I Breathe You

by Lori L. Clark

  I wobble momentarily, adrenaline coursing through my veins, and he reaches to steady me on my feet. “Don’t.” I hold up my hands in front of me, silently warning him not to come any closer. I repeat the question. “Where did you get that song? The one playing. Right. Now.”

  He rubs his hand over the scruff on his jaw. “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Don’t you fucking lie to me!” My throat aches, straining as I try to make myself heard. I shove him. Hard.

  He’s barely affected by my actions, but he does voluntarily take a few steps back. “What the hell is your problem?”

  “That song is my problem.”

  His nose wrinkles and he gawks at me as though I’ve lost what’s left of my mind. “It’s just some song a buddy of mine loaded onto my iPod. He thought I’d like it. Said the lead singer sounded a little like Janis Joplin.”

  I see red and move toward him with purpose. He tries to retreat, but there isn’t any space left between his back and the wall. I poke him in the chest; my whole body quakes with rage. “You really don’t know, do you?” My hands clench and unclench at my sides. The blood begins to throb inside my skull and it is extremely hard for me to catch my breath.

  My legs are like two spindly blades of grass trying to weather hurricane-force winds. My vision becomes two pinpoints of very dim light. Ian’s saying something to me, but it sounds as though he’s talking to me from inside an old tin bucket about a million miles away. I collapse into the hard wall that is Ian’s chest. His arms wrap tightly around me seconds before he swoops me off my feet.

  Chapter 24

  As Ian carries me into the house, I’m slung over his shoulder as though I weigh no more than a sack of potatoes. I pound my fists against his back hard enough to leave bruises and that’s probably what helps Gwen decide it isn’t necessary to take me to the ER. The two of them discuss my situation as though it’s perfectly normal for him to have me corralled against him while I struggle to be freed like some straightjacket-worthy lunatic.

  I’m unable to give voice to my repertoire of colorful, four-letter words. A myriad of emotions reverberate through me — fear, pain, anger — knotting up my insides, desperate for release.

  “Calm down, Sunshine,” Ian softly urges. His soothing voice is low and surprisingly calm for someone toting a crazy girl up a flight of stairs. A fleeting thought flickers through my mind, causing me to ponder just how much experience he has had dealing with out of control women, because honestly? He’s handling the situation like it’s a normal, everyday occurrence. I grow still in his arms when he hisses, “I wish you’d stop beating on me. Because if you don’t, we’re both liable to go flying asshole over appetite down these damn stairs.”

  Something about his choice of words, or maybe the way he says them, causes hysterical laughter to bubble from between my lips. By the time he deposits me onto my bed, I’m flat out giggling. Further fueling the conclusion that my grasp on reality is slip-sliding away.

  Ian studies me silently and shakes his head. His demeanor is both unnerving and irritating. I squirm under his intense gaze. Truthfully, this isn’t how I might have fantasized a situation involving Ian, me, and a bed. My face burns and his eyebrows shoot up, dipping behind the hair that has fallen into his eyes. I’m probably wrong, but for a split-second I think I detect a barely perceptible twitch of his lips. As fast as it appears, the almost-smile is gone and he wordlessly turns to leave.

  With one final act of defiance I yank off my boot and hurl it at his retreating form. It hits him squarely between the shoulder blades with a loud thwack. He frowns over his shoulder at me and I wave my arm down the length of my prone body. “What? Are you immune to crazy women?”

  He shakes his head and sighs loudly. “Nah. Not immune. Just used to ‘em, Sunshine.” My eyes bug in disbelief at his comment, but as is so typical for Ian, he leaves me with more questions than answers and jogs down the stairs out of sight.

  I’m calmer and I’ve managed to regain control of my breathing, but I’m still highly agitated. That���s when stark reality slams into my chest. I think about Dalton and how in the past, whenever we fought, we typically wound up with our arms and legs tangled and wrapped around each other. Basking in the afterglow of hot and wild make-up sex. Always drenched and out of breath, but no longer pissed.

  Christ. I puff out my cheeks, letting the breath slide out in a long, slow hiss. I’ve got issues.

