I Breathe You

by Lori L. Clark

  “Ma’am?” a gravelly voice calls from behind me, causing me to jump. I spin around to glare at the plumber who apologizes for startling me.

  What? I mouth.

  “Your uncle said you have some ideas about what you wanted me to do with the bathroom here?” he asks, pointing over his shoulder behind him.

  I nod and walk to the window seat where I’d left the remodeling magazines. I flip open to one of the pages I’d creased to mark my spot. I hold it up and point to the page with the shower I want. I turn to the next spot and repeat the process for the vanity and stool. He plants his hands on his hips, watching and waiting silently. I thrust the magazine toward him and he grabs hold before it falls to the floor. I step away from him and he starts babbling about getting an estimate together.

  I shoot him my best intimidating glower and watch with delight as he visibly shrinks in stature. My eyes flick from him to the whiteboard lying on the bed, I snatch it up and scribble Fix it like I want it. Money is not an issue.

  His jaw muscle jumps as he clenches his teeth, but his only response is a curt nod.

  I ease soundlessly down the stairs and into the kitchen. Gwen appears at the basement door, followed closely by Ian. Her mouth curves into a smile when she spots me gawking at the guy who is so tall he has to duck as he steps through the cellar door. “Rhane, have you met Ian?” she asks.

  Before I can respond, Ian steps forward, offering me his hand. My open-mouthed stare moves lazily from his gray-green eyes down to his outstretched hand. It takes every ounce of strength I have not to flee from the room. I breathe in slowly and shake his hand. A smile eases across his face. His front teeth are a bit crooked and three of them are chipped, giving his lopsided grin the appearance of a slight, arcing overbite which, for some reason, I find to be sexy as hell.

  He speaks carefully, enunciating each syllable while holding my eyes with his, “I’m Ian Callahan. Nice to meet you.” His hands move in several directions at once while he speaks and it dawns on me that he’s using sign language.

  I lift my chin, and say as loudly as I’m able, “I don’t read sign language. I don’t read lips. I can hear you perfectly. I just can’t talk any louder than a soft whisper.”

  He’s taken aback and looks apologetic. I hold up my hand to wave off his response and turn to pull on my boots and walk back outside. Once again, I am desperate to put some distance between myself and this guy. This very hot guy who has caused my shattered heart to start beating like crazy and warmth to spread over my lower body. Just fucking great.

  Chapter 14

  By the time Ian finishes in the house, I’m down on my hands and knees in the dirt next to the porch, checking on the puppies. I know Mama Dog hasn’t been back since before I put out the food and she’s probably really pissed about all the activity that’s been going on around here lately.

  The front door bangs open and I rise up just enough so that I’m able to catch a glimpse of Ian through the porch railings. His boots clomp noisily across the porch floor and I silently will him to just climb in his truck to be on his merry way. I’m confident that Gwen was able to point out all of the things that need his attention around here so he shouldn’t need to speak with me before he leaves.

  Midway to the steps, he stops abruptly and turns in my direction. I figure he’s about to call me out for blatantly ogling him, but if he sees me, he doesn’t let on. He peers up to where the chain for the porch swing has pulled free from the ceiling. I suck in a startled breath, watching as the tight, white t-shirt he’s wearing pulls strategically against his rock-hard chest as he reaches to press on the rotted boards where the hook had been fastened.

  Holy hell. His shirt pulls free from the waistband of his pants and I’m left with an eyeful of the copper-colored happy trail disappearing down the front of his jeans. “Do you want me to fix this while I’m here?” he asks, peering at me between his arms and I’m suddenly aware that my mouth is gaping in awe of his… his height. He drops his arms to his sides and flashes me a crooked grin. “It’ll only take about five minutes.”

  Before I’m able to regain my composure enough to respond, he jogs down the steps and crosses the lawn to his pickup. I watch him drop the tailgate and hop gracefully into the bed of the truck. He pops open the toolbox and rummages around inside. Why am I staring at him? He’s not even that hot. Okay, maybe he is a little.

