Breathing Lies: (The Breathing Undead Series, Book 1)

by Jessica Sorensen

  “I’ll clean it up in a bit.” I comb my hair that desperately needs a wash out of my eyes.

  She presses her lips together, glancing down at the floor again. “Are you sure? I don’t mind doing it.”

  “It’s fine.” I climb off the bed and kick a few shirts out of the way. “I’ve just been tired, but I’ll get it cleaned in a couple of days.”

  “Okay, if that’s what you want to do.” She sighs, drumming her fingers against the sides of her legs. “I want to talk to you about me going back to work. I’ve burnt through my sick days, and Marla’s been bugging me about going back. But I don’t have to if you’re not ready for me to.”

  “You can go back to work,” I tell her. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Honey, you keep saying you’re fine. Always fine. And it … it’s starting to worry me.”

  “But I am fine.” I don’t think I am, though.

  “You haven’t even been over to see Foster yet, and he’s leaving for college soon,” she says quietly. “Janie said he’s called you a couple of times, and you’ve told him you haven’t felt like seeing anyone.”

  “Maybe I haven’t,” I say, scratching at the bandage on my arm.

  “Then maybe you’re not fine,” she replies with a hint of frustration. “Dammit, I don’t want to lose my patience with you, but this”—she gestures at the room—“not showering or leaving your room and ignoring Foster … this isn’t like you.” She lowers her hands to her sides. “The doctor suggested we might want to set up an appointment with a therapist for you. That sometimes when people almost … when they … when they have near-death experiences”—she takes an uneven breath—“that it affects them mentally and can sometimes even… alter their personalities.”

  “Mom, I’m still the same. I’ve just been … tired.” Lies, lies, lies.

  I am different. But I just can’t seem to find the old Harlynn inside me, like she’s still back in that lake.

  “You seem … You seem depressed.”

  I shake my head in denial. “I’m not depressed.”

  “Are you …? Are you maybe scared that whoever hit you might try to hurt you again?”

  Honestly, I hadn’t thought about that until she mentioned it. But now that she has…

  “Is that something the police are worried about?” I ask.

  “No, not really. They think more than likely it was an accidental hit and run, but …” Her eyes water up. “Your father and I just worry about you.”

  “I know you guys do.” I step forward and hug her.

  “I just want you to be okay,” she whispers, hugging me tightly.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  When she starts to cry, I know I need to do something to assure her that I’m okay even if deep down I may not be.

  “Before you came in here, I was actually thinking about texting Foster and telling him I want to go over there and hang out.” I pull back from her arms and plaster on a fake grin. “I might even get really crazy and take a shower before I do.”

  She dabs her tears away with her fingertips. “I think he’d like that.”

  “Me showering?” I tease with a forced smile.

  She gives me an unimpressed look. “No, you going to visit him. I’m sure all this has been hard on him, too.”

  “Yeah, I know … Wrecking like that and remembering it …”

  “I wasn’t really talking about the wreck, but I’m sure that’s also been hard on him,” she says. When I raise a brow, she pats my shoulder. “I think it might’ve been even more hard for him to see you like that and thinking he might … lose you.” Her voice catches.

  I wrestle back a frown. “Oh yeah.”

  “You’ve always been so important to him.” She smooths her hand over her head. “Honestly, everyone’s always been a bit surprised you two haven’t dated. But you’re still young, so maybe that’s a good thing. I have a feeling when you guys do date, it’ll last forever, and I’m not ready for a wedding yet.”

  “Me neither,” I quickly agree.

  Weddings? Forever? I can’t even think about that stuff right now. Not with so much unknown floating around me. Plus, I’m only eighteen.

  But going over to Foster’s might be a good idea still, so I can get to the bottom of the truth and feel normal again. And hell, maybe I’ll luck out and he’ll cave when I ask him for the truth. The Foster I thought I knew would eventually tell me. Then again, the Foster I thought I knew rarely lied to me. That’s what I believed anyway.

