Broken Beautiful Hearts(114)
Writers House, my literary agency—for representing me and Broken Beautiful Hearts. Special thanks to Cecilia de la Campa and Alec Shane.
Kassie Evashevski, my rock star film agent—for your intelligence, creativity, and passion. But most of all, for championing this book and everything I write.
Holly Black, Carrie Ryan, and Danielle Paige, my friends and extraordinary YA authors—for reading this book so many times, giving me notes to make it better, and for all the supportive texts and calls.
Dhonielle Clayton, my friend and an über-talented YA author—for taking the time to sensitivity read this book—and for giving the book such a wonderful quote.
Sarah Weiss-Simpson, my assistant—for organizing my life so I have time to write and for being a great friend.
Chloe Palka, my social media manager—for your expertise and creativity and for typing my messy handwritten chapters. You are the coolest.
Erin Gross and Yvette Vasquez, my BFFs—for always having the answers, cheering me on, and yelling at me when cheering doesn’t work. You are two of my best friends.
Cora Carmack, Dhonielle Clayton, Abbi Glines, Elle Kennedy, Katie McGarry, Danielle Paige, Jennifer Niven, and K.A. Tucker, a group of authors whose novels I admire—for giving Broken Beautiful Hearts such amazing quotes. There aren’t enough cupcakes in the world to show my appreciation.
Sargent Rudolfo “Rudy” Reyes, 1st Reconnaissance Battalion, Team Leader OEF/OIF, United States Marine Corps; cofounder of FORCE Blue; my friend; and a tireless warrior with a new mission—saving and improving the lives of veterans—for sharing your knowledge and experiences with me so I could bring Hawk and Peyton’s dad to life on the page. And for helping me come up with a realistic (and scary) scenario for Peyton’s dad’s death.
Dr. Stephanie Jacobs, MD, cardiologist—for coming up with a heart condition that met my long list of criteria and then explaining it to me.
Vania Stoyanova, my friend and photographer—for making me look cool in my author photos, especially the one in this book.
Lorissa Shepstone of Being Wicked, my graphic designer—for designing my amazing new author website, along with postcards, bookmarks, business cards, and swag.
Benjamin Alderson, Caden Armstrong, Katie Bartow, Yvette Cervera, Bri Daniel, Andye Eppes, Jen Fisher, Vilma Gonzalez, Kristen Goodwin, Erin Gross, Sara Gundell, Ruthie Heard, Mara Jacobi, Taylor Knight, Hikari Loftus, Caden Sage, Evie Seo, Tracey Spiteri, Amber Sweeney, Natasha Tomic, Ursula Uriarte, Lauren Ward, Jenny Zemanek, and Heidi Zweifel—for being my think tank and offering your insight, creativity, and support. It means so much to me.
Eric Harbert and Nick Montano, my secret weapons—for being the guys who watch my back.
Alan Weinberger, my rheumatologist—for making sure I don’t fall apart.
Librarians, teachers, booksellers, bloggers, bookstagrammers, booktubers, and everyone who helped spread the word about Broken Beautiful Hearts—your passion for reading and love of books is an inspiration. Thank you for everything you do and for reading my books.
My readers—for supporting me, sticking with me when I write new books and series, encouraging me on social media when I’m down, encouraging your friends to read my books, sending me letters and fan art, and sharing your stories with me. You bring my books to life.
Mom, Dad, Celeste, John, Derek, Hannah, Alex, Hans, Sara, and Erin, my parents, stepparents, siblings, and sisters-in-law—for your love and encouragement. Thank you for always being there.
Alex, Nick, and Stella—for your love and support. I couldn’t do any of this without you.
CHAPTER 1
PIECES OF ME
A police officer shines a blinding light in my eyes. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”
To ruin what’s left of my miserable life?
“Was I speeding?” I have no idea, but the swerving is probably the reason.
He knocks on the roof of the car. “I’m going to need you to step out of the car and show me your license and registration.”
Red and blue lights flash in my rearview mirror, and the dull haze that kept me from falling apart earlier tonight begins to fade.
I don’t want to feel anything. Most of all, I don’t want to remember.
“Have you been drinking?” he asks when I get out.
I consider lying, but what’s the point? There is nothing he can do to me that’s worse than what I’ve already been through.
“Miss? I asked if you’ve been drinking,” he repeats.
I look him in the eye. “Yes.”
*
Riding in the back of a police car sobers me up fast, but not enough to pass a Breathalyzer test at the precinct.
“Your blood alcohol concentration is point one.” Officer Tanner, the cop who pulled me over, writes it down on a form attached to his clipboard. “That’s two points over the legal limit in the state of Maryland.”
I stop listening and watch the second hand on the wall clock click past the numbers. It’s 10:20 on a Tuesday night.
The old Frankie Devereux would be kissing her boyfriend good night in front of her house right now, or slaving over her Stanford University application. She didn’t have the personal essay nailed down yet. But she wasn’t worried. With a 4.0 grade point average, eight years of classical piano training, and two summers’ worth of volunteer work at Children’s Hospital, Stanford was well within her reach.