The Thinnest Air

by Minka Kent

“How’re you holding up? I’m refreshing CNN like crazy, just waiting for some kind of breaking development or something. The whole world’s watching right now, you know that? It’s crazy. Everyone is looking for her.”

  “I didn’t know that.” I yawn, stretching across the foot of the bed, eyelids heavy. “Been trying to stay away from the media. There’s nothing they know that I don’t already know, and their headlines will just upset me.”

  “Wise.” I hear him walking around in the background, pots and pans clinking like he’s just fixed himself dinner. I’ll bet he worked late tonight. “You’re better off anyway.”

  Rolling to my side, I reach for a downy pillow and tuck it under my head, wrapping my free arm around it and wishing more than ever that Harris were here. I could use someone warm and something real to cling to. A true sounding board who’s not caught up in frivolous emotions. Harris never lets his feelings cloud his judgment, and that’s something I’ve always admired about him.

  Ten years ago, I was the girl who was angry at the world, tattooing her resentment on her body and fucking any man who looked like he was a bad idea because it was the only thing that distracted me from the pain of a dysfunctional adolescence.

  Then Harris showed up—a cool drink of water to quell the raging inferno inside. What he saw in me I’ll never know, but meeting him changed everything. He showed me what it felt like to be loved by a man—a foreign concept to me up to that point. And he showed me that, contrary to my hardened beliefs, I did have a softer side.

  It was just buried beneath all the hard.

  “You’re hanging in there, though?” he asks. “I’m worried about you.”

  He doesn’t elaborate.

  He doesn’t need to.

  He’s known from the beginning how protective I am of my little sister. How I’ve always felt she was my responsibility. When we first met, he told me I had boundary issues and that I wasn’t Meredith’s mother. I told him he’d never grown up with Brenda Ambrose.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I say, neglecting to tell him how happy it makes me to hear that he’s thinking of me and my well-being. He might be the only person I have who gives a rat’s ass.

  “You want me to come out there? To Utah?” he asks. “I feel so helpless over here. Feels wrong sitting back and doing nothing.”

  I wish I could reach through the phone, wrap my arms around his shoulders, breathe in his coffee-and-faded-cologne scent, and never let him go.

  “You want to help? Stay in the city,” I say. “You need to keep the business running so I can afford to be here looking for my sister.”

  Now that my sister’s whereabouts are unknown, I’ve got no business banking on a good faith loan from her trust to keep us going these next few months.

  “Fair enough.”

  “I’m turning in.” I pull the phone from my face, checking the time as if it matters. My body’s running the show, and right now I can barely keep my eyes open.

  “Call me,” he says. “I mean, I know you’re busy, but keep me in the loop, okay? I know your sister and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but this . . . this is terrifying. And I care about her. Shit, I’ve known her for ten years now. She’s practically family, even if you and I . . .”

  “I know.” I don’t let him finish his thought. The last thing I need is another reminder that we’re not together anymore. “I’ll call you more. There are actually some things I wanted to run past you, but I’m way too fucking tired to even think straight.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He sounds disappointed.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. Keep your phone on you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Night,” I say, sliding my thumb across the glass screen.

  “Greer?” he asks.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this week,” he says. “And I can’t stop asking myself what if it were you? What if something happened, and you were ripped out of my life and I had no idea if I was going to see you again? And I’ve been thinking about how I’d feel if I lost you. If I woke up tomorrow, and I couldn’t see you again.”

  I’m listening.

  “It’s really just . . . stirring up all of these feelings . . . and I think . . .” He pauses, his silence lasting far too long. “I don’t want to be apart anymore.”

  I release the breath I’ve been harboring, soaking in his words and replaying them in my mind a handful of times before questioning if I heard him correctly or if I’m dreaming. For all I know, I’m fast asleep, wishing he were saying these words.

  It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had this dream.

  “You still there?” he asks.

  “Can we talk more about this when I’m home?” I ask. “After I find my sister?”

