I Breathe You

by Lori L. Clark

  My mouth is dry and I peek at him through lowered lashes. He watches me intently as I make a fist with my right hand and slowly draw it over my chest in a circular motion telling him in sign language that I’m sorry. A slow-moving smile lifts the corners of his mouth. He nods and does something with his hands in response. Shit. I hope he just said he forgives me in sign language. Judging from the dimple peeking though the scruff on his left cheek, I’m almost ninety-nine percent positive he accepts my apology.

  He laughs at my dumbfounded expression and says, “You’re forgiven.”

  “Oh.” I smile back. Suddenly, it feels as though about a hundred moths are fluttering about inside my stomach and it makes me squirm. I chastise myself for feeling a little bit like a love struck junior high girl. My pulse quickens and I suck in a deep breath when his hand reaches toward me. He picks a small twig from my hair and holds it in front of my face for me to see.

  We’re quiet for a few seconds while I wait for my heartbeat and breathing to return to normal. I concentrate hard to steady my trembling knees. In the past, it was nothing for me to go onstage and perform in front of thousands, but standing before Ian is a hundred times more unnerving than any crowd I’ve been in front of. Ever.

  He runs a hand through the mess on top of his head and sighs. “Sunshine?” he asks quietly. Tipping my chin so that our eyes meet, he continues, “What upset you so much the other day?”

  I draw in a deep breath and release it noisily. “That song? The one playing on your iPod?” I begin.

  “Yeah, you definitely flipped about that particular song, but why?” His gaze is intense and his eyes never waver.

  I stare down at the dirt between my boots. My eyes drift back up, meeting his. I point my thumb back at my chest. “That was me singing. My song.” I press my palm against my throat and swallow the painful lump forming there. “From before.”

  Ian’s eyes soften and before I have time to object, his arms are around my shoulders pressing me into his chest. “Oh God. I am so sorry, Sunshine,” he whispers into my hair. My face is buried in the soft flannel of his shirt and I breathe in his scent. He’s all sawdust, leather, and man. “I had no idea you were part of Fate’s Crazy.”

  “Lead singer.” I blink furiously, trying to ward off the tears stinging the back of my eyes. I so do not want to cry in front of him again. But it’s futile. My shoulders begin to tremble. He pulls me tighter into him. I could lose myself in his embrace. His arms around me are calming and it’s surprisingly easy to relax. We stand like this for a while until, finally, his arms slide up and he cradles my face in his hands, forcing me to meet those sexy gray-green eyes.

  Oh hell. We’re so close that the warmth of his breath tickles my nose. I breathe in the faint scent of cinnamon and realize if he were to kiss me now I’d lose all my good sense. I’m not even supposed to like him. I smile weakly and place my hands against his chest, gently pushing him away. “I’m okay now,” I whisper and step back to put some space between us.

  Stepping away from him is the hardest thing I’ve had to do since I first laid eyes on him. If he only knew how much I need him right now, he’d probably disappear and never come back.

  He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. “I better get to work, taking yesterday off put me behind schedule.” I open my mouth to ask why he wasn’t here, but the question lodges inside my throat for now.

  Chapter 27

  The next day, teeny snowflakes drift randomly down from the sky in front of my face. My journal and I are in my favorite place, on the porch swing, in spite of the chill in the air. T didn’t come for breakfast today, so I’m a little surprised when his Lexus pulls up the drive midmorning.

  As soon as his long legs hit the gravel, he’s fumbling in his coat pockets for his cigarettes and lighter. He carries a large manila envelope and the look on his face is anything but cheerful. “We need to talk,” he says quietly as he approaches the house. I scowl and pat the swing beside me. He shakes his head, “Let’s go inside.”

  I shrug. “Okay.”

  I fold my arms in front of my chest and nod to the cigarette in his hand. Besides hating the smell, it irritates my throat. He draws in a long puff and bends to knock the cherry off the end before tucking it back into the pack to save for later. He holds the screen door open and motions for me to go in ahead of him.

