Coming Up for Air

by Nicole B. Tyndall

  For just a beat, time stops. Looking at him, I marvel at how his simple presence can change the way an entire night feels. How he can turn it into magic.

  Then he pulls me in.

  A small gasp escapes me as I taste his lips. Warm and cold fuse and slide against each other. He pulls away long enough to whisper, “I thought about this the whole time I walked here.”

  My heart explodes, and he slams back into me. Kissing Braden is so different from kissing anybody else that I feel like it should have a new name.

  “Wait,” he says, but I instantly close the space again. He’s smiling against my mouth. “Just one second, Hadley.” He begins to stand.

  “What are you doing?” I start to protest, but he’s already walking the few steps toward my bedroom window. Then he’s back with my quilted comforter tucked under one arm.

  “You had goose bumps,” he says by way of explanation.

  “I was okay.” I try to catch my breath.

  “Well, I’m not okay with you freezing.” He wraps the blanket around us. “I like your room, by the way.”

  “It’s a mess. I didn’t exactly know I was having company.”

  “You’re happy I’m here, though.”

  I’m fighting back a smirk. “I hate it. It’s totally rude. I was sleeping, and this is definitely against the rules.”

  “Oh, it’s rude, huh? That’s your big defense?”

  I nod, pursing my lips and looking up at him.

  “Come here, rude girl.” We’re sitting next to each other, but he wraps an arm around me and then another to pull me into his lap, facing him. He readjusts the blanket. Then he looks at me, so much closer now, and slides his hands gently up and down my sides over my tank top. “You’re still cold.”

  “I’m warming up.” The words take on a life of their own after I say them, choosing an alternate meaning. Still looking at me, Braden pushes my shirt up a little, and rubs his hands against my bare skin. I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I’m not wearing anything underneath. But I don’t feel shy with him about my body. His fingertips graze the sides of my rib cage, my hip bones, my back. I shiver, but I’m not cold anymore.

  I can’t stand to look at him while he makes me feel like this, so I lean into his neck, pushing his sweatshirt out of the way with my nose, and breathe in the skin of that delicate place. This close, I can find the fading chlorine. I can’t help myself; I plant a kiss there.

  He laughs, a deep noise that I can feel as I lean against his chest. “Yeah, I’m convinced. You totally hate I’m here.”

  I sit up and trace his cheekbones with my fingers, whispering slowly, “I hate everything about you.” The words are glittering with a little bit of his magic. And they certainly sound like a declaration, but not the one I made.

  I pull his face into mine. He exhales into my mouth, and I take that from him too. I’m a black hole of want. Our speed picks up, and I lean my body into his. He wraps his other arm around me, so we move from vertical to horizontal. One of his hands finds the back of my thigh, and his fingers dig into my skin. He’s never touched me there before, not like that, and I’m liquid fire, dripping from the roof, destroying the house, setting the lawn alight. I squeeze my eyes closed and let his arms, his body, hold me up.

  I have to stop or I’m going to be lost in this forever.

  Maybe I want to be lost in this forever.

  I want more.

  My want scares me.

  I force myself to stop.

  When I pull away, I swear I can almost see the charge between us, lighting the night air like low-hanging stars.

  He’s breathing heavy, and his eyes are hooded when they meet mine. I watch his chest rise and fall, averting my gaze from his face, because seeing his reaction to me, to us, almost starts the whole thing all over.

  “Hate me, huh?”

  “So much,” I insist.

  “That’s too bad.” His hands frame my face. “Because I came over here to see if we could make this thing, you know—with us—official.”

  My stomach flips. “What? You did?”

  “Well, no other girl has ever had me climbing houses in the middle of the night. And if you’re going to be the death of me, I think you should at least be my girlfriend.” Then his expression becomes more serious. “Only if you want.”

  I can’t find any words.

  He continues, “I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it yet, and if you still feel that way, that’s okay. But I just thought I could at least tell you how I felt. So you had all the information. And I want this. You. Us.”