  “I’m going to text Foster, then take a shower.” I pick up my phone from off the dresser to show her that I’m going to follow through with what I’m saying. That I’m fine.

  “Good.” Her lips tug upward as she backs out of the room. “I’m going to call Marla and tell her I need a couple of days off.”

  “Mom, you can go back to work. In fact, I probably need to go back to work soon, too.” Not that my boss has been bitchy about me missing days.

  I work at a quaint bookstore that has a total of three employees, including my boss, and it gets maybe ten customers on a good day. I like my job, though. I love books; the smell of them, the excitement of reading them.

  “I’m okay with you visiting Foster, but maybe take a few more days off work, okay?” she says. “I don’t want you overdoing it.”

  I nod, and then she leaves the room, shutting the door behind her.

  My gaze instantly drops to my phone. The screen is covered with notifications of unread messages. I’ve barely texted anyone since the accident, but people have been messaging me day and night. People I hardly know. I haven’t responded to any of them, except for Alena and Foster.

  I give a quick scroll through and decide to delete the messages from the people I don’t really know. When I’m finished, there are four messages left; two from Foster, one from Alena, and strangely, one from Porter.

  I open Alena’s first, because hers seems like the easiest to deal with.

  Alena: I’m sitting here on a balcony in Paris, and all I can think about is my crazy BFF back home. You’re messing up my trip, bitch! But seriously, how are you? I wish I was there. No, eff that. I wish you were here.

  Me: I’m fine. Most of my injuries are healed. And I’m actually heading over to see Foster. He’s leaving this weekend, so I’m going to be stuck here all by myself.

  Next, I read Foster’s messages.

  Foster: Hey, just wanted to check in with you again and see how you are feeling.

  Foster: I know you said you’re tired, but maybe I can come over for a little bit? I really miss you.

  His warm lips on mine …

  Not Foster’s lips …

  Sighing, I message Foster back.

  Me: Actually, can I come over in a bit? I really need to get my lazy ass out of my room.

  His response takes a minute or two.

  Foster: You know you don’t even have to ask. But, are you sure you don’t want me to come over there? It might be easier for you.

  Me: Nah, I need a break from my room. And I think it might put my mom at ease if she sees me leave the house. She’s been worried sick and driving me crazy.

  Foster: I’m sure she’s just worried about you. We all have been.

  Me: I know. And I’m sorry about that.

  Foster: You don’t need to be sorry. You’ve been through a lot.

  Me: So have you.

  Foster: I know. And do you know what’ll make me feel better?

  Me: An endless amount of M&Ms and a jet ski?

  Foster: No. Although, both those things sound awesome. But I was talking about you.

  Me: All right. Give me about an hour to take a shower, and then I’ll walk over.

  Foster: I can pick you up if you want.

  Me: I can walk. You only live a couple of blocks away, and I could use the fresh air.

  Foster: All right. Just text me when you leave so I can keep an eye out for you.

  He’s acting so paranoid right now, so unlike Foster. J
ust how much did this accident affect him? Or is he worried about something else, like about whoever hit us?

  Maybe my mom was sugarcoating the truth about our accident just being an accidental hit and run. Maybe it was an intentional hit and run. Or maybe he’s just concerned about my health. Who the heck knows? Hopefully, when I see him, I can get to the truth.

  The truth.

  The truth.

  The truth.

  Does it even exist anymore?

  Fourteen

  Harlynn

  After I get done messaging Foster, I grab a pair of black shorts, a striped tank top, and a pair of clean underwear and a bra before heading into the bathroom to take a shower. It feels good to wash my hair and the grime off my skin, so I end up staying in there long enough that my mom eventually knocks on the door to see if I’m okay.

  Taking the hint that it’s time to get out, I shut off the water, climb out, and dry off. Then I pull on my clean clothes and take out the blow dryer so I can do my hair. Then I drag my hand across the mirror to wipe away the fog, and as my gaze collides with my reflection, an image pierces my brain.

  Water all around me, drowning me and pulling the truck down. I’m sinking, sinking, sinking, and fear courses through my veins, heavy and weighing me down.

