Every Breath You Take

by Bianca Sloane

  Why Didn’t?

  The collective hopes and dreams of Braxton had crunched up into that tiny ball of metal along with Ricky and Laura Scott. They would not be cheering their hometown hero on TV every Sunday as they’d done every Saturday during his storied college career and every Friday night the year he made All-State. Their bragging rights would no longer be laced with the pride of having known Ricky when but, rather, tinged with melancholy over having known Ricky when. Their piteous looks would come to be cast Natalie’s way anytime they saw the orphaned little girl around town. The tsk-tsking and hangdog expressions. It had become as familiar to Natalie as air.

  At first, she stayed with her maternal grandparents, with frequent visits from her paternal grandparents. The four showered Natalie with kisses, hugs, and attention, hoping somehow to make up for the tragedy and erase the “Why Didn’ts?” The situation had been fine, though she could never shake the pervasive loneliness that dropped on top of her like a pile of bricks. Her grandparents gave her a nice, solid life. No frills. No fuss. No muss.

  But the inevitable happened when Natalie was seven. In rapid succession she lost her grandparents one by one: cancer, stroke, heart attack, dementia.

  Which left Zach and Cheryl.

  In the early years following Ricky’s death, news reporters would come knocking on Zach Scott’s door, the eternal shame of the family, persona non grata with his parents and forever shrouded in the shadow of his handsome, popular, star quarterback brother. They were hoping for sugary nostalgia from the older brother of the football idol. What they got were drunken ramblings and profane tirades about the charmed life his brother led, even in death. It wasn’t long before people got tired of hearing Zach’s broken record of his sad, pitiful life. Soon, reporters no longer cared what he thought, preferring instead to seek out the fond reminisces of coaches, fellow players, and childhood friends.

  Through the years, Natalie had to cope with Zach’s rage against the last living reminder of his brother’s superiority—her. She’d fought to keep from crumbling underneath the inevitable reliving of her father’s would-be legacy and the infinite stream of stories musing about “the best that should have been.” She’d always avoided being a part of the retrospectives celebrating the legendary Ricky Scott, turning down the interview offers from eager reporters and slick sports show producers to “share what she knew” about her “famous father” with a terse “no, thank you.” As a result, her presence in these stories was limited to “the infant daughter they left behind, now working as a PR manager in Chicago, who declined to participate in this program/be interviewed for this story.” What could she possibly say? That the sense of loss had never gone away and had colored practically every aspect of her life since? That there had been times when she’d been angry at her parents for dying, shame immediately washing over her for having such selfish, ugly thoughts? That it was one of the many reasons she was so afraid to get close to anyone, afraid that if she blinked, just like her parents, they’d be gone, too?

  She heard her phone beep from inside her purse.

  hey natalie, had a great time tonight think we really hit it off call me sometime – R

  “On what planet does he think we ‘hit it off?’” she muttered to herself. She bit her lip and stared at the phone for a few moments. Why couldn’t Jason Hudson’s number have been on the other end of a text message asking her to call him sometime?

  They’d talked once since lunch, a hurried exchange where he apologized for not calling sooner; he was rushing out of town on business for a few days but threw out an invitation to dinner upon his return, dropping the promise of a call before their date.

  Didn’t he get back a few days ago?

  She fished her keys out of her purse and smiled at the doorman as he opened the door for her, trying not to get ahead of herself. Jason was busy. A big bank VP—took a lot of business trips. Was probably dating a few other girls (maybe even a lot of other girls. A harem. He had a harem). He’d probably forgotten he’d even asked her out again. Maybe he’d forgotten all about her, period. She sighed to herself as she emptied her mailbox of a stack of bills and this month’s People magazine before boarding the elevator for home, wishing now she’d never met him, save herself from the neurotic, masochistic musings that masqueraded as dating.