  When I awaken sometime later, the long shadows of early evening flicker across the floor of my bedroom. T sits hunched over his phone on a chair next to the bed. Deep creases of worry line his thin face. His elbows rest on his thighs while he taps out a text message. I give his knee a weak squeeze to capture his attention.

  His head pops up and a faint smile appears to temporarily erase the worry lines. “There’s my baby girl. How you feeling?”

  I draw both shoulders up to my ears in an exaggerated shrug. Tired. Ashamed. Appalled by my behavior. Poor Ian must be convinced that I’m certifiable. I turn away from T, unable to look him in the eye. He undoubtedly shares Ian’s opinion of me by now, and rightfully so.

  The top of Gwen’s head appears as she makes her way up the steps. The mask of sympathy she wears hides what she must truly think of me at the moment. “Are you hungry?” she asks.

  I shake my head no in response.

  T pats my leg through the heavy quilt and stands. “I’m about starving to death,” he chuckles, causing me to smile in spite of my somber mood.

  “Pfft. When aren’t you?” I huff.

  Gwen agrees with a hearty belly laugh, “Rhane, I’ll make sure the bottomless pit here,” she nods at T, “Doesn’t eat everything. I’ll bring you up a little something later. Why don’t you try to get some rest in the meantime?”

  My lips twist into a scowl. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to sleep. In actuality I think I really just want to argue with someone. Either that or dig out my waterproof vibrator and take a long hot shower. To say that I’m frustrated beyond belief would be putting it mildly.

  Later when Gwen reappears with a plate of food, I pick at the rough cuticles around my fingernails. “Can I ask you something?” I whisper.

  Gwen approaches the bed and sits on the edge next to me. “Sure, ask away.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “Why do you suppose my psycho behavior didn’t faze Ian?”

  Gwen’s smile falters a tick and her eyes drift around the room, searching for the right words. “Maybe that’s a question you need to ask Ian.”

  I take a deep breath and slowly shake my head side to side. “No thanks.”

  “It’s not my place to talk about Ian or speculate on what his thoughts might be,” she says quietly. “But let me just say this: have you stopped to consider that perhaps since your behavior doesn’t seem out of the ordinary to him, that it’s because… well, maybe it’s because it’s not out of the ordinary?”

  My head snaps up and a strand of choppy hair fails into my eyes. I tuck it behind my ear and stare down at the floor, contemplating her words. “Why? Because he’s crazy, or he’s just used to crazy women?”

  “On second thought, maybe it’s best if you don’t ask Ian anything about his personal life. He’s a pretty private young man.” She smiles sympathetically and stands to leave. “Though most of the people around this town have tried to make his life their business. Usually, making stuff up or filling in the blanks with their own assumptions. Ian’s a good kid. Mostly.”

  “If he’s such a good kid, then why did you tell me to stay away from him?” I ask bluntly.

  She shakes her head, “I said he’s mostly a good kid. It’s the rest of that damn family of his, and the things he’s had to deal with, that you don’t need to get yourself involved with.”

  Her continually cryptic responses have merely served to make Ian seem even more appealing, and me that much more curious. Yeah maybe I really am crazy.

  Chapter 25

  It’s a blustery and gen
erally miserable morning. The porch swing groans as I rock back and forth and stare across the driveway. The wind tries to lift the waterlogged leaves, nudging them from between the cracks and crevices around the garage foundation. I shudder and pull my sweatshirt tightly around my shoulders, zipping it against the chill.

  My journal lies open in my lap and the blank, white pages mock me, a stark reminder that I haven’t exactly been committed to writing down my feelings every day. I shift on the swing and tuck my legs beneath me. Part of me listens intently for the unmistakable sound Ian’s truck makes when it rumbles down the lane. With each passing minute that he doesn’t appear, my mood dives a little further down into the abyss.

  I’m mortified that I lost it in front of Ian yesterday. My lack of explanation as to why I became so irrational makes me cringe with embarrassment. As soon as I opened my eyes this morning I was on a mission. I pulled my laptop onto the bed and connected to the Internet.

