutes ago. I should be in the kitchen, ladle in hand. I should not, under any circumstances, still be upstairs. And I definitely should not be singing.

“Roonie!” Father bellows.

I drop my phone on the counter and rush downstairs. I don’t have time to wash my hands, so I wipe my dirty palms on my jeans and skid to a stop in the kitchen doorway.

Father is seated at the table in his sweaty, gray Bulldogs hoodie and navy-blue sweatpants. He takes one look at me and scowls. “You’re a mess. A filthy mess.”

“I’m so sorry!” I rush to the sink and wash off the remnants of the cleaning solution from my hands.

Father’s right. My faded pink sweater is drenched in sweat and my jeans are torn and dirty from cleaning. What if we’d had company? Or Prince Charming finally decided to rescue me? It‘s not like Fairy Godmother’s going to suddenly pop up with a gown and slippers.

“I’m hungry, Roonie.” Father takes a healthy swig of beer and slams the bottle on the table.

I jump and my palms start to sweat.

Why doesn’t he ever get up and serve himself? I left an empty soup bowl on the table and stew is simmering on the stove. The delicious aroma is wafting through the kitchen but it’s like the idea never even crossed his mind.

I stare down at my feet, half for effect and half out of fear. “I’m really sorry, Father. I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean…didn’t mean…,” Father mocks. “Why am I not eating?”

I can think of several reasons, none of which I dare voice aloud. I snatch up his empty bowl, not missing Father’s narrowed eyes or the frown lines marring his forehead. Those, coupled with the glazed look in his eyes, set my heart racing.

I grab the metal lid covering the pot of stew and let go with a yelp. The lid crashes back onto the pot, the clang echoing loudly through the kitchen.

“You can’t do anything right!” Father shouts as I cradle my burned palm against my chest. “You’re a mess. Never got into college. Can’t even get a job.”

My eyes water, but I fight back tears as he berates me. Crying will only make things worse, and I can barely think through the pain.

“You’re wasting your time, making up stupid songs.” Father chugs down some beer and gestures at me with the bottle. “Where’s my dinner?”

I try to ignore the sting from his words, and my burnt palm, as I jump into action. This time, I grab a towel so I can lift the scalding-hot lid off the pot. Steam rolls out and hits me in the face. My palm aches but I don’t dare react as I ladle heaps of delicious stew.

Only when I’ve set a full bowl in front of Father and he begins to eat, does the panic in my chest start to recede. Thankfully, so does the pain in my palm.

“How hard is it to have dinner ready?” Father grumbles, sending stew-laced spit across the table. Someone should tell him not to talk with his mouth full, but that someone isn’t going to be me. I’m also not going to ask why he didn’t get his own stew if he was that hungry.

I should say something to placate him, but he hates when I make excuses. Like, absolutely, positively hates it. Plus, telling him I lost track of time because I was singing is out of the question. Not only does he think music is a waste of time, he can’t stand the sound of my voice. It’s too high-pitched, too whiny—too much like Mom’s.

“Roonie!” Father snaps.

I jump. “Yes?”

Was I humming? I have this awful habit of humming while I think, and it drives Father nuts. You’d think I would learn not to do it by now, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to stop.

Father holds up his beer and raises one eyebrow in annoyance. Probably means I wasn’t singing.