I Breathe You

by Lori L. Clark

  I hop out of the car and make my way into the house through the garage. The temperature inside has dropped from the cold air coming in through the fist-sized hole in the front window. “Do you have any cardboard or anything to tape over that?” I ask nodding toward the front door.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. You go try and get some rest,” he says. As an afterthought he adds, “We’ll go feed your dogs later. How’s that sound?”

  “Good,” I nod. I kiss him on the cheek. “I’m sorry, T. Really, I am.”

  “I know,” his mouth smiles, but his eyes don’t.

  I sit on the bed in the guestroom and listen to the empty silence surrounding me. I know I need to get my anger under control. I always feel horrible after I lose it. It’s like I’m possessed by some other person. There is no reasoning with me when I get that way because I’m never in my right mind. Afterwards, it’s frightening to think about how insane I acted and think that is really is a good thing I don’t own a gun.

  I collapse against the old-fashioned quilt and curl up into a ball on my side. Tears slide off of my face onto the pillow. I’m exhausted and know I should sleep. Adrenaline overload is like being on a bad high, and now my body is crashing hard. Couple my temper tantrum with my feeling of stupidity for believing that Ian really cared about me and you’ll understand why I want to go back to my house and never leave again.

  The pain meds they gave me at the hospital finally manage to relax me and I drift off into a fitful sleep.

  Chapter 48

  It’s just after noon when I roll over and glance at the clock beside the bed. T is banging around in the kitchen probably making lunch. My hand throbs in time with each heartbeat, my mouth feels like the inside of a garbage disposal and I desperately need a shower to wash Ian off my skin.

  I pull some clean clothes out of my overnight bag and drag myself groggily to the guest bathroom. Washing myself one-handed is no small feat, but I manage. There is not enough hot water in the world to rinse away the memory of Ian’s touch. I know because the water is on the colder side of lukewarm by the time I turn it off and step from the shower.

  T is staring out the kitchen window when I walk into the room. He turns toward me with bloodshot eyes and tosses me his cell phone. “Apparently Callahan doesn’t have your number?” he frowns at me.

  “I didn’t bring my phone with me. You’re the only one I text and I didn’t figure I’d be texting you from the next room.” I wrinkle my nose. “Why?”

  “Because he’s been blowing up my phone all morning. Calling. Texting. Leaving messages. See for yourself,” he barks.

  I wince at his tone and reach for the phone while he pours himself a fresh cup of coffee. I sit down at the table. “I don’t want to talk to him. Did you tell him I don’t want to talk to him?”

  “Not my business,” he says.

  “You can tell him when you call him and let him know his services are no longer needed at my house,” as I cross my arms in front of me defiantly. T’s mouth opens, then closes, when he recognizes the look of stubborn determination written across my face. “Until you do that, I guess you’re just going to have to put up with the messages.”

  In an effort to change the subject, T slides the small gift that Ian gave me across the table. I scowl. “I don’t want that thing.”

  His jaw clenches. “Hate the player. Don’t hate the game.”

  I grit my teeth and pick at the gauze wrapping my hand. “I don’t want it. Whatever it is.”

  “I still think you should open it.” T sighs loudly. “I’m going to grab a shower. Then we’ll go out to the house.”

  When he gets up to leave the room, I avoid meeting his eyes even though I feel them on me. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I pick up the small package. I pick at the tape on the carefully wrapped box. The memory of Ian’s bare skin against mine causes a painful tightness to spread across my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to obliterate him and his skeletal wife — ex-wife, whatever she is — from my foggy brain.

  I inhale a deep breath and balloon my cheeks out with a slow exhale. Reluctantly, I tear at the wrapping paper. The plain white box inside mocks me, daring me, to open it. Carefully, I pull off the lid. A car key. What the hell?

  T wanders in rubbing his freshly showered hair with a thick towel. I snicker silently at his bird legs. “I see you opened it.”

  “What is this? Some kind of joke?” I shove the box away from me. T shakes his head, and I shoot him a perplexed look. “Did you know about this?”