  I look at him, swollen lips and hopeful eyes, and the idea of telling him no seems impossible. But this thing between us is wild, unwieldy. I don’t know how to slow it down. I don’t know how to steer.

  Still, right now, I want it more than anything else.

  I want it more than I’m afraid of it.

  So I take a deep breath and tell the truth.

  “Okay.” I nod, biting back my nervous smile—swallowing it. Inside me, with room to grow, it blooms and explodes like fireworks.

  His whole body sags in relief as he laughs. “Thank god.”

  “Did you think I was going to say no?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  He laughs. “Hadley, I had no idea what you were going to do. You keep me on my toes.”

  He puts his arm around me, and I lean into his shoulder, feeling blissful and alive. The moment is everything I’ve been afraid of, but here with Braden, that fear falls away now. Instead, with no one but the moon as our witness, I let my heavy eyes close, and revel in the solid warmth of the boy next to me.

  The alarm on my phone goes off at six, but I don’t remember falling asleep. I groan and reach for it without opening my eyes, knocking it off my nightstand and then pulling it back to me by the charger cord. Before, if I had gotten so few hours of sleep, I would have tried to get Mom to call the school and excuse my absence, at least for first hour. But now I know I just need to tough it out.

  My alarm is still playing. I pull open my eyes and silence it. No new messages. Of course not. You’d think I’d be used to that. Every morning since the accident, I wake up hopeful that he will have called, texted, anything. So far, seven mornings of that hope crumbling around me.

  I roll out of bed and see two tissues clinging to my bare legs. I throw them into the already overflowing trash next to my nightstand and miss. Without bothering to pick them up, I walk into the bathroom, wearing just my underwear and Braden’s T-shirt.

  I really need to stop sleeping in this thing.

  I turn on the shower and go through the motions of getting ready, feeling like a zombie. I think about shaving my legs, but don’t, and wash and sort of dry my hair. So much of it falls out that I have to clean the brush when I’m done. Don’t think about it.

  Pausing for a minute, anticipating the chill in the morning air, I take off my terry-cloth robe and get dressed. I choose a fitted shirt that’s soft against my skin and a well-worn pair of skinny jeans. They used to be tight, but like all my clothes these days, they hang more loosely than intended. I put on socks and pull a thin sweater over my shirt, and there’s a glitter of light reflected in the mirror as I tuck my necklace under my layered tops. I don’t want Becca to see it. I don’t want anybody to see it. Straightening up, I look at my reflection. I’m not going to win any beauty contests, but I’m clean and vertical. I’m going to call it a win.

  I’m pulled back to reality when Becca’s name lights up my phone, and I know it means she’s in the driveway. It’s 7:02 a.m. I sigh and try to stop myself from wondering how the last half hour passed without me noticing. I keep losing time. I take one last look in the mirror, at the skinny version of me with thunderous eyes and a stiff upper lip, and make my way downstairs.

  The kitchen is dark. Before
, my parents would have been awake, ready for the day. Lately, they spend more time sleeping. Or maybe just being alone, together. And it’s not surprising that Judd is still in bed; none of his classes at the community college start before ten. And Remy’s away at Michigan State. Judd was supposed to be there too, but he deferred, choosing to spend his freshman year here with us, taking classes locally. We’ve all sort of coped differently. At first I clung to Braden, but now, after, I isolate myself.

  Navigating through the dark, I walk to the mudroom and swing my school bag over my shoulder, grab my phone off the counter, and make my way outside.

  My feet crunch on the leaves as I walk toward Becca’s silver Focus, and I’m greeted by her trying-too-hard expression when I open the door. It looks like Becca tied her ponytail too tight and she’s smiling through the pain. Except I’m the thing that’s making her tense. She hasn’t given up on me, I guess.

  “Good morning, sunshine!” Only Becca could beam and use words like sunshine while it’s still dark outside. I ignore the absurdity of it, but then I wonder if she’s being sarcastic. I used to pay enough attention to notice when she was messing with me.

