Breathe Again

by Bonnie R. Paulson

  “Yep. Out early this morning, supposed to be yesterday, but it doesn’t matter now. I’m free.” He looked past me to my multiple bags piled high. “Are you preparing for a war or something?”

  “No, my fridge is empty, literally, and since I’m off work for the next few weeks—” I shrugged, “—I decided to stock up, try some new recipes.”

  “I bet your boyfriend’s pretty excited.” He glanced pointedly at my naked left hand.

  Wow, most people knew about Dean’s death. I hadn’t been asked that in so long—the answer seemed glaringly obvious—how did I respond without going into details that he didn’t need to hear and I didn’t want to share? I hesitated. Ryan only asked about a boyfriend. I covered my discomfiture with a matter-of-fact demeanor. “Nope. No boyfriend. Just me.”

  To make matters worse, a boot scraped on asphalt behind me. I sighed, ignoring my radar. Ryan watched me closely.

  He smiled apologetically before speaking to his brother over my shoulder. “Anything good?”

  Brodan held up the bag and rounded the nose of the truck. He climbed into the driver’s side and stared pointedly ahead.

  Ryan watched him, appearing somewhat dumbfounded. He turned to me and rolled his eyes. “Obviously we need to get going.” As if the thought suddenly occurred to him, although I could tell it hadn’t, he exclaimed, “Hey! If you’re not doing anything this afternoon, you should swing by.”

  I stole a peek at Brodan, whose knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. His jaw clenched and unclenched. “You know, it might be better if—”

  “Yeah, she’s probably too busy, Ry. Let’s get going.” Brodan turned the key in the ignition and the diesel engine roared.

  The insufferable bast—Wait, he doesn’t want me there…Well, then, there I will be.

  The breeze blew the pungent exhaust in my direction. Ryan, crestfallen, seemed like a little kid who’d been hoping for a present from Santa Claus, then found out he wasn’t real. Poor guy. He looked like he needed a friend even more than I did. Why couldn’t the brother see it too?

  “Actually—” I raised my voice over the thunder of the truck as obstinate and manner-less as its owner, “—I was going to say, it might be better if, instead of just swinging by, I brought you dinner.” My lips curved. “You did just get out of the hospital. Maybe you’re sick of cardboard food?”

  Refusing to see if my words affected Brodan, I watched Ryan’s face light up. Suddenly, I was as excited as he looked. I could use a friend. Without Dean, the moment, hanging over us. Filling his thoughts with pity.

  “Really? That’d be great!” He pulled a cell phone from somewhere behind the door panel. “Give me your number and I’ll call you in a little bit with directions.” He punched the numbers in as I gave them. “Thanks, Maggie. This’ll be fun.”

  Brodan shifted the truck into gear and started pulling away. Ryan and I met each other’s gazes and laughed.

  I waved and they drove off.

  Brodan could sure be an ass. At least the evening wouldn’t have him in it. Ryan and I could hang out without the distraction of Brodan’s stiff back keeping me on edge.

  On the road, my thoughts returned inexorably to the brothers. Brodan’s PMS mood swings confused me. A jerk in the room, again in the cafeteria, then thoughtfully handing me napkins, a jerk again in the room, distant but not quite rude in the store and unpleasant again at the truck. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Maybe he had an unfortunate history with steroids. He certainly had the muscles for it. Not ripped or vein-protruding, but defined. With his shirt off, I bet—

  Okay, enough of that.

  I parked in my driveway and tried to picture what Ryan’s place looked like.

  He seemed to be an inside sort with his pale skin. The type who worked on computers and could wire a house by schematics. Maybe he lived in an apartment or smaller house. He most likely didn’t own a large piece of property to work…maybe just a quaint front yard. His hands didn’t appear to have ever been exposed to oil, dirt or hard labor.

  The chore of emptying my van passed quickly.

  In the kitchen, my thoughts turned to the upcoming evening. It’d been so long since I cooked for anyone. I withdrew a trusted cookbook from the cupboard above the stove. Placing it on the table, I returned to the fridge for a yogurt. I was hungry, but I opted to eat light since I was making a huge feast for dinner. I hadn’t had a good solid meal in a long time. A person could ignore an empty stomach for only so long.