  I know Harris, and though he’s a devoted feminist, he’s still a man. And I’ve yet to know a single red-blooded man who doesn’t like the thrill of the chase. If I told him I never stopped loving him, that I wanted to be with him again, I’d look pathetic. And I don’t want him to think all he has to do is snap his fingers and I’ll be back by his side—even if that’s true.

  I may be hopelessly imprinted on this man, but I’m not stupid.

  “Absolutely.” He exhales. “Good night, G . . . I love you.”

  CHAPTER 13

  MEREDITH

  Twenty-Seven Months Ago

  The parking lot of the Ridgewood Heights community center is filled mostly with shiny Lincolns and Buicks, and a group of white-haired, Lululemon-wearing women make their way to the main entrance.

  I didn’t want to come here, but Allison insisted. And after that note on my car yesterday, I wasn’t able to sleep last night. Every little sound, every flash of a headlight outside our windows sent a breath-capturing kick start to my heart while Andrew slept soundly to my left. At one point, I bit my lip and tapped Andrew on the shoulder, whispering in his ear that I thought I heard something, but his face scrunched, and he mumbled for me to go back to sleep.

  Taking my gym duffel from my back seat, I fling it over my shoulder and make my way inside.

  Ronan is in the front of the room, standing before a wall of mirrors chatting with a couple of the women, while another guy sets up rows upon rows of blue and red wrestling mats. The detective wears charcoal-gray sweats low on his hips and a white T-shirt with GLACIER PARK POLICE printed along the chest in bold black font.

  It doesn’t take more than a minute before he spots me, though I imagine I’m sticking out like a sore thumb among all these retirees. Ridgewood Heights is a mecca for the nonworking well-to-do, and most of the female residents are former stay-at-home moms who read too many crime books and never miss an episode of Dateline. Not to mention that old people with excessive wealth tend to be on the paranoid side. I’m not surprised they insisted on a self-defense class.

  “You can never be too prepared anymore,” I overhear one of them saying. “Just yesterday, there was a strange man going door-to-door in our neighborhood. Said he was selling pest control services, but Nancy thinks he just wanted to scope out the place, see if we had anything worth stealing. Flat-screen televisions and MP3 players, that sort of thing.”

  “That’s how it happens,” her friend says. “Can’t trust anyone anymore.”

  “Meredith.” Ronan approaches me, his mouth pulling up at the sides like he’s forgotten, momentarily, that we met under less than ideal circumstances. “Glad you could make it.”

  I let my bag drop. “Figured it couldn’t hurt.”

  “My assistant called in sick tonight,” he says. “She pulled a hamstring at kickboxing or something. You mind filling in?”

  “I wouldn’t even know how—”

  “Nah. I just do the moves on you so everyone else can see,” he says. “You’ll learn as you go. All you have to do is stand there and follow my directives.”

  Glancing around the room, I realize almost everyone is already paired up.

  “Yeah, sure.” My shoulders lift and fall
, and I try my best not to picture his hands on my body.

  He smiles again. “All right, cool. Head up front. We’ll be starting in about five minutes.”

  Ronan leaves, making rounds and chatting with his attendees. They all adore him, telling him he looks like their grandsons and asking if he’d be interested in being “fixed up” with someone when he tells them he’s single.

  He’s single.

  When he returns to the front of the room, his gaze finds mine. He speaks to the class, but he’s looking at me. And when he reaches out, wrapping his hand around my wrist and pulling me closer, my heart gallops, and my skin tingles.

  It’s not his fault.

  He’s doing nothing wrong.

  It’s all me.

  I’m the broken one.

  I’m the one who married some big-moneyed older man on a whim despite the warnings of my sister and best friends. They said I was too young, that I needed to find myself first before I settled with the first man who presented me with a blazing, oversize diamond ring.

  But I was in love.

  I still am—I think.

  It’s just that that love has lost a bit of luster over the last several months. The newness is wearing off. It was bound to happen—I just didn’t expect it to happen this soon.

