I Breathe You

by Lori L. Clark

  A throat clears loudly with an exaggerated “Ahem,” from the direction of the door. I turn, never so relieved to see Gwen as I am right now.

  The color rises in Ian’s cheeks. “I was just leaving.” He tucks his imaginary tail between his legs and skulks from the room. Gwen turns and follows him into the hallway.

  Though their voices are muffled, I’m still able to hear fragments of their conversation. Gwen is upset with him for being here. His part of the conversation is a little louder, easier to hear. He says he’s sorry. He felt he owed me an explanation, but as it turns out he has misread my feelings for him, and the explanation is no longer necessary.

  Just stick a knife in, skewer my heart, and throw it on the grill for dinner, why don’t you? I blink a few times to keep from breaking into a sobbing mess. His boots click off down the hall. I listen to their echo until I can’t hear them anymore.

  Gwen rubs my back in small circles, a kind gesture that causes my eyes to fill once again. “I’m sorry, Rhane. Thomas and I both asked that he not come here and upset you. Guess you could say that boy’s middle name is stubborn.”

  I shrug. “That’s okay. It’s over now.”

  The nurse arrives with the obligatory wheelchair to transport me from my room to the front door. Soon, we’re in the Jeep and on our way home. The pain on Ian’s face dances on the back of my eyelids every time I close my eyes. So, I decide to leave them open, staring out the window instead.

  “Thomas said that Dr. Lee thinks he can operate and repair your vocal chords,” she says, glancing sideways at me, smiling broadly. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

  I turn to face her, shaking my head. “He can’t give me back the voice I had before the accident. Anything else would just be a lie. I’ve had enough lies to last a lifetime already, don’t you think? No surgery.”

  “You can decide later. There’s no rush.”

  I don’t respond, choosing instead to wonder what part of “no surgery” doesn’t she understand?

  Chapter 37

  I don’t know why it surprises me when Ian showed up for work the other day and Emmy wasn’t with him. Two thoughts had crossed my mind. Well, actually a lot more than two, but these two crowded out the others. One: Emmy’s mom must be home from the hospital and, two: he must not want Emmy around me anymore. As though I’ve suddenly become unfit to watch her.

  Fine. Fewer Christmas presents I’ll be buying this year. I should thank him for effectively reducing my Christmas list to two.

  The temperature is in the forties today, and all the pretty snow has become random white patches interspersed with brown and a whisper of green leftover from a summer best forgotten. My jeans are spattered with muddy puppy paw prints and I don’t even care. They are all getting so big. I’ve named each of them, and have grown quite attached.

  I continue throwing the disgustingly dirty tennis ball and they chase after it, eager to be the first to receive my praise. Even Mama Dog gets into the play. I pretend not to notice when Ian’s truck pulls into the drive, but I can’t help myself, and steal a sideways glance in his direction.

  He’s hoisting a pine tree off the back of the truck. I watch as he stands it upright on the ground. It must be eight-feet tall. He lifts the tree over his broad shoulders and starts toward the house. The traitorous pups all run straight for him, much more interested in the giant fetching stick he’s carrying than they are in the stinking old ball I have.

  Skipper is the first to reach Ian. He jumps against Ian’s long legs, knocking him off-balance. Ian, tree and all, tumbles into a pile of arms, legs and branches, landing in one of the remaining piles of snow. I’m concerned he might be hurt for all of two seconds. Then I crack up laughing. The other three pups are in the fray now, adding puppy tails and legs to the mix.

  Ian swears as gently pushes Skipper out of his face. Apparently not in the mood for puppy kisses, Ian frowns at me. “Oh sure, laugh it up, funny girl.” The irritated look on his face slowly morphs into a smile and he just shakes his head. “Don’t just stand there, save me!”

  I wrinkle my nose in between snorts of laughter and shake my head.

  Defeated, Ian collapses, sinking further into the soggy ground. His laughter mixes with the playful yaps from his four-legged playmates. He groans. “I give up.”