  I used to do a lot of things.

  Bec gives me a once-twice-then-three-times-over. She seems pleased. Maybe because I showered? I try not to think of the dirty ponytail I wore for three days before she came over and forced me to wash my hair. I guess the bar is low.

  “Morning, Becs,” I say, trying to act like a normal seventeen-year-old, one who wasn’t up all night replaying every moment with her ex-boyfriend, wondering where it went wrong. One whose room isn’t full of bats.

  The radio is quietly playing some Broadway something, which isn’t surprising but still grates at my nerves. Those big feelings fit perfectly into rhyming lines, neatly concluding at just the right moment.

  Becca reaches over to her cup holder and hands me a steaming to-go mug, then reverses out of my driveway. I watch the gold bracelet, the one that Greg got her for Christmas almost two years ago, slide up and down her arm as she moves. Her eyes don’t quite meet mine. “It’s cocoa coffee.”

  Half hot chocolate, half coffee, cocoa coffee is the best of both worlds: the flavor of the chocolate and the wake-up power of the coffee. We came up with it last winter, during one of our many ACT study sessions.

  “Thanks, Becca.” The warmth feels comforting in my hands, and I take a tentative sip. “It’s exactly what I need, actually.”

  Her high pony sways, like she’s proud that she’s done something right by me. The total joy in it makes me feel awful. Exactly how horrible have I been to her lately?

  She doesn’t say anything. She’s quiet, humming to herself and focusing on the road. I know she’s making a conscious effort to not talk to me. I haven’t exactly been chatty lately. There are too many dangerous questions, and I don’t have any answers.

  At first, Becca would say something, or tell me a story, and I wouldn’t answer. Or I wouldn’t answer right away, or I’d answer with the least possible effort required in order for her not to repeat herself. Now, she just lets me sit in silence. I can feel the fracture in our friendship—and it’s me. I’m the problem.

  I resolve to make an effort. I search for a question to ask her or a way to engage in her life. I work my way out of the dark tunnels in my head and try to find the daylight. It makes my eyes hurt. And I can’t think of anything. When did I run out of things to ask my best friend?

  Stiffly, I turn to her. “So, how are rehearsals going? Has Mrs. Davis had her annual breakdown yet?”

  The minute school starts, so do rehearsals for the Holiday Choir Concert. Mrs. Davis, the choir director, is highly invested in its success. But that’s not really what I want to talk about. It’s not what I’m really saying to her at all. What I’m really saying is something like: I’m so sorry I have been a horrible friend. Please don’t hate me, because I hardly recognize myself, and I don’t feel like I can defend this person who isn’t me. I need you, even though I have been neglecting you. And a promise: I’m going to try harder.

  She turns and looks me right in the eye, like she hears what I can’t say.

  Her body relaxes and she jumps in. “Hads, her freak-out was epic. It was seriously the best one yet. Or, I guess, the worst one, if you’re Mrs. Davis.”

  Becca pauses to see if she still has my attention, to see if it’s still okay to talk about something like this, and when she sees me looking at her expectantly, she continues, “You know how she sometimes acts like she’s kind of hot shit? Like, at the concerts, how she wears those skintight, floor-length skirts with all the sparkle and everything?” She doesn’t give me time to reply; she knows that I know exactly what she means. She clarifies, “Not that I’m one to hate on sparkle. Obviously. But anyway, this year, she jumped right in. Like, honestly, since the first day of school she’s been wearing these super-tight shirts. I mean, Greg and Ty literally haven’t stopped talking about her ‘blouses.’ ” She uses finger quotes with both her hands, leaving the steering wheel vacant. I take a shaky breath. She doesn’t notice.