  I’m going to die.

  All by myself with nothing but darkness and my fear…

  I blink.

  I was so scared in that truck, the fear more dark and potent than even the water. I thought I was going to die. I did for a second. And then I came back. But, did I really? Am I the same Harlynn who went into the water? I look the same on the outside. Well, almost. My eyes … they do look different. More haunted. Like they can and have seen more.

  What is the truth?

  Who am I now?

  Who was I ever?

  What did I see when I died?

  I stare at my reflection until my eyes burn, until I can’t see anything but blurry misshapen shapes and colors. I stare so long my eyes begin to water. I stare until my pupils ache. I stare and stare and stare, hoping I can remember something. Feel something. But nothing happens other than my wrist starts to itch.

  I glance down at the bandage wrapped around my injured flesh. I haven’t seen what’s underneath it; what kind of wound is hidden there. Maybe seeing it will strike a memory.

  Grabbing the edge of the bandage, I peel it back like a layer of skin from bone, unwinding, unwinding, unwinding until it all comes off like a veil lifting from my mind.

  Beneath it is dried blood and cuts; little truths that I did get hurt that night. If I stare long enough at it, it kind of looks like a feather. A feather with rough edges.

  Lifting my wrist, I press my finger to the top of the injury and trace along the lines. It starts to split open like a popped stitch, weeping blood. Pain weeps through my body, along with dark red blood. Both show I am indeed alive even though I might not always feel like it.

  “Harlynn, are you okay in there?” my mom asks from the other side of the shut door.

  I pause. “Yeah.”

  “Okay…It’s just that you’ve been in there for a while, and I’m … I’m starting to worry.”

  “I’m fine,” I lie.

  I’m not fine. I have my finger stuck inside an injury just so I can try to remember what happened.

  “Okay.” My mom doesn’t say anything more, but I can feel her presence outside the door, as if she’s waiting for something to happen.

  Sighing, I pull my finger out of my cut, and the pain slips away from me.

  Then I wash my hands and the cut off, rewrap it, and start blow-drying my hair. Once it’s mostly dry, I sweep it to the side in a tangled mess of waves, then dab on some lip gloss, trace my eyes with kohl eyeliner, and exit the bathroom. My mom is gone and has migrated to the kitchen, much to my relief.

  I grab my phone and some cash then slip on my sandals and head for the front door.

  “I’m heading to Foster’s,” I call out to my mom as I pass the kitchen.

  She’s standing by the stove, mixing something in a steaming pot, and glances up at me. “You want me to drive you? I can turn this off for a few minutes.” She starts to reach for the burner knob.

  I lift up my hand. “It’s, like, two minutes away. I’ll be fine.”

  She hesitantly moves her hand away from the knob. “Text me when you get there. And if it’s dark by the time you come home, either call me or your father to come pick you up, or have Foster drive you, okay?”

  I nod then hurry out the door before she changes her mind about driving me.

  As I step outside into the fresh, summer air and sun, I breathe it in deeply, realizing how stuffy my room was becoming. Starting down the driveway, I retrieve my phone to text Foster and tell him I’m on my way. But as I tap open my messages, I get distracted by the unread text from Porter.

  I should just delete it. It’s not like Porter and I are friends. The only reason I have him saved in my contacts because Star gave me his number at that party in case we got separated and I couldn’t get ahold of her.

  But I’m curious, so I decide to open the message.

  Porter: Hey Har, I heard what happened and just wanted to make sure you’re okay. If you ever need anything, you can text me.

  If he hadn’t used my nickname, I’d wonder if he sent the message to the wrong number because it’s so… nice.

  And Porter has never been nice to me.

  Beyond confused, I text back a simple message.

  Me: I’m okay.

  Then I stuff my phone into my back pocket and turn onto the sidewalk.

  The neighborhood I live in is a quiet area near the forest, with an acre of land dividing each house. Most of the homes are two-stories, except for a few, including mine. My family isn’t quite as wealthy as the other families who live around here. I think the only reason my parents ever moved here was to live close to the Avertonsons, who live in one of the nicest homes in the neighborhood.