  Careful not to spill my yogurt, I plopped into the chair by the cookbook. Its cover, faded and scratched, so familiar without being heartbreaking, a warm blanket on a cold night.

  I ran my fingers over the well-worn spine and then opened the cover. My mother had bought it for me when I turned twelve. The pictures, glossy and bright, like a family photo album.

  I flipped to a page in the Italian section, dog-eared and marked with notations.

  Always easy to impress with, the lasagna had been altered to fit my ideas of what lasagna should taste like—to put it bluntly, less pasta, more everything else. Irish girls should stick to meat and potatoes. Bull. It’s only a line my dad loves to use.

  I sat back from the book to relax and enjoy my strawberry breakfast in a cup. With something to do, I hoped the day would go by fast.

  Ryan. The trickster. His house was huge and sat on an extremely large parcel of property. Double-checking the address on the gate, I willed my jaw to return to its normal place. I couldn’t see the end of the split-rail fencing.

  Rancher-style, the home sprawled at the end of the long driveway like welcoming arms. A large wraparound porch adorned the house like a hoop skirt, the roof overhang keeping the private items secret, while the early evening light reflected off the numerous windows, creating a sparkling effect.

  Beautifully groomed lawns stretched alongside the drive with well-placed maples on either side in an alternating pattern.

  Ryan obviously did very well, a fact that duly impressed me following my imaginings of the small apartment for a man who probably didn’t have his own car. Heck, it looked like the man owned half the county.

  I braked in front of one of the four garage doors while my assumption jumped up and bit me on the proverbial ass. He didn’t need a meal from me.

  I turned the engine off, climbed from the cab and rounded the short hood to claim two plastic grocery bags I hooked on my arm from the middle passenger doors. Next came my favorite ceramic lasagna dish, glass lid and all, which stayed hot wrapped in a set of thermal underwear. A trick my grandma taught me.

  I kicked the door shut with a bang. The four stairs up to the porch clunked with my labored steps. The heat soaked through the bottom of the casserole cover and my bare arms grew distinctly uncomfortable.

  A hardwood bench ran along the wall beside the large double doors. I bent to set the dish on the seat, relieving my arms where I’d been cradle-holding it. I plopped the bags in another spot before approaching the entryway.

  Ornate in its simplicity, the dark, distressed wood gleamed from extensive polishing. I knocked and waited, enjoying the well-kept appearance of the rustic home.

  A large log built into the structure appeared as a corner brace opposite the bench. Dark scratches and burns in the wood created a totem of dates and initials from the floor to the upper eaves. A large, deep-cut heart embraced initials carefully paired together. The sweet symbol held my attention, reminding me of a night long ago, with two teenagers, a pocketknife and the moon.

  Innocence displayed forever. A different time, before trials of adulthood and responsibilities could crush the naïveté right out of a girl.

  “Dad’s parents built the original house.”

  The husky voice fit the surroundings. Trying to maintain my cool, I slowly turned to face Brodan standing inside the front door.

  “It’s beautiful.” The symbolic nature of the pole couldn’t be disrespected with sarcasm or anger. In that moment, with our gazes trained on each other, we reache
d a temporary truce. One I had no idea how to approach.

  “Ryan said you’d be here about now.” He pushed the door open farther and waved his hand toward the home’s confines. “He’s in the family room, if you’d like to follow me.”

  “Um…” I glanced at the bench bearing the meal and back at him, trying to come up with the answer to keep me balanced on this tight rope we had climbed on together.

  He followed my gaze, understanding pulling him farther out the doorway. “Here, let me help.” Carefully, he grasped the oven dish in his hands. “Come on.” He stepped through the door, leading the way.

  Hastily, I grabbed the handles of the bags before slipping into the house. I closed the door behind me and turned to the bright, open interior. “This is beautiful,” I breathed, taking in the warm wood trim and flooring dressed in intermittent, thickly braided rugs.