  We each take a seat at the kitchen table where Gwen is busy doing a crossword puzzle and drinking coffee. Her eyes peer over the top of her reading glasses and dart between the two of us. She smiles politely and stands to leave us alone. “I think I’ll go start a fire in the fireplace.”

  T nods at her conspiratorially while he slides the envelope across the table toward me. “This came in the mail yesterday,” he says. His face is stony, all business. “I’ve taken the liberty of speaking to my lawyer on your behalf.”

  My eyebrows draw together and I glance at the return address on the envelope. Conklin & Metcalf Law Offices. Clayton, MO. I unclasp the envelope, withdrawing a letter. Quickly, I scan the notarized document. My pulse quickens as needles of agitation begin to prickle at the base of my neck.

  I pull in a noisy breath between clenched teeth and shove everything back across the table at him. I narrow my eyes. “Over my dead body!” I hiss. T places his hand on my arm, trying to delay the explosion he knows is building inside of me. Adrenaline courses through my body, and I begin to tremble with rage.

  I jerk away from him and stand, pushing my chair back with such force it topples noisily to the floor behind me. T’s hand snakes out, surprisingly fast, and he grabs hold of my wrist. “Hear me out, baby girl.” His voice is firm and spoken with more authority than I’m used to coming from him. I’m taken aback; T never orders me to do anything. My jaw tenses and I wrench my arm free long enough to pick up the chair and sit down again.

  “My lawyer feels it would be in your best interest to agree to their terms about the ownership of the name ‘Fate’s Crazy,’” he says. I open my mouth to protest and he glares at me openly. I snap it shut, allowing him to continue. “However, the songs and the music that you wrote or co-wrote with Dalton Morgan? He’s inclined to agree with your assessment. When hell freezes over.”

  By the time T and I reach a truce, my throat is raw from all of the going back and forth. Donnie and Ronnie Donleavy, along with Fate’s Crazy’s manager, Nick Dauber, are suing me for the rights to continue playing music under the name Fate’s Crazy and they want the rights to all of the music. My music. I wrote nearly all of that material with Dalton. I don’t give a damn about the band’s name. It’s highly unlikely I’ll ever use it again. But I will fight them with everything I have over the rights to the music.

  Before T goes, I make him promise to take care of everything. He cautions me that I will most likely have to travel to St. Louis and make a court appearance for the hearing. I don’t like it, but not going means they would automatically win, and that is so not happening.

  I go upstairs and dye my hair blue in an attempt to display the mood that has descended over me.

  Later as I sit on the bed scribbling in my journal, Ian’s voice floats up the stairs. “Rhane? I need to come up there. I think I left my square in the bathroom. If that’s okay? I mean, if you’re decent. Would you give me a sign or throw something to let me know?” He pauses. “Just don’t throw anything heavy, and try not to aim for the face.”

  In spite of the hovering black clouds, I smile to myself and hop off the bed. I peer over the railing and give him a thumbs-up to let him know the coast is clear.

  His eyes lock on my bold, blue hair immediately, and he gives me a half frown. “What’s up with the hair?”

  “Matches my mood.”

  He nods and continues slowly up the steps, his intense gaze never leaving me. “And what mood would that be?”

  “Blue?” Work with me here Ian. This isn’t rocket science.

  “Blue’s one of my favorite colors.” He grins, standing in front of me. “Fo
r a shirt. Or a car. Or a fish. Or something. Just never imagined it as a hair color.”

  “I am unique, if nothing else.” I whisper and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, smiling shyly.

  “Unique? Sunshine, you are one of a freaking kind,” he says tipping his head back to laugh heartily.

  Unique is good, right? It makes me giggle a little. My eyes light up with a real smile and I clutch my journal to my chest. It gives me a renewed sense of confidence. Something I often find myself questioning whenever he’s around.

  “Why weren’t you here the other day?” I blurt. As soon as the words are out of my mouth I want to pull them back inside, but can’t. I chew on my lower lip, waiting for his response. He’ll either evade the question entirely, or surprise me and answer.