  Anyway, I don’t know if it’s possible to love my husband and feel butterflies when another man looks at me, but it’s exactly what’s happening, and I haven’t the slightest clue how to stop it.

  “All right, let’s get started, shall we?” Ronan claps his hands, rubbing his palms together as he scans the room. “Tonight we’re going to go over six Krav Maga techniques that are going to help you fend off a physical attack.” He paces in front of me. “First one. Open hand strike.” He slips his hand around mine once more, turning me to face him. “We’re going to focus on vulnerable areas. The head. The throat. The neck—front and back. You get the point.” His hands mock-strike me, keeping a safe distance. “This is very simple, girls. If you can push, you can punch.”

  Ronan steps away from me, retrieving a kick pad from a nearby table and asking me to hold it up.

  “We’re going to strike with the heel of our hand,” he says. “And lean in, steady on your feet. Pivot. Drive the energy forward. Like this.”

  His strikes come at me, and I block them with the pad. He winks, tossing me an approving smirk.

  Are we . . . are we having fun?

  “Okay, now I want you guys to try.” Ronan turns to the class, hooking his hands on his hips as he makes rounds. When he returns a few minutes later, he hands me an ice-cold bottle of water.

  “I haven’t even broken a sweat,” I say, uncapping it.

  He’s thoughtful. I like that.

  “Not yet, you haven’t.” He turns to the class once more. “Moving on. Groin kicks.”

  Some of the women in the back chuckle, proving that kicking men in the balls can be humorous at any age.

  Good to know for future reference.

  “Groin kicks are going to let you keep your distance. If someone’s getting too close to you, this allows you to counterattack and leave.” Ronan demonstrates on me before taking the kick pad and asking me to do the honors.

  Ronan demonstrates a few more moves on me. I try my hardest to pay attention, but I’m so distracted by . . . everything. His voice, his deftness, his confidence, his passion. The way he commands the room.

  And when he lets his touch linger a little too long on my hip, I can’t be entirely sure if I’m imagining it or not.

  When class finishes, I grab my duffel and head for the exit while Ronan’s caught up in conversation with a circle of women who make no effort to hide their innocent infatuation.

  I’m glad it’s not me. Everyone finds him charming.

  “Meredith, wait up,” he calls in front of the gabbing ladies. “I need to talk to you before you go.”

  One of the women lifts her brows and nudges her friend. They smile, watching the two of us like it’s something special in the making.

  Feet planted, I wait for him to approach me. Taking a swig of water and grabbing a small towel to wipe his brow, he maintains eye contact with me, and when he finally makes it over, there’s a familiar gleam in his deep chocolate eyes.

  I’ve seen it before.

  Men see me, they get this look on their face. It’s like a lion stalking a gazelle, planning their approach, clearly interested. It’s like I provoke something in them. Something on a primal level.

  “You want to grab a coffee?” he asks.

  I don’t answer right away. Every part of me is screaming, No, no, no. This is a bad idea. Don’t do it. Don’t go down this path.

  But there’s something about human nature that makes us shameless opportunists. We stumble across a chance, experience the tiniest taste of something we want, and we can’t say no.

  We literally can’t say no.

  “Um. Okay.” This is bad. This is very, very bad. I’m going to hell.

  “There’s a place right next door,” he says. “Best coffee you’ll ever have in your life.”

  “Is that true?” I fight a smirk.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been there.” His mouth pulls wide, and my gaze lands on a perfect row of pearly whites flanked by two of the deepest dimples I’ve ever seen.

  Ronan’s dark hair is styled into a fresh crew cut, his skin creamy, clear, and smooth, with a slight flush on his cheeks.

  In an irrational flicker of a second, I imagine a life by his side. It’s an innocent little daydream. He and I on road trips, backpacking through Europe, hiking with a Bernese mountain dog in tow. In my reverie, I’m not wearing designer dresses and a full face of makeup, and he can’t keep his hands off me. And he loves me just the way I am. I don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not because he can’t get enough of the person I already am.