  “What does your house look like?” I ran my free hand softly over the smooth knotty pine door frames and turned my amazement his way. Puzzlement covered his rugged features. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  “No, it’s not that—”

  “Brodan! Is Mag here yet?” Ryan’s voice, clear in the acoustics of the well-designed home, caught my attention. I followed Brodan into a large old-fashioned kitchen decked out with the most up-to-date appliances in a tasteful and appealing mix of new and old.

  “She’s here, Ryan. We’re dropping the food off in the kitchen. Join us,” Brodan called through another doorway leading to yet another section of the large home. He carefully set the lasagna package on the stove before turning to me. “Does this need to be in the oven or anything?”

  “Um, yeah.” I copied him and lifted the filled bags onto the counter by the sinks. I pulled out the French bread and Caesar salad ingredients.

  “Hey, Mag! Glad you made it.” Ryan walked up behind me to lean against the counter.

  Unwrapping the lettuce, I tried to layer a note of teasing into my tone. “I said I’d be here, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t sound so certain on the phone. I thought I’d starve waiting for you to get here.”

  I glanced at the watch on my left wrist. “I’m early! What do you mean starve?” He looked so put out, I couldn’t help a smile. One he returned easily. The familiarity was comforting and I embraced it.

  In mock seriousness, he glanced toward Brodan. “You saw me, Bro, right? Close to wasting away to nothing.” Ryan pointed at me. “Tell her how hungry I’ve been.”

  Almost shyly, I turned to see Brodan’s face. A half smile curled his lips and his arms crossed his chest, pulling the shoulders of his shirt tight. “This is all you, Ryan.”

  Waving his hand dismissively at Brodan, Ryan rolled his eyes and sniffed the air. “Whatever you brought smells delicious. Italian?”

  “Maybe. I need your oven, though.” I stepped toward the large appliance, hoping Brodan would move. He slid to the side, lurking in the kitchen like—I don’t know what—distracting me from Ryan’s whirlwind-like presence.

  Spinning the dial to 375 degrees, I tried not to brush my arm against the enigma of muscle next to me. Two people could play the formal game we danced around.

  “Ryan, what is it you do? Your house is beautiful!” I turned and caught Ryan casting a pointed glance in his brother’s direction. He looked at me, realized he’d been seen and blushed.

  “Um, what’s going on?” Not in the mood to be messed with, what with the boiling-hot Neanderthal to my rear and the brother-like friend-to-be to my front.

  Ryan had the grace to appear disconcerted. I glanced at Brodan, who looked, if possible, even more bored. He didn’t acknowledge my question, which spurned my temper to match the preheating ovens.

  “Ryan…” I warned, interjecting a tone my mother would use.

  My target held up his hands in surrender. “Okay. Truth? It’s not my place, per se…” He said nothing else and looked at me with expectation.

  “Nope. Not good enough.” I crossed my arms and waited.

  Ryan cleared his throat. “Well, the thing is—”

  “The thing is Ryan rents from me. This is my place. Can I put your dish in the oven?” Without waiting for my reply, Brodan opened the oven door and shoved it in.

  Refusing to give him any acknowledgement, I continued facing Ryan with my brow raised. The information bombed and did not sit well. I wanted to vomit.

  Brodan lived here. No, better yet, he owned the house. I brought food to his place, which meant my upbringing would ensure he ate with us. I couldn’t expect him to go home before dinner. Heck, he was already there!

  Before another lengthy moment passed, I blurted the first thing that came to mind. “That’s nice. Do both of you like Caesar salad or should I leave the dressing off?”

  My question was met with silence. But Ryan’s surprised expression told me more than enough.

  Brodan must have expected me to throw a tantrum at the news. The brothers had, no doubt, discussed the situation and Brodan had waited to see my reaction.

  “You brought dinner for Ryan. I’ll just be in the way.” Brodan hedged.

  I looked over my shoulder and smiled with sugar-sweetness. “I wouldn’t hear of it. I brought plenty. Had I known you were here, you’d have been included in my offer of a meal.” Just try to out-grace me. True, I hadn’t needed the lasagna heated, just the bread, but had I said no, I would have sounded surly. Lasagna could never be too hot, anyway.

  Ryan walked around the long counter to sit on a barstool. He grinned, his color returned to the normal paleness. “I’m still a little tired from my hospital stay but I can help from my seat.” He rested his elbows on the countertop. “I don’t know ’bout you, Bro, but I could drink Caesar straight from the bottle.”