  “I had something I needed to take care of,” he says quietly. Okay? Vague much? He turns and starts to walk away, trying to put an end to a conversation he’s obviously not interested in having. I gently lay my hand on his arm and he tenses, but doesn’t jerk away. I pull in a deep breath watching his gray-green eyes narrow and jaw muscles clench as he turns to face me.

  “It’s not because you think I’m crazy?” I ask. My eyes lower to the floor, settling on nothing, especially not him.

  “What?” His forehead creases. “No. It has nothing to do with you.”

  His words come out a little harsher than I expect. Not going to lie, it stings a little bit. I turn away from him and toss my journal onto the bed.

  He reaches for me. “No, wait. I didn’t mean that like it sounded.” He rakes his hand roughly through his copper-colored hair and motions for me to sit. “Let me explain.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s none of my business.” I try to act nonchalant, shrugging it off.

  “Seriously, let me at least give you the condensed version. I want to,” he offers gently.

  I sit on the edge of my bed. He pulls the chair out from the desk and straddles it facing me. He cups his chin and focuses his attention on the room’s only window as though he’s searching for the right words. “Wow,” he finally says. He shakes his head. “There is no easy way to put this, I guess.”

  “Look, really. It’s okay. I don’t need to know. I was just concerned when you didn’t show up. I thought maybe I had taken psycho to a whole new level and you decided you don’t need that in your life.” The words pour out of me. It might even be the longest stretch of words I’ve spoken since the accident.

  “I wish it were that easy, Rhane,” he mutters with a bitter chuckle. “Without digging up a whole graveyard of skeletons, I’ll try and give you the condensed version.”

  I nod. He used my real name. I didn’t realize how much having him call me Sunshine affects me. Until he didn’t.

  His hand kneads the back of his neck, presumably to relieve the tension building inside of him. “While I’m at work, I have to rely on my older sister, Adrianna, to watch my little girl.”

  “What’s her name? Your daughter?”

  “Emerald Tara Callahan. We call her Emmy.” Ian’s face lights up, clearly the proud dad.

  “Irish much?” I tease, hoping to lighten his mood.

  His shakes his head and warm laughter spills from his lips. It’s a musical sound and I decide I don’t hear nearly enough of it. “I know, right?”

  I shift on the bed, tucking my legs beneath me, hopeful that my relaxed stance will help him feel more at ease.

  He stops laughing and I watch as the light visibly goes out of his eyes. “Adrianna — Addy — is an alcoholic. Among other things. She hit rock bottom about a year and a half ago. I got her into rehab. She’s been clean and sober for six months so I trusted her to watch Emmy for me during the day while I work,” he says. His forehead wrinkles and I swear there are new shadows beneath his eyes.

  “Emmy’s seven?” I ask. My eyebrows draw into a frown. “Doesn’t she have school?”

  Ian’s mouth twists up on one side, “Emmy attends a special school half-days. I still rely on Addy to help out the rest of the time.”

  Of course. Being unable to communicate through normal channels would make attending public school a challenge, to say the least. “Sorry,” I whisper softly.

  He waves me off. “Don’t be. So, long story short, Addy fell off the wagon and I don’t need my daughter around that kind of environment. She’s already been through more in her seven years than any kid should have to endure. Ever.” He pauses and shakes his head. “I had to find someone to take care of Emmy while I worked.”

  There’s so much emotion behind his words that I feel the urge to touch him. I lay my palm against his cheek. He takes my hand between his and squeezes gently.

  “Did you find someone to watch her for you?” I ask.

  “It hasn’t been easy. Most people are reluctant to have a deaf seven-year-old in their care. She’s with her Grandma O’Meara for today. There is no way in hell that’s going to become a habit though,” he says. His jaw clenches and he drops my hand. “I should have known better than to count on my sister. Or count on anything in my life to go right for that matter.”

  “I’m sorry,” I offer again.

  He smiles softly and reaches for my hand. I nearly swallow my tongue when he pulls it toward his mouth and kisses the back of my knuckles. My stomach somersaults and I tamp down the urge to pull away from him.

  “There you have it. The condensed version of Ian Callahan’s fucked up life.” He shakes his head and laughs bitterly. He stands and makes his way toward the bathroom to retrieve his tools. “I need to get back to work. The last thing I need right now is for your uncle to fire my ass.”