  “I might have had something to do with it, yes,” he says noncommittally. He examines the key, turning it over between his fingers. His mouth twitches at the corners. “I’ll get dressed so we can leave.”

  My fingers drum against the tabletop. “Fine.”

  During the entire ride home, it feels as though everyone’s in on some elaborate plot against me. Their sole intention being to confuse me and make me wonder what the hell is going on. I stare out the window at the passing scenery conveniently dusted white for Christmas. The lacerations covering my hand sting and throb.

  Tire tracks in the snow leading to the house cause my forehead to crease. “Looks like someone’s been here,” I comment.

  “Hmm,” T murmurs. I tilt my head and glance sideways at him. He nods toward the windshield, “Now how did that get here?”

  My eyes dart forward and my mouth drops open as I recognize the black BMW parked in the drive. “My car?”

  A toothy grin splits his face. “Merry Christmas, baby girl.”

  My mouth falls open in disbelief. “Dad gave you my car?”

  “Not exactly,” T snorts. “The cheap bastard made me buy it from him.”

  I close my eyes, shaking my head back and forth. “Imagine that.” I’m really not shocked that my cheap bastard of a father did that. We pull to a stop behind the car and I hop from the SUV. I chew on my bottom lip. “When?”

  “Ian drove up early yesterday morning and hauled it back here as a surprise.” T smiles and opens up the driver’s door. “We’ve been planning this for a while. I’m just glad you waited until he delivered it safe and sound before you decided to hate him.”

  “Me too.” I close my eyes, suddenly feeling lightheaded. “I don’t know if I’m ready to go out joyriding anytime soon.”

  “Maybe not,” he shrugs. “But this way you won’t have to depend on anyone to take you where you want to go. You can just go. You know. Like to see the doctor. Or, to anger management. Or maybe even classes at the local community college.”

  “Anger management?” I crinkle my nose. The wheels start to turn in my frazzled brain. “College?”

  “Sure. Why not?” he smiles. He gestures with his arm, doing a Vanna White-style wave.

  “Because I don’t have a clue what I want to be when I grow up, that’s why not,” I tell him.

  I step closer to the car and slide behind the wheel. I close my eyes and deeply breathe in the leather-scented interior. It still smells like a new car. “Start her up,” he says.

  I clutch my arms around me. “Not now.” My heart is racing just sitting in the driver’s seat. I’d probably hyperventilate if I stuck the key in the ignition and actually started it. I slide out and shut the door behind me. “I better feed Mama Dog.”

  “I’ll meet you inside when you’re done.”

  After I’ve made sure the dogs are taken care of, I make my way into the kitchen. I snicker at the sight of T standing in front of the stove wearing Gwen’s apron. I peek around the room. “How is it that I was only outside for like ten minutes and you’ve managed to turn all Rachael Ray on me?”

  He shoots me a dirty look and continues stirring something that actually smells delicious on top of the stove. “You can thank Gwen when she gets back. She did all the work.”

  “Nice,” I say. “What can I do to help? And remember, I’m handicapped,” I say as I hold up my injured hand.

  “Here, stir this so it doesn’t
burn to the pan. I need to get the ham out of the fridge and into the oven to reheat.”

  Later while we’re sitting around the table eating, T grumbles and pulls his phone out. He throws it on the table. “Do me a favor before we go back to my place?”

  “What?”

  “Grab your damn phone, and text Callahan so he’ll stop annoying the piss out of me by calling mine,” he says as he narrows his eyes at me.

  “I don’t have anything to say to him.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t either,” T says pointing his fork at me. “What the hell did he do that was so bad anyway?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” I swirl the ice around in my glass and take a sip. “He’s an LCB. A Lying. Cheating. Bastard.”

  “That bad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alright then.” T sticks a forkful of ham into his mouth and shakes his head. “I guess you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

  Chapter 49

  After dinner, I help T clear the kitchen. I shoo him outside to smoke while I wash the dishes. By the time he finally makes his way back inside, I’m finished and drying my hands.

