I Breathe You

by Lori L. Clark

  I’ve been itching to use the debit card T gave me and by the time we leave the store, I’ve bought a new laptop and an iPod. I’ve missed listening to music and this will be a ton better than trying to find a station on the clunky, old radio in the garage.

  I’m kind of relieved when Gwen doesn’t press me for details about my appointment, though I’d love to tell her my opinion of Dr. Stephens’ off-the-wall tactics. Since she doesn’t ask, I keep my thoughts to myself, for now.

  As we drive down the driveway toward the house, Ian’s truck slowly approaches. Gwen eases to the shoulder allowing him room to pass on the narrow lane. When we’re close enough to make eye contact, his crooked smile causes my stomach to do a flip and I chew on the inside of my cheek nervously. He gives us a sort of two-fingered salute and Gwen nods in return. I twist in my seat and stare over my shoulder after him until his truck disappears beyond the trees.

  Gwen smirks sideways at me when I shift back around and I frown. “What?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” she breathes. No, she doesn’t have to. I can tell by the glint in her eyes that she thinks I’m interested in Ian.

  “I don’t even like him.” I whisper while staring out the window. My words say one thing, but I’m relieved she can’t see the mini circus happening inside my stomach right now.

  “Can I give you some unsolicited advice?” Gwen asks. I stare at her reflection in my window. I know that whether or not I agree, she’s going to speak her mind. As if on cue, she blurts, “Ian Callahan is an extremely charming young man, but I’d suggest you shut that door right now before you open it any further. Lock it and throw away the key.”

  I jerk my head around, giving her an incredulous look. I don’t get it. “Why don’t you like Ian?”

  She sighs noisily, “Oh, I like him just fine. But I’m not the one who wants to get him horizontal either.” My mouth pops open and I gape at her. On one hand I can’t believe she just said that, and on the other hand, I wonder if I’m that transparent. I’m curious about what she has to say. “Ian’s got problems you can’t even begin to imagine. Getting involved with him while you’re trying to heal your own scars wouldn’t be advisable.”

  I blink and lift my shoulders into an “I couldn’t care less” shrug. About a million questions begin trickling into my consciousness. I wonder if she realizes how much more intriguing her veiled warning has made him in my eyes.

  Gwen coasts to a stop in front of the garage and I bolt out of the Jeep with my new purchases before she even gets the ignition switched off. Anxious to be alone to breathe my own air, I jog inside and up the steps to my room.

  A few minutes later, I hear Gwen’s feet clomp up the stairs. Her head pops into view and I peer at her pointedly. She informs me I’ll need the password to get my new computer networked in and sits on the corner of the bed beside me. I spin the open laptop around to face her, and frown when she spins it back my way. “Type in this phrase, ‘You know I’m a dreamer.’”

  “John Lennon?” I whisper.

  She shakes her head. “M��tley Cr��e.” Whoa. I would have guessed Gwen to be more of a John Lennon fan than a M��tley Cr��e fan, but to each his — or her — own. “Anyway. You’re all set. If you need anything else, let me know. There’s a wireless printer downstairs, too. In case you need to print anything out.”

  I whisper “thanks” as she stands to leave, and stare blankly at the computer screen. I’m curious to see what’s out there, what’s on the Internet about Fate’s Crazy, and more to the point, about me, but I’m also apprehensive. Technically, I’m freaking terrified. This was a bad idea. I think to myself. I sigh and close the laptop. I flop onto my back and roll over on my side. A note taped to the bathroom door catches my attention, and I get up to retrieve it.

  The note is from Ian. He explains not to use the shower until tomorrow and to call if there are any problems. From the stupid grin on my face, you’d think he just gave me his number because he wants me to call him. I trace his words with my finger. The cell T bought for me is on the bedside table. I grab it and enter Callahan Construction into the contact list. Just in case.

  I toss the phone onto the bed and it bounces next to the laptop and unopened iPod. I feel like I’m going to crawl right out of my skin, I’m so antsy. The lure of Grandma’s piano beckons me down the stairs. Someone, probably Gwen, has put the quilts back to protect the gleaming, black wood.