  I walk up the steps and notice half a dozen or so hanging planters full of dirt and debris surrounding the perimeter of the porch. I decide now would be a great time to take all of them down and clean them out. Not because I want to stare at Ian or anything. I pretend not to notice how he’s a little bit bowlegged and wonder if he rode a lot of horses — or other things — when he was younger. Heat flares up from inside my shirt and my cheeks instantly color.

  Ian goes to work fixing the porch swing. Without looking in my direction, he says, “Sorry about earlier. My daughter is deaf, and I’ve learned how to communicate with her by using sign language. I guess I just assumed that since you can’t talk, you can’t hear either.”

  The flower pot I’m holding slips from my grasp, and I recover quickly, catching it before it crashes to the porch floor. Daughter? What is she like two? Curious, I walk over and stand directly in front of him. His arms are once again stretched over his head and he’s working to reattach the swing. His face is framed perfectly between his two muscular arms and he glances down at me.

  My gaze moves covertly to his left hand. No ring. I whisper, “Daughter? How old is she?”

  “Seven,” he says quietly. My eyebrows disappear behind my choppy bangs and he shrugs. “What can I say? I got started young.”

  “Apparently.”

  He chuckles softly and after a short, awkward silence, he tells me, “I could teach you.”

  My mouth drops open in surprise. “I just bet you could.” I turn away from him so that he can’t see the color his remark has painted onto my cheeks. I quickly go back to what I’d been doing on the other side of too crowded front porch.

  “What?” he protests. “Wait! I meant I could teach you some basic sign language.”

  Oh. Obviously that’s what he meant. I’m such a pervert. I shake my head in response without turning to face him.

  “Suit yourself,” he tells me.

  I continue to clear away the long-dead flowers from the planters, although they won’t be put to use until next spring at least. Every so often, I chance a quick peek in Ian’s direction. He continues what he’s doing as though I’m not even there. I’m not sure if it pisses me off that he hasn’t once looked up from what he’s doing to meet my eyes, or if I’m secretly relieved that he hasn’t caught me checking out his narrow hips and broad shoulders.

  “There. All done.” He grins and plops down onto the newly secured swing. He pats the seat beside him. “Let’s see if it will hold both of us.”

  I walk over and ease my butt onto the swing next to him. Not that I don’t trust his skills as a carpenter, but I’d be horrified if, after all of his hard work, it crashed to the floor as soon as I sat down. Thankfully, it holds and I release the breath I’d been holding.

  I’m not next to him for more than a few heartbeats before he hops to his feet. “I’ve got to get going.”

  I nod. “Thanks for, you know, fixing the swing.”

  “I’ll just add it to the bill,” he shrugs. He collects his tools and turns to leave. He glances over his shoulder at me and says, “I’ll be back first thing tomorrow. You can let me know then which project it is that you want me to tackle first.”

  Chapter 15

  Ian’s truck disappears into a wall of trees and I stay put on the porch swing gently rocking back and forth. I’m trying to get a grip on the unwarranted, yet undeniable attraction I have for him. I mentally try to erase the image of his crooked smile from my mind’s whiteboard and chastise myself in the process.

  The screen door squawks open and I glance up at Gwen who silently stares after Ian’s
truck before turning her attention to me.

  “What?” I scowl at her.

  “That’s one handsome young man right there,” she sighs. “What I wouldn’t give to be about twenty years younger.”

  I roll my eyes at her and slap my hands against my thighs before pushing to my feet. “He’s not that great,” I whisper. Gwen follows me inside. As much as I try to convince myself that I’m not interested in Ian Callahan, it doesn’t stop me from being a little curious. “What’s his story anyway?”

  “Don’t know much about the kid really,” she shrugs. “I know his family life is a whole bucket full of screwed up. He’s done okay for himself in spite of everything, I’d say.” My eyebrows draw together with unspoken questions, but Gwen shakes her head and tells me, “I don’t put a lot of stock into the rumor mill around this town. You’d do yourself smart by steering clear of it as well.”

  I get the feeling she knows a lot more than she’s telling me and it agitates me. “I was just curious. He’s not even that good-looking.”