  “You ready to head back into town?” T yawns.

  “I’m not going with you,” I tell him.

  He quirks an eyebrow. “That right? I don’t know how I feel about you staying here alone.”

  “I’m a big girl. I’ll be twenty-four in April, you know.” I stand and stretch my arms over my head before ticking off several reasons why it’s okay for me to stay here by myself. “I’m not stranded anymore. I have a way to leave if I have to. I don’t need you to babysit.”

  He sucks in a noisy breath and shakes his head. “I don’t like it, but I can’t force you to go. I’d stay here with you, but I have some things I need to take care of bright and early tomorrow morning.”

  “Like finding someone else to finish the project Ian started in the garage,” I remind him.

  “Look. About that. I wish you’d reconsider,” he says as he eyes me warily. “Callahan is the best man I’ve got.”

  “Apparently you’re not the only one who shares that opinion of him,” I smirk. When he fails to appreciate my humor, I add, “I’m not suggesting you can’t use him for other jobs. I’d just really rather he doesn’t continue working here. That’s all. Do this for me, please, T?”

  “Okay, baby girl,” he gives in reluctantly. He watches me pointedly, as though he wants to add something.

  I hold up my hand. “I’ll text him.”

  This seems to placate my uncle, so he smiles and pulls on his coat. “I probably won’t be out tomorrow. Text me if you need me.”

  I nod and throw my arms around his neck. “Thanks for getting my car back. I owe you.”

  The corner of his mouth twists into a smirk, “I won’t let you forget that, you know.”

  I roll my eyes. “I know.”

  “Merry Christmas, baby girl,” he says, kissing me on the cheek.

  As soon as he leaves, I run upstairs to retrieve my journal. I’m about to go back down when I remember my promise to T about texting Ian. I’d stuffed the phone in the top dresser drawer between my socks and underwear. When I pull it out, a business card drifts to the floor. It’s the card Dr. Lee had given me. My hand drifts to my throat, as Dr. Lee’s words float through my thoughts, “We can fix your voice, Rhane.”

  When I power on the cell, there are countless text messages, phone messages, and missed calls. All from Ian. I clench my jaw anxiously. I’m not interested in anything he has to say. But maybe I am a little curious. Just one text doesn’t mean I care, right? I decide to read the last text he sent, about two hours ago. It’s just one word: PLEASE. My eyes fill instantly. I blink several times. I will not cry over this.

  Remembering T’s orders, I hit reply and type out, I don’t want to talk to you. There’s nothing you could possibly say to me that would make what you did okay. I would appreciate it if you’d lose this number and stop trying to contact me through T. I take a deep breath and press send before I chicken out and change my mind. A sneaky tear slides from the corner of my eye. I turn the phone off, stuff it back under my panties, and shut the drawer. Ironically, it’s as close as Ian will ever be to my underwear again.

  Taking my journal with me, I roam outside to sit on the porch swing and write. I pull on my favorite fingerless gloves. There’s a hollow ache inside my chest, reminding me how Ian always teased me about my useless hand warmers. I close my eyes and lean back against the swing in an effort to clear my head.

  There’s a new year coming and if I intend for it to be a better one, I’m going to have to put some effort into making it happen. I know that we don’t always have control over what happens. Fate’s a bitch that way. But there are some things I do want to try and work through, because it’s time.

  Sitting up, I sigh and open my journal and start a list of New Year’s plans — not resolutions exactly, just plans. My conversation with T from earlier about getting to the bottom of my anger issues is one thing I intend to talk over with Dr. Stephens.

  Then there’s the whole idea that maybe I should consider going back to college again. I chew on the end of my pen. My eyes focus on my car across the drive, and I remember how excited I’d been going off to college. God, that seems like a lifetime ago.