  I wrap my hands around the top of the tree and shimmy it off of him. There’s an ornery twinkle glimmering in his eyes when they lock on mine. Lightning fast, his hand snakes out, latching on to one of my ankles. His grasp takes me by surprise and I lose my traction in the slick grass, toppling beside him. Luckily, no animals are harmed in the process.

  My first reaction is to be pissed. I shoot him a glare and he howls with laughter. With a new target on the ground, the squirming puppies begin to romp around me, generously treating me to their excited, wet puppy kisses. Finally, I just close my eyes and shake my head. Laughter bubbles inside of me and soon I’m giggling in spite of being covered in mud and soaking wet.

  “What in heaven’s name…?” Gwen hollers from the front door.

  Ian and I exchange looks, and I bite my lower lip to try to corral the laughter. Ian holds up his index finger, there’s a glob of mud on it. He narrows his eyes at me seconds before rubbing his finger down my cheek. My mouth pops open. I can’t believe he just did that.

  Gwen chases the rambunctious group of pups away and helps me to my feet. Ian follows, picking up the surprisingly still semi-clean Christmas tree. Gwen shakes her head at us in disgust. “I hope you two don’t think you’re coming into my kitchen like that.”

  “How else are we getting inside?” I wipe my palms down the front of my jeans.

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something with that creative brain of yours,” she mutters. She turns on her heel and marches toward the front porch, struggling to drag the tree with her.

  Ian gives me a devilish grin. “Guess we just have to strip to our underwear in the front yard. You game?”

  I cock my head to the side and ask “Is that a dare?” All kinds of warning bells and whistles start clanging in my head. I figure it’s safe to peel off the soaking wet, mud-covered outer layer, and I think I put on some semi-cute panties this morning. Gwen’s right inside, so it’s not like we’re going to strip naked and have our way with each other in the front yard. Visions of naked mud wrestling dance through my head. My cheeks begin to burn.

  He has lust written all over his face as he brushes past me, stopping on the porch steps. He flashes me that too-sexy-for-my-clothes dimple of his and reaches down to untie his work boots. My feet are cemented to the spot and I’m caught up in watching him. Get a grip, Rhane.

  “You coming, or are you just going to stand out here and catch your death in those wet clothes?” he teases.

  Wrinkles form between my eyebrows and I shake my head, slowly approaching the steps. I shrug out of my coat, dropping it to the ground before kicking off my boots. I peer sideways at him as he yanks his mud-caked hoodie over his head, leaving a streak of grime in the fine stubble on his cheek.

  My breath hitches, stealing any coherent thoughts, when, stripper-style, he starts undoing his flannel shirt. Button by agonizing button, his fingers work their way down. I have to look away when he edges the bottom of the shirt out from the top of his low-slung jeans.

  My face is crimson; my pulse is pounding in my ears. He knows he has a captive audience, and from the way his eyes sparkle, I know he’s loving every torturous breath it causes me. He nods toward my muddy jeans. “What are you waiting for, Sunshine? You heard the sergeant.”

  About that time, the porch door swings open and Gwen comes back outside, headed for her Jeep. “I’ve got some things to do in town,” she says. Her eyes narrow, darting between Ian and me. “I trust you two to behave and not mess up my clean kitchen.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ian says politely.

  I roll my eyes and think, What are we, two?

  Gwen is almost to the end of the walkway when all four puppi
es set their playful sights on her. She scowls and shoos them away. Turning toward me, “You’re going to have to find homes for these guys. Soon.”

  My heart falls down between my knees. Get rid of the puppies?

  Ian whistles shrilly in an effort to coax their attention away from Gwen. Surprisingly, they listen and playfully scamper back in our direction, enabling her to get into her Jeep and escape before she also becomes a muddy mess.

  “I should fix a pen to keep them out of trouble until you find homes for them all,” Ian says. He notices the crumpled look on my face. “You weren’t planning on keeping them, were you?”

  I sit on the top step and peel off my nasty socks. “I haven’t thought about it, I guess.” I chew on my lower lip. I point to each one of the furry critters and recite their names. “Skipper, Sneaker, Sniffer, and Runt.”

  “You named them?” he asks shaking his head.