  Gwen snorts, “Right. I guess if you want to know something about him, you’ll just have to ask him yourself then.” I huff. Her logic annoys me. “Why don’t you go relax for a while? T’s bringing pizza out later.”

  I wander from room to room. I don’t even realize what I’m looking for, until I find it. Tucked away at the back of the house and covered with old quilts she sits. Grandma would relax every evening after dinner by playing this piano. My grandma is the main reason I took such an early interest in music. When I pounded on the keys just to make noise, she patiently redirected my tiny fingers, showing me the proper way of doing things.

  As a child, I found it fascinating how just by placing my hands on certain keys in a certain order led to some recognizable tune. You have no idea how proud I was when I first learned to play “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”

  I swipe the blankets from the black baby grand and toss them into a pile on the floor. I stare at the silent beauty before me and a tear slides unbidden down my cheek. Part of me wants to sit down and play, but the scarred person I’ve become wants to find something to pulverize it into fire kindling.

  With a trembling hand, I brush away the errant tear and slide my fingers over the smooth, satiny keys. I depress first one, then another, and another. Before I know it, my fingers are flying across the ivories, pounding out a song my fingers remember better than my brain. A choked sob escapes my useless throat and my fingers curl into fists of rage. Then I’m pounding the piano as though it’s committed some unforgivable sin against me.

  I lose myself in anger until T lifts me, kicking and thrashing, from my seat on the bench and wraps his arms around me. “Shh, baby girl, it’s okay to vent your anger, but remember what Grandma always used to tell you?” he pauses, tightening his grip around my ribs. “Remember how she’d say, ‘Don’t take your anger out on that poor defenseless piano, child. What did it ever do to you?’”

  I stop struggling against him and if he hadn’t been holding me up, I’m pretty sure I probably would have melted into a puddle at his feet. The sobs wrack my body, and they won’t stop coming. Slowly, T half-carries me over to the sofa and eases down beside me to a seated position.

  “I’m going to let go now,” he whispers against my hair. “Promise not to kick the shit out of Grandma’s piano? Or me?”

  I nod and swipe the tears from my face with the back of my sweatshirt-covered hand.

  He drops his arms, but watches me warily in case the crazy girl reemerges. Once satisfied that I’m done having my meltdown, he takes a deep breath and releases it with a soft whistle. “I brought pizza,” he says. He plants his hands on his bony thighs and pushes to his full height. He holds his hand out to me and tells me, “Come on, let’s get out there before Gwen eats it all.”

  Dinner is subdued and spent with only a few words on small talk. I hate that they feel like they have to walk on eggshells around me. Afraid that some look they give, some word they say, something real or imagined, will send me into a blinding fit of rage like some raving lunatic ready for a straightjacket.

  I’m not very hungry and feel like a limp dishrag, so I excuse myself from the table. I slip on my hoodie and colorful boots to go outside and check on Mama Dog. I tiptoe lightly across the porch and down the steps. In the early evening shadows, I’m able to see her. She growls softly at me, letting me know that she has things under control, to back off, and so I do. I smile to myself and leave her to do her thing.

  I make my way back across the porch and drop onto the swing. It’s a clear night and the stars are starting to peek through when T decides he’s ready to head back to town. He surprises me by nudging me over so that he can share the swing with me.

  We rock in silence for a little while before he turns to me and says, “I think it might be a good idea for you to start seeing a counselor again.” I open my mouth to protest and he holds his hand up, “Just think about it. That’s all I’m going to ask for now.”

  I grimace and nod my head. Seeing a shrink is not in my plans. It never worked before and I’m convinced that the kind of broken I am, isn’t fixable.

  He pats my leg and says, “Sleep tight, baby girl. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “See ya.” I smile softly.

  Chapter 16

  As soon as T goes home for the night, I make my way back inside. Gwen stands at the kitchen sink rinsing out their coffee cups. She turns to face me and folds her arms in front of her chest. It’s a look that has pity written all over it. My face remains expressionless while I wait for her to say what’s on her mind. Imagine my surprise, when instead of giving me a lecture about losing my temper, she says, “There’s ice cream left, if you want a bowl.”