  Natalie kicked off her shoes and groaned as she walked through the front door, dropping the mail on her tiny dining room table before taking off her suit jacket and letting it drape across the back of her couch. She poured herself a glass of chardonnay and stepped out onto the tiny balcony, the city roaring beneath her as she took a tiny sip of wine.

  She heard the loud jangle of her phone from inside her purse and her heart leapt, hoping. . .

  She cleared her throat as she ran inside to grab the phone, trying to stay calm, her insides already runny with anticipation. Longing.

  She smiled when she saw it was his number. She held one hand to her chest and took a deep breath.

  “Hello?” she said, her heart booming beneath her palm.

  “Natalie? Hey, it’s Jason.”

  “Oh, hi. How are you?”

  “I’m all right. Hey, listen—sorry it’s taken me a while to get back to you, but things have been crazy since I got back to town. But uh . . . just know that I’ve been thinking about you.”

  She tried to keep the smile off her face as she flopped down on the couch. “That’s funny. I’ve been thinking about you, too.”

  Chapter 8

  HE

  Another big red “X.”

  Another day done.

  Another day closer.

  He smiled to himself as he looked at the calendar, the days, weeks, and months shrinking down to infinity, down to the days, weeks, and months when he would have her all to himself.

  He sat down to his weekly arts and crafts project, humming to himself as he edged the scissors around the glossy edge of the photograph, flakes of photo paper floating to the wobbly card table like confetti. He finished cutting the photo and leaned back to admire his work. She was on her way to the gym, her eyes tucked behind gigantic sunglasses, her customary serious expression shading the lower half of her face. He clipped it to the clothesline running from one end of the room to the other, then stood back to examine the fluttering menagerie of ovals, squares, and misshapen figurines, happy as always to have another prize for his collection.

  He sometimes surprised himself with how good his photography skills had become, slowly progressing from grainy messes on disposable cameras to learning how to use a telephoto lens during those days when he had all that time on his hands. It was like his daddy always said—practice makes perfect.

  At first, he’d tried keeping his library of photographs on his computer and then CDs, but he just didn’t get the same pleasure from scrolling through static images as he did from touching the glossy pictures. He loved the heft of the stacks of photos in his hand, the way the light caught the paper, the feel of his palm sliding across the smooth laminate of her face, almost as if he could feel her moving, smiling, talking beneath his fingertips. You just couldn’t get that sensation on a computer screen.

  He’d memorized every line, every smile, every crinkle of her eyes, every scrunch of her nose. Sometimes, he would notice some new detail that had previously escaped his attention. The presence of a pimple, a pinprick of lighter skin on the back of one hand, a poppy seed stuck in one tooth. He found these imperfections charming. Not that he thought anything about her was imperfect.

  He ran his finger in a straight line across the photos as he walked from one end of the room to the other, his eyes never even blinking. He couldn’t help himself.

  He never got tired of looking at her.

  Chapter 9

  SHE

  “So is it just me, or is this kind of weird?”

  Natalie was pacing her apartment, something she often did when talking on the phone. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, when you think about it, we hav
en’t spent that much time together.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “Okay, let me start over,” he said. “I think that first lunch we had probably counted as five conversations in one day. And then when we went to dinner on Saturday, that was definitely like ten conversations, at least.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, and we met up for coffee—well, you had tea, I had coffee—on Sunday afternoon, and that had to be like another five conversations.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “It’s just, I feel like either we only have the same five stories in our repertoire, or we’re getting to know each other really well, really fast.”

  “Umm . . . I’m gonna say we just have the same five stories.”

  “Huh,” he said. “You’re probably right.”

  Natalie looked at the clock on her microwave. “Whoa. It’s twelve-thirty.”

  “Damn. What time did I call you?”

  “Nine, I think?”

  “Huh . . . doesn’t even seem like it.”

  “Well, as much as I’m enjoying hearing all about your theories on why you don’t believe in umbrellas, refuse to eat chicken on the bone, and why you pinch your nose every time you see an ambulance, I have to get going. I’ve got a long day tomorrow,” she said.