  I needed to learn how to say “I’m sorry” using sign language. Sure, I could just whisper-tell him, or write it down, or even have him read my lips, but it wouldn’t be as personal as speaking to him in a language he’s fluent in. I hoped he might see it as an attempt to reach him on a private level and be more inclined to forgive, or at least overlook, my strange behavior yesterday.

  The screen door creaks open and Gwen comes out carrying two steaming cups of hot chocolate. I grin when I notice the tiny marshmallows floating on top of mine. I wrap my half-gloved hands around the mug, letting it warm my naked fingertips.

  She scoots next to me on the swing and blows on her cocoa to cool it enough to sip. “Ian won’t be out today,” she says.

  I stop mid-sip and glance sideways at her. “Oh?” I shrug. “So?”

  “I’m just letting you know in case you want to come inside soon. I don’t want your lips to turn blue waiting out here for him to show up.”

  I roll my eyes and huff. “I’m not waiting for him.” I grab the journal and wave it under her nose. “For your information, I’m writing in my journal like Dr. Stephens suggested.”

  “Of course you are. I knew that,” she says. Her eyes crinkle at the corners when she adds, “How’s that working out for you?”

  I ignore her attempt at sarcasm. “Why isn’t he coming today?”

  “Who?” she asks in a teasing voice, the mischief in her eyes clearly evident.

  I nudge my shoulder against her. “Ian.” I pause dramatically before adding, “Not that I really care.”

  “Don’t know,” she says sipping her hot chocolate. “He didn’t say and I didn’t feel it was my place to pry.”

  Disappointment gnaws at my belly and my face crumples visibly. “Oh.”

  I know she doesn’t miss the mood change. Hell, Ray Charles could see how upset I am over the news. Gwen nods absentmindedly and reaches for my now empty cup. “Well, don’t stay out here too long. It feels like it might snow.”

  I chew on my bottom lip and an uninvited tear slides slowly down my frozen cheek. I’m scared to death that the reason he’s not coming is because he’s figured out what a whack job I am. Maybe he really does have enough crazy in his life already. Nobody needs more crazy.

  I pull the pen out from where I’ve tucked it behind my ear and write three words in the journal that seem to be set on repeat. Both in my brain and in my life. Karma’s a bitch. I stare down at my words and snap the journal shut.

  I get up off the swing and walk down the porch steps and around to check on Mama Dog. She’s not there and her food dish is empty. I guess after my meltdown yesterday, nobody bothered to feed her. Standing just inside the door of the garage, my eyes wander around the room. Ian’s managed to get a lot done in the brief time he’s been working out here.

  My footsteps echo across the cement floor. It’s eerily quiet right now compared to yesterday. The iPod is gone from the dock, so I know Ian must have come back out here before leaving. For some reason this sends waves of disquiet through me and I worry that maybe he’s not planning on returning.

  I inhale deeply. Too bad I can’t just wish away what happened by telling myself it was just a stupid dream. I turn to scoop some food in Mama Dog’s dish and am surprised to discover that the dog food I’d scattered everywhere yesterday has been cleaned up.

  I feed Mama Dog and head back to the house. I grab my journal and tuck the pen back behind my ear before going inside. I make my way to the piano room, and I’m a little surprised to find Gwen sitting in front of the roaring fireplace. She glances up when I walk in.

  My eyes dance from Gwen to the piano and back again. She notices my hesitation and smiles. “I’d love to hear you play, if you don’t mind an audience.”

  I shrug and take a seat on the piano bench, setting the journal beside me.

  “Your uncle told me that you used to write songs,” she says.

  I nod.

  “Have you written anything since…” She stops herself, mentally rearranging the question, before continuing, “Since you’ve been here?”

  A heaviness settles in my chest and I shake my head no. Hoping to put an end to the conversation, my fingers quickly find their places on the keys, and I begin to gently play a sad Sarah McLachlan song that seems tailor-made for the mood I’m in today. “I Will Remember You.”