  A fluttery, empty feeling gnaws at my stomach, and I tingle all over. My fingers itch with anticipation. I push away the old blankets and they land in a heap on the floor. Before I sit on the padded bench, I wipe my damp hands down the front of my jeans and flex my long fingers.

  Two distinctly different genres of music have a silent debate inside my brain. Do I want to play something Grandma taught me or something more recent? I close my eyes and as soon as my fingers touch the cool keys, they decide for me, seemingly with a mind of their own. Before I realize what’s happening, Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” literally pours from the darkened recesses of my mind.

  How is it that I can’t remember what happened that one fateful night six months ago, yet sitting here in front of this piano now, I’m able to flawlessly execute a song I haven’t played in over a decade? With the last notes still vibrating through the piano, I lay my head on the keyboard and a tear slides silently down my cheek.

  “That was beautiful, Rhane,” Gwen says softly. I sit up and wipe my cheeks on the back of my hands. My breath hitches in my throat; my emotions threaten to suffocate me. I push away from the piano. Giving her a downcast smile, I brush past her on my way out of the room.

  Chapter 22

  October has rolled into November in the blink of an eye, and for now, the days haven’t been too crazy cold. I’m not a fan of winter. Especially when it includes bone-jarring temperatures and snow.

  Mama Dog’s puppies have grown into a curious bunch. They crawl all over me, licking my face and nipping at the hem of my hoodie. Even though the sun is bright this morning, it hasn’t done a very good job at heating up the crisp air. I take the fingerless gloves from my pocket and the puppies try to steal them from me instead of letting me put them on. Mama Dog has decided to tolerate me — I suppose it’s because I keep her fed — but she is definitely not overly in love with me or anything.

  I hear a car coming up the lane. Actually, it’s not a car. My ears have gotten to the point where I’m able to determine who’s arriving by the timbre of the engine and crunch of the tires before the vehicle even comes into view. I lean to the side, peering around the corner of the porch, knowing I’m right and wanting to steal a glimpse of him.

  I chew on my bottom lip, watching as Ian hops from the cab of his pickup. My eyes follow his lean frame to the tailgate of his truck. In the bed there’s a large wooden doghouse.

  Leaping to my feet, I race over to where his truck is parked. He chuckles at my excited hopping up and down. There’s never an abundance of conversation between us, me for obvious reasons, but sometimes, I imagine that he likes having me around. I’m not sure how I’ve come to that conclusion. Maybe it’s the way his eyes sparkle with a little more green than gray. Or the dimple that’s begun to carve itself deep into his left cheek whenever he smiles that crooked but amazing smile. It might be his piss and vinegar attitude or his unwillingness to let me get away with being a smartass too.

  “You plan on helping me unload this thing or are you just going to bob up and down like a damn goof?” I try to punch him in the shoulder playfully but his long fingers snake around my wrist before I’m able to connect. He smirks. “Careful there, Sunshine. Don’t hurt yourself.”

  I roll my eyes at the new nickname he’s recently begun calling me. Sunshine. Rhane. Get it?

  “I’m teasing. This thing probably weighs twice as much as you,” as he hoists himself effortlessly up into the bed and unhooks the tailgate straps allowing it to swing freely. He pulls out two boards and sets them at an angle from the truck
to the ground, creating a crude ramp of sorts.

  I watch him pull on a pair of worn leather gloves and he goes to work feeding a rope through the eyelets of two large hooks threaded into the back of the doghouse. I breathe into my hands, trying to warm the fingertips left bare by my own pitiful gloves.

  His eyes flicker to my hands. “When you going to get yourself some real damn gloves anyway?”

  I give him a middle finger salute and childishly stick out my tongue. “Shut up,” I huff.

  He turns his back to me, and his shoulders shake in silent laughter. “Feisty,” he mutters. My eyes slowly slide down from his broad upper back before locking on the way his tight jeans accentuate the firmness of his fine ass. I start to warm up and nerve endings all over my lower half ignite. My cheeks blossom into what I’m sure must be a brilliant scarlet.