  He laughed. “I’m strange, huh?”

  “A little,” she giggled. “Okay, a lot. But hey, we all have our hang-ups.”

  “I like to think I’m eccentric. You know, wired differently.”

  “That you are. At any rate, I dare you to bust out an umbrella next time it rains. Or eat a chicken wing. Or let an ambulance go by without touching your nose,” she said, laughing. “And when you do, let me know if the world came to an end.”

  “Listen, I’m an old man. I don’t change my ways so easily.”

  “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Just turned thirty-five in May. Like I said, old man.”

  “Oh, come on, that’s not old,” she said. “Sixty is old. Seventy is old.”

  “Would you still go out with me if I was seventy?”

  She hesitated and they both laughed. “So, I’ve got this thing tomorrow night for work, and if it’s not too late, I’ll call you afterward,” he said.

  “Okay, sure.”

  “All right. Talk then. Good night.”

  “Bye,” she said softly before reluctantly hanging up the phone. She sighed, that warm, woozy feeling she got every time she talked to Jason, oozing across her skin.

  Natalie changed into a pair of shorts and a tank top and did her usual nighttime routine before she slid into bed. She turned over on her side to sleep.

  It was no use.

  Natalie flopped onto her back, slipping into that frenetic space between exhaustion and exhilaration. A weak moan escaped her lips, the memory of his recently realized kisses skipping across her mind. Soft. Sweet. Warm. Toe-curling. Mind-blowing. Panty-dropping.

  The apartment was quiet except for the odd creaks of the walls and random groans of the pipes, the faint sounds of cars and buses from the street below. She replayed every detail of their conversation: work (busy for them both); favorite foods (Italian was her favorite, though he loved Thai, which she avoided since she was allergic to peanuts); last book read (she’d just finished this year’s Pulitzer Prize winner for fiction, he’d just started a business bestseller); favorite restaurants. His questions, her answers. Her questions, his answers.

  She liked him . . . really liked him.

  He could be It.

  It . . . that mythical thing she’d been searching for her whole life that had eluded her grasp. It was more than being cute or funny or holding the door open for her or just being a nice guy. It was sharp . . . smart . . . confident . . . fun . . . funny. It would be her rock, her biggest cheerleader, and her most steady confidant. It would be her partner. It would have her same ambition and drive, her innate desire to succeed. It wouldn’t demand she forgo her dreams and desires and bend herself to its will.

  Sweet, funny, eccentric Jason. Sharp, smart, confident Jason.

  He could be It.

  “Just tell them what they want to hear.”

  Man, you’ve been going about this all wrong. All that screaming and crying and carrying on you’ve been doing—that ain’t gonna get you shit. Naw, naw, man, you got to play the game. If you really want to get out of here, you got to make them think that you swallowing all this shit they’ve been spoon-feeding you about, uh, “understanding your actions,” and, uh, “knowing there are severe consequences” and that you got to learn how to “control your impulses.”

  Man, fuck all that noise.

  You want to get out of here? Tell them what they want to hear. That’s it. That’s the secret.

  Just tell them what they want to hear.

  Flynn’s advice, dispensed over a rousing round of dominoes on game day—held every Tuesday—rolled around his head like a tumbleweed. Flynn, an imposing six foot wall of concrete with broken patches of white stubble littering the edges of his face, had finally interrupted his daily ravings to offer him some words of wisdom and friendship, both of which he was grateful for.

  Being locked up in here for all these years—he couldn’t stand it anymore. She was out there, without him. He couldn’t make them understand they were standing in the way of true love. They were too stupid to grasp it. He’d tried reasoning with them, screaming it at the top of his lungs, crying about it even, out of sheer desperation.

  Well, that all ended today. Flynn was right, of course. He’d done this all wrong, all backward. He’d given them too much credit.