  I know I want to work on writing new songs. I’m not sure what I’ll do with them once I write them, but it was always something I did well. The court case looms over my head about the fate of the other things I’ve written. They might be able to claim rights to the songs we sang as a group, but they can’t take anything from me going forward.

  Maybe that’s what I need. Something to occupy my time so that my brain doesn’t wander down into the murky depths of a past better left behind. Like my parents and their refusal to accept that I actually have an identity other than something they carefully mapped out for me. Like Dalton. Ian. Everything.

  “I think it’s time to reinvent Rhane Evans.”

  Chapter 50

  Soon the new year is upon us and I’m bound and determined not to sink any lower into the depths of no return. I’ve been trying to set up a daily routine for myself. My mornings consist of getting up at a reasonable — by my standards — hour and doing something physical like yoga or Pilates. I always make time for Mama Dog and her four pups before eating breakfast. Later today I have my first appointment of the year with Dr. Stephens. Strangely, I’m looking forward to the session.

  Gwen sits at the kitchen table doing her usual daily crossword puzzle while I peel an orange for breakfast. She raises her eyes to study me as I pop an orange slice into my mouth. “Christmas is over. You can probably change your hair color now.”

  My mouth twists into a smirk. “What? You don’t like the green and red?”

  “Not particularly, no.”

  Her honesty makes me laugh. “I suppose you’re right. I just haven’t decided what color I’m going with next.”

  She goes back to staring at the crossword puzzle. “I’ve got an idea.”

  “I just bet you do,” I whisper.

  “What about your natural color? That would be something bold and daring, don’t you think?” she asks.

  I twist my mouth and contemplate her suggestion. “I don’t know if I’m quite ready to be me yet.” She shakes her head but doesn’t say anything. “Hey, give me a break, I’m a work in progress.”

  “That’s something, I suppose,” she agrees as she takes a sip of coffee and pushes away from the table. “Did you want me to take you to your appointment today? Or were you going to drive yourself?”

  I wrinkle my nose and think for a moment before answering. “I’ll drive myself.”

  She turns, a slight smile creeping across her face. “Well, I know when I’m not needed,” she teases. “Next you’ll be replacing me altogether.”

  I shake my head. “No way. T and I would starve to death if you weren’t around.”

  “Thanks. I think,” she snorts
. She stares out the window and mutters something I can’t quite hear. She faces me and leans against the counter. “You need to decide what you’re going to do with those dogs.”

  “I know,” I sigh. I don’t want to face the inevitable. I stand and join her at the window, watching. “I’ll stop by the vet’s office this afternoon and make an appointment to have Mama Dog spayed. I’ll ask about the puppies. Maybe they’ll be able to help me adopt them out.”

  “Good.”

  Since Gwen usually just comes right out and says what’s on her mind it surprises me a little that she hasn’t asked why some other man has taken over doing the workout room job Ian had started. Even though it’s what I told T I wanted, now that it’s a reality, a big painful ball of angst settles in the bottom of my gut. I rub my fingers over the stitches on my damaged hand and stare out the window as the new guy gets out of his van and goes into the garage.

  Gwen glances sideways at me, her eyes shifting from the frown on my face down to the wounds on my hand, and she draws in a deep breath. I prepare myself because I know it’s coming. She doesn’t disappoint. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  My eyebrows draw together quizzically. “You know what happened to my hand.”

  She rolls her eyes at me, nodding at my hand. “Not that. I’m talking about what happened with you and Ian.”

  My eyes sting and I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s a long story.”

  She folds her arms in front of her. “I’ve got time.”

  Taking a deep breath, I begin to recant the entire ugly story. It’s actually kind of nice to get it out. Keeping it bottled up inside where it’s been festering like a wound that won’t heal hasn’t been easy. Part of the reason I told T to have a punching bag installed in the new workout room is so I can work out my emotions in a constructive way. And just as soon as my hand heals completely, I’m going to beat the hell out of it. I tell her the whole night’s events, complete with Aubrey’s name calling and her assumption that I was just some slut Ian brought home — as though he made a habit of doing that.