  He glances at me, doing a double take, “You cold?”

  I crinkle my nose and shake my head. Hopeful he can’t read just how un-cold I really am. “No why?”

  “Your cheeks are red,” he pulls the rope taut and threads it through the pickup bed. “You must be cold. Either that, or you’re blushing.” That left cheek dimple reappears, and I wonder if he’s flirting with me.

  I think he’s figured out that he flusters the hell out of me. He’s sort of cocky that way. Unfortunately for me, I’ve always had a thing for cocky, self-assured, slightly egotistical men. Who wants boring, when you can have a bad ass? Especially the ones everyone says to stay away from.

  His muscles strain against his sweatshirt as he shimmies the doghouse closer to the end of the pickup bed. He straightens and crooks his finger at me. “Come here, Sunshine.” I move to stand next to him. A smirk tips up one side of his mouth, and he shakes his head. “That was easy.”

  I narrow my eyes and fold my arms across my chest. “What are you talking about?”

  “I just made you come with one finger,” he says with a hearty laugh.

  I roll my eyes. “Pfft. That’s original. And lame.”

  The thing about being reduced to teeny whispers and lip reading? It makes my fine honed sarcasm skills difficult to pull off. Good thing he’s perceptive enough to get my point.

  “What? Come on. It’s a classic, and you know it,” he defends.

  “No, the Beatles are classic. The Doors are classic. Your line? Not even close to fitting in the same category. Borderline pathetic, actually.” He watches my lips carefully. It’s slightly unnerving, though I know he’s only trying to read what I’m saying.

  “As much as I’d love to debate good music with you,” he walks away from me and grabs hold of one of the ropes, “I’d never get any work done. Not to mention I’d put you to shame with my musical expertise.”

  My mouth drops open. Seriously? I decide to ignore what could be perceived as a challenge. Clearly he has no idea who he’s dealing with here. His musical expertise? Indeed. I bite my bottom lip to keep from smiling at his unfounded observation. I’ll let him think he’s won for now. His not knowing who I am is okay with me since Rhane Evans the musician no longer exists.

  He has me stand on one side of the planks while he stands on the other, slowly using the ropes to guide the doghouse down to the ground. Miraculously, we manage to get it out of the truck intact and without causing either of us bodily harm. An image flickers through my mind of him sprawled out on the ground with the doghouse on top of him. Arms and legs flailing about as he goes down. That vision causes bubbles of noiseless giggles to erupt from my chest. He gives me a strange look, and I bite my tongue. It would, of course, only be funny as long as he didn’t get hurt.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” he says.

  I quirk an eyebrow at him.

  “What?” he asks.

  I point at the doghouse in the middle of the driveway and then nod toward the porch, silently indicating how we still need to move it several yards.

  He leans on top of the shingled roof of Mama Dog’s new home and shakes his head at me. “You don’t think we should just leave it right here?” I decide that he has a peculiar sense of humor. He heaves a sigh and straightens. “What a slave driver you are.”

  He hops back up into the bed of the pickup and rolls out a two-wheeled cart made for moving appliances. “When I tip it up, you slide the forks underneath. Can you do that?”

  I nod.

  In a few minutes, the doghouse is loaded onto the dolly. Ian yanks his sweatshirt up over his head, taking his t-shirt with it part of the way. Holy hell. My breath hitches in my chest, and I quickly avert my eyes to something other than the narrow peach-colored trail leading down from his belly button to just below the waistband of his jeans. Or the finely honed, V-shaped grooves on either side of that.

  His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Are you sure you’re not cold?”

  “Positive.” You have no idea just how far from cold I am right now.

  Once the doghouse is in place next to the house I decide I’ve had about all I can take of being around Ian for a while and make my way inside. I’m onto the porch before he hollers at me, “Hey, Sunshine?” I glance over my shoulder at him. He grins and says, “Thanks for the help.”

  I flutter my bare-tipped fingers at him and disappear into the warm kitchen.

  Chapter 23

  I had another session with Dr. Stephens yesterday afternoon. He was surprised when I told him I hadn’t gone on YouTube to look up Fate’s Crazy’s videos or checked out the infinite number of Google search pages. I told him that had been my original plan but I sort of changed my mind.