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m off the bed and following him into the bathroom behind him. He glances over his shoulder, eyeing me curiously. “Why don’t you bring Emmy out here? I’ll watch her for you while you work.” A nervous, silent laugh bubbles from my mouth. “Maybe I’ll teach her how to play the piano.”

  He laughs, “You? You’re going to teach a deaf child how to play the piano?” His words cut to my heart and my face falls.

  “You’re right. What the hell was I thinking?” I turn away from him, so he doesn’t see my eyes fill with unshed tears.

  I hear him sigh loudly before feeling his arms wrap around me from behind. “I’m sorry, Sunshine. But the thought of two stubborn, short-tempered females who are unable to communicate through normal channels spending time together…” he laughs and his cinnamon-scented breath tickles against my hair. “But if you’re up for the challenge, maybe she can teach you sign language.”

  I nudge him with my elbow for teasing me and he grunts. “If you want, I’ll bring her by tomorrow so you can meet. If she approves of you, we may have a deal.”

  On the outside, there’s a fat-cat grin plastered across my face. On the inside I’m wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. Me? Babysit a deaf seven-year-old? Good God, I really am off my cracker.

  Chapter 28

  Saturday mornings are not much different from every other day. In fact, if we didn’t have a giant appointment calendar hanging on the wall that Gwen marks off each day with a big red X, it would be difficult to distinguish one day from the next. But today’s different. I stand up, sit down, and stand up again more times than an attendee at a Catholic wedding.

  T arches an eyebrow, peering over the top of the newspaper he’s reading. After about the third lap I’ve made around the room, he asks, “What are you so uptight about this morning?”

  “I’m not uptight,” I hiss.

  Gwen’s eyes light with a twinkle of mischief. “Ian is bringing his daughter by today.”

  T’s head snaps up. “Ian? Callahan? Why on earth would he do something like that?”

  I stop pacing and cross my arms in front of my chest. “Why shouldn’t he?”

  T opens his mouth to speak, but when Gwen narrows her eyes into a steely glare, he huffs and snaps the newspaper back in front of his face.

  I put my hand on the top of th
e paper and gently push it down so that we’re eye to eye. “Don’t you like Ian?”

  “Oh I like him just fine. As an employee. Callahan’s a hard worker and his work ethic is impeccable. For those reasons, yes, I like him fine,” T says.

  “But?” I ask, chewing on the skin around my thumbnail.

  T mutters something unintelligible under his breath before folding the newspaper and setting it aside. “But he has questionable morals.”

  “Oh, I see. He’s good enough to work for you, but you wouldn’t want to hang out with him or anything.” I shake my head at him.

  “I’d hang out with him,” T grumbles. “I’d just don’t know if you should.”

  “Thomas,” Gwen warns. “Gossip is like a cancer. It spreads like wildfire destroying everything in its path. Be careful what you repeat, unless you’re absolutely sure it’s the truth.”

  “Fair enough,” T sighs. He reaches for his cigarettes, quickly changing his mind when Gwen and I give him the evil eye. He sighs and drums his fingers on the table. “Okay, here’s what I know — for sure — about Callahan. He grew up in Fairfield Meadows. A fancy name for the dump of a trailer park on the other side of town. His mother Dotty worked at Saylor’s Bar and Grill. To put it bluntly, his mother was a drunken whore.”

  My eyes grow round and Gwen pushes her chair noisily away from the table. “I will not sit here and listen to you trash that young man,” she says, giving him a look filled with so much heat he visibly flinches.

  I stop pacing and lean against the counter. My pulse pounds loudly in my ears. Do I want to hear more? Absolutely. I’m like Pandora staring at that damn box. As soon Gwen is out of the kitchen, T continues.

  “Ian’s father, Raymond Callahan, scratched and clawed for every red cent he could get, he was a good man. A hard-working man. One night Ray came home and found Ian’s mom in a rather, shall we say, compromising position with some young guy. Ray completely lost his mind. He wound up shooting Dotty, and her lover, before turning the gun on himself.”