[quote align=”center” color=”#999999″]SOMETIMES MOVING ON MEANS MOVING IN
Pixie Marshall wishes every day she could turn back time and fix the past. But she can’t. And the damage is done. She’s hoping that a summer of free room and board working with her aunt at the Willow Inn will help her forget. Except there’s a problem: the resident handyman is none other than Levi Andrews. The handsome quarterback was once her friend-and maybe more–until everything changed in a life-shattering instant. She was hoping to avoid him, possibly forever. Now he’s right down the hall and stirring up feelings Pixie thought she’d long buried . . .
Levi can’t believe he’s living with the one person who holds all his painful memories. More than anything he wants to make things right, but a simple “sorry” won’t suffice–not when the tragedy that scarred them was his fault. Levi knows Pixie’s better off without him, but every part of him screams to touch her, protect her, wrap her in his arms, and kiss away the pain. Yet even though she’s so close, Pixie’s heart seems more unreachable than ever. Seeing those stunning green eyes again has made one thing perfectly clear–he can’t live without her.[/quote]
How. Stinkin’. Cute. The Best Kind of Broken is one of those books that frustrates you for about 80% of the book and then has you “awe-ing” at the end. Pixie and Levi are obvious meant for one another, yet the past and two guilt ridden consciences keep them apart. It all boils down to one thing – communication.
Gah, I don’t even know how to review this book. I’ve written paragraph after paragraph only to erase them all. This one’s tough. Not because the book stinks – It doesn’t. I liked it, a lot – but because the subject matter is rough.
[quote align=”center” color=”#999999″]“There’s no such thing as too broken. Anything can heal.” She kisses my forehead an wraps her arms around me. “Especially you.”[/quote]
I don’t want to give too much away. Let’s just say that Pixie and Levi were once close. They’re not any longer. Now they’re lucky if they can look at one another or communicate without snide sarcastic remarks. An unfortunate event changed their lives. One split second cost them…everything. They’re both alive, but not living. They’re shells, not people. It’s sad.
[quote align=”center” color=”#999999″]Twelve days.
Pixie’s been living here for only twelve days and I already want to stab myself with a spoon. Not because she keeps blowing the fuse, though that reoccurring shenanigan of hers is certainly stab-worthy, but because I can’t do normal around Pixie.[/quote]
Both Pixie and Levi are likeable characters. I can’t say anything bad about either one. But I was drawn to Pixie. Something about her broken artistic spirit just did it for me. I could picture her unruly curls and paint smeared face. She’s quick with her words. She’s kinda spunky. I like it. She’s also a little broken – physically and emotionally. She’s perfectly imperfect. Oh, and her mother sucks! She’s HORRIBLE. I wanted to literally punch the woman in the ovaries. Some people don’t deserve the ability to procreate. Ugh…
Levi is, or was, Arizona State’s QB. He’s big, board, and very handy. As a matter of fact he’s the inn’s handyman. Since basically dropping out of college he’s just sort of procured the title. I need a Levi. Lord knows I have enough plenty he could fix, and I wouldn’t mind watching him do it. Anyway, he’s a sexy man who can fix things. He’s also broken. His scars are on this inside. He’s filled with so much guilt that I’m surprised it’s not oozing out his ears.
[quote align=”center” color=”#999999″]I’m still angry with him, but I follow him through the drizzle anyway. Because this is Levi. This is my hero. And you always follow your heroes, even when you’d rather punch them in the mouth. That’s how trust works. It’s blind and unconditional and it takes you places you can’t reach by yourself.[/quote]
This is my second Chelsea Fine novel and most definitely my favorite. This is going to sound crazy… but… this is a heavy read written in a light way. I know. I know. I don’t make much sense. Chelsea just has this way of inserting random witty banter that somehow makes the rough parts easier to read. I’m trying here and still feel like I’m failing to explain myself properly. Ugh, this is frustrating.
This is the worst review ever. I’m so frustrated with myself… There’s so much I want to say, but I can’t figure out the words. All you need know is that The Best Kind of Broken is worth reading. It’s worth the one click. It has an overwhelmingly sweet sadness that lends a hand to hope. I liked it a lot, and if you usually like what I like, you’ll like it too.
That night, I enter the bathroom a second before Pixie does, both of us with our toothbrushes at the ready. For a moment I just stare at her.
She looks the way I remember; blonde hair pulled back in a messy knot with curls escaping, paint smudged on her skin and bare feet; and I’m instantly transported back to a time when my house was filled with girly laughter.
It’s hard to believe I ever found that laughter obnoxious.
She gives me a weird look, probably because I’m staring at her like an idiot, so I stretch my lips into a thin smile. Her weird look flashes into something else—hope, maybe? Sadness?—but quickly disappears as she gives me a strained smile in return. And now we’re just standing here, fake-smiling at each other like morons.
I surrender my eyes first and step deeper into the bathroom so there’s room for both of us at the counter. We start brushing our teeth, our eyes fixed anywhere but on each other.
Brush, brush, brush.
There’s something intimate about brushing your teeth beside someone else. Perhaps it’s because people who brush their teeth together are usually people who just woke up together, or people who are just about to go to bed together.
Our eyes meet in the mirror and quickly dart away.
She’s wearing a dark T-shirt at least two sizes too large for her and a pair of ratty sweatpants. How is she still so pretty even when she’s dressed like a homeless person?
Brush, brush, brush.
Her free hand is pressed flat on the counter between us. Speckles of black and white paint stick to her fingers and the side of her wrist. I wonder if the pads of her fingers are just as messy.
She was always great with a paintbrush. But when she’d get really into it, she’d ditch the brushes and just paint with her hands like a kindergartener.
Brush, brush, br—
Pixie’s toothbrush comes to a halt as she catches me staring at her hand.
“Whah?” she says over her toothbrush.
I stop brushing as well. “Yahr ah meh.”
She looks confused. “Whah?”
I spit into the sink and rinse my mouth. “You’re a mess.”
The corners of her mouth slowly tip up and I swear to God, even covered in toothpaste and drool, her smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
She says, “Ooh oot tah whyk meh mehey.”
“I have no idea what you just said.”
She spits into the sink and cleans her face as well. “I said,” she turns big green eyes to me and puts a hand on her hip, “you used to like me messy.”
I scan her face, momentarily sucked into that warm happiness that is uniquely Pixie. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”
The bathroom shrinks in on us until the walls and the shower curtain and the toothpaste in the sink are all gone, and it’s just me and her and all the unspoken things between us.
Chelsea lives in Phoenix, Arizona where she spends most of her time writing stories, painting murals, and avoiding housework at all costs. She’s ridiculously bad at doing dishes and claims to be allergic to laundry. Her obsessions include: superheroes, coffee, sleeping-in, and crazy socks. She lives with her husband and two children, who graciously tolerate her inability to resist teenage drama on TV and her complete lack of skill in the kitchen.