  In a tone reserved for telling someone “I told you so,” he smiled and informed me that my inability or refusal to “go there,” confirmed his theory from our first visit: I’m not ready for the truth. If you say so, doc.

  When I got home from the appointment, I marched right up to my room and logged on to the Internet. I boldly typed in Fate’s Crazy and my finger hovered precariously over the enter key. I’m a wimp. I couldn’t do it. I ended up going to iTunes to search for songs to download onto my new iPod instead.

  Ian had brought out a dock for his iPod a few days ago. He likes to crank up the music when he’s working in the garage and told me to feel free to use it whenever I wanted.

  This morning I head out to the garage to fill up Mama Dog’s food dish. I’m surprised to hear Bad Company blasting through the speakers when I pull open the door to the shop. There is something so totally disconcerting about watching Ian jam on his air guitar while lip-synching to “Feel Like Making Love.” My heart races and for a few breaths I’m frozen in place. His eyes lock onto mine and he shoots me a devilish, lopsided grin.

  My mouth snaps shut and I reacquaint myself with the fine art of trying to pretend I’m not affected by everything about him. My eyes dance over him, and I shake my head. “Seriously? Bad Company?”

  “Hey, don’t be a hater,” he smirks. “Paul Rodgers rocks.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek trying to keep from revealing the face splitting smile I feel sneaking in. I agree with him about Paul Rodgers’ talent, I’m just surprised to meet another person my age who appreciates older rock and roll the way I do. I nod at the invisible instrument in his calloused hands. “You play?” My mouth curves into a sassy smirk.

  He tips his head back and laughs heartily. “God, no. Not a note. You?”

  I hold up my hands to mimic playing a keyboard.

  “Hard to be a rock star playing the keyboard, Sunshine,” he chuckles. I plant my hands on my hips, ready to recite a list of bands with a strong keyboard influence, proving he’s an idiot if he truly believes that. He interrupts my train of thought by adding, “Of course there was The Doors. Kick ass keyboards right there.”

  I fold my arms in front of me and my eyebrows draw into a frown. “Just how old are you anyway?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Oh.” I quirk an eyebrow. Shit. He’s younger than I expected he would be having a seven-year-old daughter.

  “I know. You thoug
ht I was older, right?”

  “You said Emmy’s seven. So yeah, I assumed you were at least a couple years older.”

  “I told you, I started young.” He shrugs and turns his back on me. It’s a move I’ve come to recognize as Ian’s way of indicating he’s through talking. Not like we’re best buds, sharing our deepest, darkest secrets with one another, or anything, but whenever our conversations have bordered on something personal, he clams up and loses all interest in continuing.

  Another Bad Company song ends and there’s a short pause between songs. I take the lid off the garbage can and scoop up some food for Mama Dog. When the first few notes from an electric piano drift through the speakers introducing the next song, the color drains from my face and the dog food scatters across the concrete floor. My hand darts out to the nearby bench, steadying myself so I don’t dissolve into a quivering mass of goo.

  Ian is across the floor in two strides; his hands clamp under my arms to keep me upright. “What the fuck? Sunshine?”

  The concern in his eyes, coupled with the eerie sound of my own voice pouring from the speakers, is my undoing. Tears flood from my eyes in uncontrollable streams. I bury face in my hands, momentarily numb as I listen to my former self sing the rough, obviously cheaply recorded, copy of “Karma’s Desire.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, his eyebrows squished together.

  Ian’s voice jars me back to reality, and I realize his warm hands are still touching me. It’s more than I can handle gracefully. I can’t seem to wrap my thoughts around what’s happening, and it threatens to rip the remaining, uneven breaths right out of my lungs. Even through layers of clothing, my nerve endings sizzle, painfully aware of his touch. I shrug out of his hold and shoot him a venomous glare. “Where did you get this music? This song?” I demand.

  At first his mouth opens but nothing comes out. He shakes his head, and a blank look crosses his face. “What in the hell are you talking about? What song?”