  “They keep using that word, blouses, which, for some reason, is hilarious to me. Maybe because by definition a blouse is supposed to be loose? But whatever.” She sneaks a glance at me out of the corner of her eye and adds conspiratorially, “Hads, some of them are satin. We’re talking very little left to the imagination. Like, I know exactly where that woman’s belly button is. And she looks good—actually she looks great—but it’s not like she’s twenty-two. She’s got to be in her late fifties, and—” She interrupts herself, “Okay, I know you know that; you don’t have to remind me again that you were in freshman choir. Anyway, she’s testing the boundaries of her tops, and it’s sort of distracting for the class.”

  I look at her, wondering when she got so good at having one-sided conversations. I nod. “Yeah, got it. She’s showing off.” God, that sounds so weak. But I can’t think of anything to add. I try to make my face look encouraging.

  She smiles and then immediately looks guilty, like she should have gotten permission or something. A knot forms in my stomach. “So anyway,” Becca continues hesitantly, trying to break the awkwardness, “Mrs. Davis is all worked up and wearing one of those blouses, and she stopped us during ‘Carol of the Bells’ because she didn’t think we were e-nun-ci-a-ting clearly enough. She’s, like, shaking her arms around and getting all mad, saying that she needs to hear ‘crisp consonants,’ and in the middle of a wild arm gesture, the top three buttons of her blouse popped right off her shirt!” Becca bursts out laughing, like there’s part of her that’s still surprised that this really happened.

  I find a bit of amusement. It’s dull and distant, but present nonetheless. “No way,” I answer. “What did she do?”

  “Well, she said ‘Oh my goodness!’, put her hands over her chest—which is not small, I will remind you—and ran out of the room. But not before we all got to see her totally sexy bra. Like, the kind of bra that’s superitchy and you only wear for somebody. It was red, lacy, and kind of…” She pauses for dramatic effect. “See-through.”

  “Oh my god!” I can’t help but react to that.

  “It was dead silent when it happened, and then the room exploded with laughter when she left. Nobody could believe it. Part of me thinks: serves her right for being such a show-off.” Becca glances at me from the corner of her eye; her preppy wardrobe doesn’t allow for such scandalous pieces. Then she laughs and adds fairly, “But the other part of me kind of thinks: good for her for working that sexy bra! I mean, she’s been married forever.”

  I make a little fist pump to support the Go Girl side as Becca turns left onto our school’s street. I kind of love that she subscribes to the If You’ve Got It, Flaunt It philosophy.

  Becca continues, “So she came back a few minutes later with a sweater buttoned up to her chin. It was pretty funny. But really,
none of us knew what to do! Just pretend it never happened? She still yelled at us throughout the entire rest of the class, so I guess she wasn’t too fazed, but I just kept picturing those flying buttons.”

  I shake my head. I can feel the grin stretch across my face, foreign but welcome. “I guess she does get pretty into it when she’s conducting.”

  “And, get this—I took it to the next level. The other day, I found online basically the exact same bra she was wearing, and I ordered it.” She pauses. “I know, shocking.” She continues, “It should be here in the next couple days, and I cannot wait to surprise Greg with it. I’m going to try to reenact the whole scene. I have this button-up shirt that’s way too small—totally shrunk in the wash; it’s pastel purple…so I guess it’s going to clash, but who cares? He is going to literally die!”

  She hears it at the same time I do. With that one word, the comfortable bubble we had created bursts. Reality comes pouring in, like water on a sinking ship.

  Neither of us speaks.

  It’s strange how I never realized before how often people, myself included, make light of death in casual conversation. I had never considered the words before. At sixteen, I hadn’t really thought about death. But now, it seems to creep around every corner, pawing and pulling at the people I love most.

  We’re both still frozen with the word die hovering around us. It’s like a neon, light-up sign pointing right at my head. Except that nobody did die—certainly not me—so I wish it would stop pointing at me like that. I don’t want to be a beacon for near-death.

  She backpedals. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Everyone is okay. I repeat it in my head to make sure I believe it. My mind flashes an image of Braden, beaten up and bruised. And then I see long, dark strands of hair falling onto a white tile floor. I cast the mental pictures away. I can’t let this win.