  Gwen stands and pokes the fire, staring silently into the flickering flames while I play. I wonder if maybe there’s someone special she’s thinking about. It’s not until I strike the final chords of the song that she turns in my direction. Her eyes glisten in the firelight. “Beautiful,” she says, her voice thick with emotion.

  My shoulders rise and fall with measured breathing. I contemplate what to play next. Gwen interrupts my train of thought by saying, “Maybe you should try your hand at writing again. Music was such an important part of your life. Seems a shame to waste such talent.”

  I close my eyes and shake my head slowly from left to right. “I’m not that person anymore.” I ease away from the piano and gather my journal before leaving. Suddenly, I feel tired all the way down to the center of my bones.

  Gwen settles back into the chair in front of the fire and I head upstairs to my room. Her words repeat in my thoughts and I mentally ask myself why don’t I write anymore? The only answer I can come up with is because maybe the kind of pain I feel hurts too much to try and put into words. I don’t know if I’m able to relive that kind of anguish while trying to keep a grip on what, if any, shards of my sanity remain.

  Chapter 26

  I watch from the porch swing as T’s SUV comes to a stop in front of the garage. His long legs slide out open door. He smiles up at me and waves. I waggle my fingers back at him. T doesn’t come every day, but when he does, I’m happy to see him. The fact that he usually brings me a gadget or gift of some sort when he shows up adds to my pleasure at seeing his truck pull up.

  Today he’s carrying one of those big cushions for the inside of a doghouse or crate in his one hand and a flat box in his other. I meet him halfway to see what he’s brought. The flat box has a heating pad for the doghouse. “This will help keep those dogs of yours warm over the winter months,” he says, pushing the box toward me to take.

  “Mama Dog won’t even sleep in the house Ian brought,” I breathe.

  “Maybe that’s because there isn’t any incentive for her,” he says.

  “Maybe.” I shrug.

  “I bet once you stick that heating pad and this mattress inside, she’ll figure out how much better it is than sleeping on the cold, hard dirt beneath the porch, don’t you think?” T asks confidently.

  A heartfelt grin splits my face and I nod in agreement. Helping Mama Dog and her pups takes my mind off of waiting, watching, and wondering where the hell Ian is and if he’ll show up today or not.

  I’m so focused on trying to make the doghouse into a more comfortable winter abode that it surprises me when Ian’s lanky frame casts a shadow over me.

  T grinds his cigarette into the gravel with the toe
of his shoe. “I think Gwen needs me to do something inside.” He blows out the last puff of smoke and winks knowingly at me. I twist my mouth into a scowl and wave my hand at him dismissively.

  I grow still sensing Ian hovering close behind me. A sense of relief washes over me when he finally speaks. “I’ll see if I can find an extension cord so you can plug that heating pad in up on the porch,” he offers quietly.

  I peer up into his face, using my hand to shield my eyes from the sun. I’m trying to tamp down the urge to leap to my feet and wrap my arms around his neck. In spite of being happy he’s here, I’m taken aback by something off with his appearance. There’s at least two days worth of copper-colored stubble along his jaw, and his hair is poking out in several directions.

  In some ways it makes him even sexier, like he just crawled out of bed. The set of his jaw and the sag of his shoulders indicate that “sexy” isn’t the look he was going for when he left the house this morning. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t just roll over in the front seat of his pickup, put the key in the ignition, and drive straight out here.

  My eyes follow him as he makes his way across the yard to his truck. So many thoughts flicker though my head and my need to explain my odd behavior is strong. It’s probably good that giving voice to all of the words spinning out of control like a Kansas cyclone inside of me isn’t easy. I have questions. I have answers. I have excuses. I have some very painful admissions to make. As much as I think I’m ready, I don’t know if he is.

  What if the timing isn’t right? Am I really so ready to open up about what little I remember? Should I wait until I remember everything, if I ever do? Is he ready to hear it, or does he even care? From his unkempt appearance, I know I’m probably being selfish — making this all about me, when it’s obvious he has demons of his own that he’s wrestling with.

  The slamming of the toolbox lid on his truck snaps me back to the present. He reaches the orange electrical cord toward me, “This should work.”