  His joke eased the tension from my shoulders. Having bested Brodan on this round, I grabbed the two loaves and returned to the oven.

  Wrapped in tinfoil and already buttered with fresh pressed garlic and parsley, the bread joined the lasagna in the oven after I pulled the heavy door open. Too bad Brodan still stood so close or I would have gasped with desire at the sheer size of the oven. The Cadillac before me contained four racks with heating elements on the bottom and sides.

  I caressed a hand over the stainless-steel exterior, the smooth texture calling to me. For a moment, I faced my small version of heaven, picturing the pies, casseroles and other things I could create with it. The joy unexpected and something I wanted all to myself.

  But the masterpiece belonged to him. Life needed to mete out some justice. How was it fair he had the dream-house and I had…well, parts of a house, the rest of which seemed covered in Dean.

  “No, seriously, did you make Italian?” Ryan’s eagerness tore me from oven dreams.

  “All right, yes, I did. My own recipe.” I passed him the dressing, croutons and cheese. “Do you have a large bowl with a lid?” Then, remembering it was Brodan’s home, I asked over my shoulder, “I meant, do you, by chance? Please.”

  A cupboard closed behind me and his large, masculine hand came into view, fingers gripping the bowl, making my knees weak. No, the bowl, wooden and finely polished with matching inlay lid made my knees weak.

  Not the man.

  Forget it. “Thanks,” I remembered to say before my awareness of him could spread any further.

  Dean’s fingers had been strong, too, which should have been an instant turn-off. Oh, but no. My traitorous body focused on his bulging forearms and the confident way he wore the snug jeans formed around a butt not legally issued to a man. Yes, I’d noticed it when we’d walked in from the outdoors.

  I pushed the image of faded jeans worn in all the right spots from my mind. I had a salad to make and a dinner to serve.

  Ryan waited, patiently studying the pregrated parmesan package. I washed my hands at the small vegetable sink.

  Removing the lid, I appraised the bowl, then tore the already rinsed romaine into small pieces and tossed them in. I’d choose hand-shredded
lettuce over knife-cut chunks any day.

  Passing it to Ryan, I instructed, “Add all of your stuff to the bowl, cap it and shake it really good.”

  “All of it?” He hesitated to open the dressing.

  At my nod, he threw himself into the task with diligence.

  Satisfied Ryan could handle the salad, I included Brodan in my delegation. “Brodan, if you don’t mind, we’ll need plates and forks. And if you’d point me in the direction of the serving utensils?” I glanced to the side, as if looking in his direction before rinsing my lettuce-covered hands in the sink. To be honest, I had a hard time saying his name let alone looking at him.

  Again, no acknowledgement of me or my request. How dare he ignore me? Not replying to a direct question rates up there with passing gas in a packed elevator. Disrespectful. The guy’s mother should have taught him better.

  I pulled open the door to my future fiancé, gazing first with appreciation at the oven’s interior then to my lasagna. Glancing above the opening, I reached for a towel and removed the heavy dish. On the stove top, I revealed bubbling red sauce and cheese then recovered it. Steam billowed toward the high ceiling.

  Ryan groaned.

  Alarmed, I turned to face him. “Are you okay?”

  Theatrically, holding his hand to his stomach, his eyes closed, he groaned again.

  Suspecting it may be a joke, but concerned nonetheless, I stepped closer to him. “Ryan. Are you okay?”

  He smacked his mouth and swallowed. “No, I’m not all right! I’m starving to death here!”

  Smiling, I nearly toppled over the pile of plates and utensils in Brodan’s hands. He set them on a spot in the vast counter space, nodding. Almost too quiet to hear, he said, “Smells good enough to eat.”

  Before I could recover from my shock, he produced cups and a wide selection of beverages next to the dinnerware. I hadn’t asked for them, but I appreciated his initiative.

  “My job’s done. What’s taking you two so long?” Ryan lowered the wooden bowl from the air where he’d shaken it around like an oversized rattle.

  I looked doubtfully at the bowl and reached out to check it.