  I nod and give her a thin smile. She reaches into the cupboard and retrieves two bowls while I take the carton of Neapolitan out of the freezer. I’m not shocked to find nearly all of the chocolate has been eaten, since chocolate is T’s favorite flavor.

  Gwen’s hand hovers with the scoop over the open container and asks, “Strawberry or vanilla?” She glances up at me for my answer.

  “Both.”

  Laugh lines appear around her weathered eyes as she scoops some of each flavor into the bowl. She takes a chair across the table from me, and we eat in silence. My sole focus at the moment is on the ice cream in front of me, but that doesn’t keep me from catching the pointed looks she shoots my way every so often. I sense her wheels turning and know she has something to say. No way am I going to be the one to initiate a conversation I’d really rather not have. So I continue devouring my ice cream and ignore the looks.

  She finishes her ice cream before me, and slides away from the table to put her bowl in the sink. She glances over her shoulder at me and I hold my empty bowl out for her to take care of since she’s up.

  “I’m worried about you, Rhane. Those suitcases under your eyes tell me you’re not sleeping. Am I right?” she asks.

  I shrug. Truth is I don’t sleep worth a damn. In fact, combined hours of peaceful, uninterrupted rest are a rarity for me. I wonder what she’d say if I told her I’d rather walk barefoot through broken glass or eat spider eggs for breakfast than invite Mr. Sandman into my bed.

  Wordlessly, she draws a glass of water and removes an amber-colored prescription bottle from her sweater pocket. She shakes out two pills and holds her hand out for me to take them. My narrowed eyes dart between her outstretched hand and her face. I wrinkle my nose, driving home the point that I’m less than thrilled about taking the meds.

  “Go on,” she urges, pushing them toward me. “It’ll help make you drowsy.”

  “Isn’t that illegal, giving me your sleeping pills?”

  “They’re not mine,” Gwen sighs. She pinches the pill bottle between her index finger and thumb so that the label is visible inches from my face. Rhane Evans. Take as directed at bedtime as needed.

  I sigh in resignation and open my hand indicating for her to drop the pills into my palm. I toss
them into my mouth and wash them down with the water. I’d like to tell her that getting drowsy isn’t the problem. I want to ask her if she has some magical dream-erasing or nightmare-blocking drug up her sleeve, but I bite my bottom lip instead.

  “I’ve never been one to support pill popping without getting to the root cause of the problem. Since you’re not sleeping, there must be bigger issues at hand,” she begins. I hug myself and shift from one foot to the other uncomfortably. I’m not sure where she’s going with this conversation, and even though I know she’s right, I’m not necessarily ready to hear her say it. “There’s someone I’d like for you to see. He’s helped a lot of people I know work through PTSD.”

  My eyes focus on the dry skin around my fingernails. “I’m not crazy.” Then I sigh. Okay, maybe I am a little unstable, but I don’t want some high-priced shrink with degrees and diplomas hanging on an office wall somewhere getting inside my head. I’m fucked up, yes — who wouldn’t be after what I’ve been through — but I’m not ready to deal with it yet, especially not with some stranger.

  “Nobody’s saying you’re crazy,” Gwen murmurs. “I’m just pointing out that there are options. You don’t have to let this crap ruin every minute of your life. It’s not necessary for you to keep things all bottled up inside until it makes you want to explode like you did this afternoon.”

  I gnaw on a hangnail and avoid her narrowed eyes. I shrug indifferently, “Maybe.”

  “I’d like for you to at least meet him before you dismiss the idea completely. I think you’ll like him. His name is Tyler Stephens.”

  Rather than answer, I push back from the table, and announce, “I’m going to check on Mama Dog.” I yank a hooded sweatshirt from the peg by the door and stuff my feet into the boots. Taking the flashlight from the side of the fridge, I don’t bother catching the screen door before it bangs shut behind me. I drag my feet across the yard toward the garage. I had emptied the bag of dog food into an old tin garbage can to keep it dry and less tempting for any other uninvited critters.