  I nod. “Skipper, because he runs everywhere he goes. Sneaker, because he reminds me of you. Sniffer always has his nose to the ground, and Runt’s the only girl.”

  His head snaps up. “Sneaker reminds you of me. What? Somehow, I don’t think you meant that in a good way.”

  I giggle a little. Sneaker actually got his name because he’s always gnawing on my shoes, utterly fascinated by shoestrings. That and sneaking off with my boots when I’m not looking. I don’t mention the legitimate reason for naming him to Ian.

  Instead, I say, “Sneaker is sneaky.” Running off with stuff, like you did with my heart.

  His warm smile falters a tick and he sighs. “Come on, let’s get out of these clothes.” I shoot him a horrified look, and he shakes his head at me. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  My pants are soaked and so disgusting, I’m not sure they’ll ever be clean again. I inhale a deep breath. Turning my back on Ian, I undo my pants and shimmy out of them. I decide to leave my t-shirt on, fiddling awkwardly with the hem, pulling it down, trying to cover more skin than it was designed for. I gather up the soiled clothes to go inside. Quickly glancing over my shoulder, I suck in a sharp breath when I see him standing there in his boxers.

  Chapter 38

  Goosebumps pop as I hurry through the kitchen on my way to the new laundry room. With more skin showing than I am strictly comfortable with around Ian, I try not to waste any more time than necessary. Lifting the lid on the washer I dump my clothes inside and twist the dial to fill the machine.

  Ian comes up behind me and stands so close I feel the heat radiating off of him in waves. He leans close and whispers into my hair, “You should probably take off your panties.”

  I stiffen, the skin prickling at the back of my neck. He’s testing me. Trying to gauge how far he can push, and whether or not I’m still upset with him. I should be. I want to be. But having him mere inches from me — clad only in boxer shorts — rational thinking is pretty much out of the question.

  “Yeah, I probably should. They’re soaked,” I whisper. My cheeks are flaming, so I avoid turning to face him but sense his eyes boring into my back. “And not in a good way.”

  He steps closer, pinning me between himself and the washing machine. He reaches around me, tossing his clothes in with mine. I’m certain he can hear the pounding of my heart as it threatens to take out a rib or two. His hands sit on top of the washer, arms lightly resting against either side of me. “Did you need me to help you out of them?”

  Yes. “No, I can manage,” I say. Streaks of mud still cover my hands. I bite my lip and turn to face him. The passion in his eyes dares me to fist my hands in his hair. Instead, I cup his cheeks with my gritty hands and swipe mud along the coppery stubble on his jaw.

  “I know you didn’t just wipe mud on my face,” he challenges, pressing closer.

  “Then you don’t know me very well,” I whisper ducking under his arms to retrieve the laundry detergent. Part of me knows I’m playing with fire, that I should put an end to this before it gets completely out of hand. But there is no denying the ache he puts deep inside of me whenever we’re together. “Here.” I press the plastic soap bottle into his chest. “Make yourself useful.”

  He grabs the bottle before it drops to the floor and I dart out of the tiny, suffocating laundry room, quickly putting distance between us. I take the stairs up to my room two at a time, my breath coming in short, excited puffs. I yank my robe from the bedpost on my way past, making my way into the bathroom. I swiftly lock the door behind me.

  I yank the t-shirt up over my head before one-handedly working my panties down to my ankles. With a little kick I toss them into the trashcan. Mentally I gauge how long I have between wash cycles and turn on the shower. This is an old house and if the rinse cycle starts while I’m mid-shower, I won’t have any cold water.

  I shower quickly and rub a thick towel through my short hair and wrap my robe around me, knotting the belt at my waist. When I open the bathroom door, I’m suddenly aware that the robe is the only thing between me and the hooded-eyed gaze Ian greets me with. He’s sitting on the bedroom floor with his long legs bent at the knees, his arms loosely draped over them.

  Invisible hands reach up through the hardwood floor and wrap tightly around my ankles, rooting me in place. I smile softly at him and secure the front of my robe. Slowly, he pushes to his feet, his eyes never straying from mine. His mouth tilts into a pseudo-smile, not quite reaching his eyes.