  Foster’s dad owns a couple of businesses in town, including the grocery store, and makes a pretty nice income. My dad works as an accountant and actually does accounting for Foster’s dad’s businesses, although he doesn’t make nearly as much, hence the smaller house. The Avertonsons also have nicer cars, and they bought Foster a truck for his birthday and gave Kingsley his car. I was a bit surprised they gave Kingsley one, since at that point, he’d gotten in trouble a lot. Foster was surprised, too, and kind of pissed off.

  “I just think it’s really unfair they gave him one, too, when I work so hard to be the good son,” he gripes as we sit with our feet in his pool, eating leftover birthday cake.

  “Well, at least you aren’t stuck driving him everywhere,” I try to offer a silver lining.

  “Yeah, until he does something stupid and wrecks his car,” he mutters then shoves a piece of cake into his mouth.

  The reality, though, is Kingsley takes care of his car and has never been in an accident. Foster, technically has.

  I scrunch my nose at the thought. What is wrong with me? Foster is my friend. Foster is the guy I was—am—in love with. And now I’m suddenly comparing him to Kingsley?

  Shoving thoughts of Kingsley aside, I veer off my street and down a side road. I notice a blue truck with tinted windows driving just behind me. Instead of passing me, the driver slowly follows, the engine idling loudly.

  I think about the person who ran into Foster’s truck and how they’re still out there, somewhere, maybe even aware Foster and I are okay. And for all they know, we might have seen them. What if they come after me?

  As I near the corner of the next street, I dare a glance over my shoulder to check if the front end of the truck has any dents or has fragments of grey paint from Foster’s truck.

  It looks dent-free and sparkling clean; no evidence of a recent wreck. That doesn’t mean anything, though. They could’ve gotten their truck fixed by now.

  A heartbeat later, it drives past me and pulls into a driveway jus
t up the street.

  Breathing in relief, I turn down the street that leads to Foster’s.

  A few uneventful minutes later, I’m walking up to the front porch of his parents’ spacious, two-story house that has a gated yard and wraparound porch. A shiny new red truck is parked in the driveway—Foster’s new ride I’m guessing. The sight of it kind of irks me.

  Liar, liar, liar. He lies, refuses to tell me the truth, and gets a new truck.

  Blowing out an exasperated breath, I knock on the door a couple of times. When no one answers, I let myself in.

  The house is quiet, except for the thrum of music playing from somewhere.

  I make my way past the living room and up the stairs. On the second floor, the music gets louder. It’s not coming from Foster’s room, but farther down the hallway. From Kingsley’s room. His door is halfway open. Weirdly enough, the song is the same one I was listening to earlier.

  I pause, eyeballing Foster’s shut door then glance back at Kingsley’s room. Since when does he listen to the same music as I do? Has he always, and I just never paid enough attention? Possibly. I’m usually so caught up in Foster when I’m here that I barely pay attention to much of anything else. Right now, though, my head feels Foster-free.

  Pressing my lips together, I wander down the hallway toward Kingsley’s room. I haven’t been in there since before the day on the docks when I fell into the lake. I’m not even sure what compels me to go in there now, if the wreck took more of my sanity away than I thought.

  When I reach the doorway, I peek inside. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed that he isn’t in there. I should probably leave. I have no business being here. And besides, I made a promise to myself to keep my distance from him. Not that I’ve always held true to it.

  With a glance back over my shoulder, I step inside Kingsley’s room and peer around at the posters covering the black and grey walls, noting they’re all bands I listen to. His room is also very dark. The blanket on his made bed is black, along with the headboard. So is the closet door and the desk. The area is cleaner than I imagined it’d be, with only a few items of clothing on the floor. His desk is neatly organized and so are the books on the shelf. What really captures my attention, though, is the collage of photos on the wall; photos of spots from around town, of random people, of the night sky, the stars, and … Wait. Is that a photo of me?