  He thought about his doctor, a stern, pale string bean of a woman with her tight grey topknot, thick glasses, and chronic frown. She was probably what mama used to call an “old maid.” He’d bet anything she sure as hell never had a man in love with her, no man willing to go to the ends of the earth for her. Hell, if that was crazy, that was fine with him. Tell him he was crazy all damn day long.

  Dr. Wexler swept into the room on a cloud of tuna fish and Diet Coke. That sour and sweet scent bled from her pores. Like maybe she bathed in it or something. Sometimes he wanted to ask her to take a Tic Tac before she met with him. Or change it up and try eating a salad or something. Drink some iced tea. Something. Then he wouldn’t have to breathe through his mouth every damn time he saw her.

  “So,” she said, tapping her blue felt pen against the surprisingly thick manila folder she balanced in her lap, her faint German accent trilling against his ears. Was that whole file about him? “How are we today?”

  “Fine,” he nodded. He hated when people said that. How are we today. How the hell was he supposed to know how “we” were doing? He could only worry about his damn self.

  And Natalie, of course. Always, Natalie.

  Dr. Wexler screwed up her face, like she had sucked on a lemon and couldn’t quite decide if she liked its tart marrow. “When we met last week, you indicated you were still having rather provocative dreams about Natalie. What about this week? Are you still dreaming about her?”

  He swallowed and rubbed his hands together. Another stupid question. Of course he was. He dreamt about her every sleeping hour and thought about her every waking hour.

  Tell them what they want to hear.

  “You know, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t. I mean, not this week. What do you think that means?”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “That maybe . . . I’m finally starting to . . . let go.”

  Dr. Wexler scribbled something in her notes and nodded. “Oh, yes, yes, yes. That is progress. Now. When you think about Natalie right now, right this moment, what are you thinking?”

  He couldn’t tell her what he was really thinking, which was to wonder what she was doing right at this moment. Was she eating? What was she eating? What was she drinking? Was she by herself? Was she eating with other people? What was she wearing? Pants? A skirt? High-heeled shoes or flats? What kind of perfum
e was she wearing? How was she wearing her hair? Was it long? Was it short? Was she talking? Was she listening? Was she laughing? Was she sad?

  Whenever he’d said any of those things, the corners of the doctor’s mouth would push themselves down into rigid little curlicues and she would shake her head and tell him he was obsessing. She would draw the word out on a long string—obbseeeesssing, with a little hiss. Then she would sigh and make a notation in his chart.

  “I think maybe . . . maybe what you’ve been saying all this time is right. That I have to start accepting that. . .” he hung his head down. “That I can’t have Natalie.”

  He wanted to laugh. Oh, he’d have Natalie. He’d have her. Draw that out on a string.

  The curlicues turned themselves upward, like the ends of a handlebar mustache, and he could only imagine what Dr. Wexler was scrawling in his file now. Probably something like “breakthrough.”

  Dr. Wexler clasped her hands together. “Good, good. Very good! Now. Let’s talk about what that means.”

  He licked his lips and tried to keep the smile off his face.

  Just tell them what they want to hear.

  Chapter 10

  SHE

  Natalie popped a piece of gum in her mouth, relishing the crack of the hard, red shell as she bit into the spicy cinnamon square. If there was anything better, she hadn’t found it.

  She headed back to the full-length bedroom mirror to fuss with her hair a few more times and for reassurances that her outfit—skinny white jeans, snug black t-shirt, large silver hoop earrings—struck the cute, casual, not-trying-too-hard vibe she was going for and that she didn’t need to add a sixteenth wardrobe change to the pile. She turned to examine her image from all sides, satisfied she’d hit her mark. Jason would be coming any minute with his prized DVD of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off—his favorite Chicago movie and one she’d never seen. It would also be the first time he’d been to her place and her nerves were purring beneath her skin. She ambled back to the living room and let her eyes sweep across it for the hundredth time, trying to see her home through his eyes.