  I follow him outside, waiting as he hits the lights and locks the door to the community center, and we amble toward a little shop called the Peaceful Bean. The sign is hand-painted in crooked lettering. If Greer ever saw it, she’d have a fit. Such a perfectionist. But from the outside, the place seems defiantly unpretentious—which is shocking in a town like Ridgewood Heights.

  Ronan gets the door, following me to the register, and I order myself a London Fog, for which he insists on paying.

  We find a quiet corner in the back of the shop, behind a tall bookcase filled with games like Scrabble, Monopoly, and Sorry!

  “You doing okay?” he asks after our drinks arrive a minute later. “With the incident and everything? You don’t seem as shaken up about it as you were yesterday.”

  I lift my mug to my lips. “Guess I do a good job of hiding it. See these dark circles?” I point beneath my eyes, where I’m sure my concealer has worn off. “I didn’t sleep at all last night. Tossed and turned. Kept hearing things, little noises in the house.”

  “Your mind was playing tricks on you,” he says. “It’s common after a traumatic event.” Ronan glances around the near-vacant shop before returning his attention to me. “It’s good you came to class tonight. If anyone tries to mess with you, you’ll be prepared. Peace of mind is priceless.”

  “You think that stalker guy is going to mess with me?”

  He shrugs. “No way of knowing. Violence is either spontaneous or premeditated. If you’re prepared, what’s it matter?”

  I sip my drink once more.

  “The thing with stalkers—if that’s what we’re dealing with here—is that their motivations and how far they take things are usually determined by how they interpret your behavior and reactions,” he says. “You just never know, Meredith. You’re not dealing with sane people here. They don’t think the way we do. They’re not driven by the same things we are.”

  “What do I do if it happens again? If he leaves another note?”

  “You call me right away,” he says without hesitation. “I’ll be there immediately. I want to catch this bastard.”

  His w
illingness to serve and protect is refreshing, especially when I compare it to Andrew’s immediate reaction yesterday, which was to shrug, sip his wine, and remind me that we have a state-of-the-art security system and an abundance of phones wired in every room of the house should I need to dial 911. It was only after I began obsessing over every little sound, every parked car in the street outside our home, that he began checking on me more, but only ever at his convenience.

  He never did call me back after I left a message at his office.

  Ronan seems agitated for a second, shaking his head. “Sorry. I get a little worked up when men feel the need to terrorize innocent women. Stalking is about fear. And obsession. And control. He’s a fucking coward if you ask me.”

  “I appreciate you going above and beyond with all this,” I say. “My husband doesn’t really think anything’s going to happen.”

  His gaze falls to my left hand. “Husband?”

  “Yeah,” I say, realizing I wasn’t wearing my ring yesterday because of yoga, and I made sure to leave it at home again before coming to the self-defense class. It’s flashy and sharp and would only get in the way or cut someone. “Been married nine months now.”

  “Newlyweds.”

  I trace my finger around the top of my mug, avoiding eye contact as I wallow in shame. Every time I drink a London Fog after this, I’m going to find myself reliving this moment, being here with another man to whom I’m wildly attracted while my husband sits at home.

  The tingle in my stomach has no business being there. Neither does the warmth flooding my cheeks.

  Now I’m not sure what to say, and wallowing in this awkward silence makes it that much more painful for the both of us.

  Staring at my half-empty tea, I push it toward the center of the table. “I’m sorry. I should get going.”

  He bites his lower lip, wincing a little. He doesn’t have to say he’s disappointed. It’s written all over him.

  “Thanks again,” I say, rising. I tug my long blonde hair out of my messy ponytail and redo it before gathering my things. “And thanks for the tea.”

  He stands, his height towering over me as I come almost face-to-face with his muscled chest and broad shoulders. Even after rolling around on the mats, his vetiver-and-bergamot cologne still permeates the air, intensifying from the warmth of his skin.