  He tips my chin with a finger and his mouth brushes feather-soft against the corner of my lips. “Sunshine,” his voice is throaty, barely a whisper. The word is filled with so much emotion, my heart squeezes inside my chest. “Will you let me explain now?” he asks.

  I lift my chin, contemplating how to respond. Somewhere in the back of my brain is the lame, canned reply of You don’t owe me an explanation. Luckily, lame, canned responses aren’t my thing. Because by God, I need an explanation from him. I nod once.

  “Take a shower. I’ll go find you something to wear,” I say. I lower my gaze to my hands. “We’ll talk after.” I hug myself trying to still my shaking hands. Ian nods and disappears into the bathroom.

  I grab some clothes for me to change into and head down to the spare bedroom. T keeps a few things here in case of an emergency. He and Ian are roughly the same size and shape, so it shouldn’t be hard to find something he can put on. I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear Ian yelp loudly, followed by a string of curse words. Ah. Rinse cycle strikes again. I snicker and continue toward the guest room.

  I quickly dress before managing to scrounge up a stretched out Journey concert t-shirt from the era of Steve Perry, and a pair of sweatpants. No socks, but I do find an old pair of tighty-whiteys with a distinct pink tint, no doubt the result of from having been washed with something red at one time in their history.

  Ian slowly inches the bathroom door open, peeking his head out just as I top the stairs. I bite my lower lip. He smirks at me, “Don’t worry, Sunshine. Flashing ain’t my style.”

  Darn. “That’s good to know.” I toss him the clothes.

  “Thanks,” he says. He ducks back into the bathroom, closing the door between us.

  My bedroom is probably not the best place to have any sort of serious, non-sexually-charged conversation with Ian, so I decide to wait for him in the kitchen.

  I’ve got the Christmas tree he delivered earlier at arm’s length, checking it out, when he comes into the room. We agree the best place for the tree is in the music room. He lugs it down the hall, and I stop to throw our clothes in the dryer before joining him.

  He leans the tree against the wall near the piano. Barefoot with sweats and a t-shirt, he looks right at home. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and silently admire this amazingly hot man. He drinks me in with his gray-green eyes and that errant left cheek dimple makes an appearance. This time, his smile is genuine; his eyes crinkle at the corners. My stomach flutters, and I smile back.

  I take his outstretched hand and he squeezes mine reassuringly. When he brushes his lips
against the back of my knuckles, I gasp. My face clouds momentarily. The knuckle kiss. A simple, yet intimate, gesture of love transports me for a split-second back in time to Dalton. I shake off the memory and smile weakly up at Ian.

  He drops my hand and curls his around the back of my neck, resting it there. He makes no move to draw me closer. He just stands and silently searches for whatever words he’s forming to say to me. Finally, he sighs. “Damn, Sunshine. I shouldn’t want to be this close to you, but I can’t help myself.”

  I clasp his hand in mine and lead him over to the sofa. I drop heavily onto the cushions and he kneels on the floor in front of me. “So talk to me,” I whisper.

  I lean forward, and he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “My life has been one big fuster cluck after another. In fact, I can’t remember a time when something I touched didn’t turn to shit.” He leans back and rakes a hand through his damp hair.

  “That sucks,” I tell him for lack of anything better to say.

  “I’m not going to get into all the sordid details,” he laughs bitterly. “I’m trying to win the girl here, not scare the bejesus out of her.”

  “I’m sure there are things I could tell you that would make you run screaming from the room like a little bitch,” I tell him. My expression intimates that I’m joking. The knots in my gut know better.

  “Aubrey is paranoid schizophrenic. She was always a little wild, a little crazy, but about a year ago reality packed its bags and blipped off the radar. I tried to convince her parents that she was losing it, but they wouldn’t hear it. Accused me of trying to have her committed so I could take Emmy away from her, saying she was an unfit mom.

  “One night about a year ago I came home from work and found her and Emmy locked in the crawlspace under the stairs. She was delusional, screaming over and over about the voices, and how they told her to take Emmy and hide from the birds.”

  I blink a few times, trying to wrap my head around what he’s telling me. “The birds?”