I Breathe You Read online

  The heat still isn’t working, so I dig out a pair of cotton gloves before heading downstairs. I’m surprised to see T at the kitchen table sipping on a cup of coffee. He and Gwen are going on about something as though they’re an old married couple. That thought makes me silently giggle a little to myself. T catches my eye and his eyebrows draw into a questioning frown. I point at the cigarette burning in the ashtray and plant my fists on my hips. I shake my head as if to say, not in my house you don’t.

  T’s mouth forms an apologetic O, and he slides wordlessly from the kitchen to finish his filthy habit outside. Gwen grins over the top of the newspaper T must have brought with him. “Good thing you got down here when you did. Never in my life have I seen a man so skinny put away so much food,” she says. She’s made biscuits and gravy, and it looks like there’s just enough left for maybe one serving.

  “The security company can’t come out until sometime tomorrow,” T tells me as he walks back inside. I know he’s bracing himself for the fit he’s convinced I’ll throw. When I don’t respond, he adds, “It’s the best I could do.”

  I find a pair of scissors to cut off the fingertips off of the gloves before I pull them onto my hands. My eyes move between T and Gwen, and I mouth the word: furnace?

  Gwen snorts, “Trust me, we’ve already discussed that little problem.”

  T rolls his eyes and pats the front pocket of his shirt, “I’ve got your lists right here. The HVAC guy will be here this morning for the furnace. A plumber for the, um, little water problem upstairs should be here first thing this afternoon.”

  I glance sideways at Gwen. “Did you tell him about moving the laundry room?” I whisper.

  T’s eyes bounce between the two of us, clearly aggravated from what he considers an irrational fear of spiders. “Yes, yes, she mentioned that.” He waves dismissively, “I’ve got the best all-around contractor I know coming out later to take a look at everything that needs to be fixed.”

  I smile broadly and mouth good.

  “I’ve got to run a few errands in town,” Gwen says. She stacks her coffee cup onto her plate and glances at me. “If there’s anything you need me to pick up, put together a list. I’ll have to get some groceries for the rest of the week while I’m at it. Unless you want to come along?”

  I shake my head and scowl, whispering, “I’ll make a list”

  “I know I told you the security company would be here today,” T tells me quietly once Gwen is out of earshot. “Can you humor me for one more day?”

  “I’ve decided since she can cook, she can stay.” I tell him.

  “Good thing you have a bottomless trust fund,” T says with a wink.

  “Good thing,” I nod. Grandma’s will stipulated that the money from my inheritance would become available as soon as I turned twenty-three, and since I turned twenty-three just prior to the accident in April, I am now financially secure. I thought age twenty-three was an odd choice, but she said twenty-one was too young and twenty-five was too long to wait, so she chose twenty-three.

  “Alright then.” A smile spreads across his face. “Oh! Before I forget, this is for you.” He reaches into his coat pocket and hands me a cell phone.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” I ask, bewildered.

  “Use it to text me if you need anything,” he frowns. “I’ve already entered my number for you.”

  “Anytime, night or day, right?” I tease.

  “Let’s not go getting crazy,” he says. He glances at his watch and sighs, “I’ve got to get going. I have a few things to discuss with Callahan and I want to go over your lists before he heads out here later.”

  “Callahan?”

  “Yes, Ian Callahan. He’s the contractor I mentioned,” T says quietly and reaches for a cigarette. “I think you’ll find him helpful.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” My eyebrows draw together.

  T releases a noisy breath, “Nothing, Callahan’s a hard worker.”

  I cross my arms in front of me, and glare at T. I have a feeling there’s more to this Ian Callahan character than he’s letting on. Before I can ask, the screen door is already slamming behind him, and his long-legged stride has him halfway to his SUV.

  I finish the list of things for Gwen to pick up. When she walks back into the kitchen a few minutes later, I slide it toward her and sit quietly while she skims over the items. A couple of times, a ghost of a smile threatens to crack through her tough-as-nails exterior. “Hair coloring?” she reads, peering up at me. “Something in a nice shade of blue?”

  I nod enthusiastically. “Blue’s my favorite color.”

  She huffs, “Blue is a nice color. For a dress or curtains or something, but not hair.”

  I shrug.

  “I’ll see what I can find,” she says with a deep sigh. Taking another look at the list of items, she asks, “And dog food? What? Is my cooking that bad?”

  “Yes,” I tease, adding, “Make it a big bag.”

  Even though I sense she has more questions about the blue hair dye and dog food, she just shakes her head and grabs the keys to her Jeep. “I’ll be back in a few hours. You’ll have to fend for yourself for lunch.”

  I scribble across the whiteboard for her to hurry back with the dog food, I’m partial to dry, bite-sized morsels, and grin when she curls her nose in distaste.

  She writes a phone number on a piece of paper and hands it to me, “Text me if you think of anything else.” I nod and she turns to leave.

  As soon as I’m alone, I pull on a hoodie and walk outside to see if the dog from last night has returned. There is a hole dug beneath the loosened lattice hanging off the side of the porch. I get down on my hands and knees and cup my hands around my eyes. I peer into the darkness and heartbreaking whimpers tear at my heart while my eyes adjust to the low light. I count four tiny puppies and their mama is nowhere to be found. A twinge of guilty unease sucker punches me in the stomach. What if I scared her so badly she never comes back? Not even my heart, with the big chunk missing, can resist puppies.

  I hear a vehicle approach down the long lane from the main road, and assume it’s the guy coming to fix the furnace. I stand and brush the dirt off my sweat pants. The side of the bright red Ford F-250 reads, “Powers’ Heating and Cooling.” I walk over to meet him. The driver is an older, balding man with ruddy cheeks and a big belly hanging over the belt of his Wrangler jeans. He nods and extends his hand to me, “I’m Phil Powers. Thomas Heilmann asked me to see what’s wrong with your furnace.”

  Rather than shake his hand, I stuff mine into the sweatshirt pouch and nod. I mouth the words, follow me. I make my way up the walkway toward the house. If he thinks me rude, he doesn’t let on. Not that I care. I feel no need to make him, or anyone else, my friend.

  Chapter 12

  I’m in the kitchen drumming my fingers impatiently against the scarred oak table when Gwen returns from running her errands. She lugs two grocery bags inside and plops them onto the empty counter beside the stove. She doesn’t waste any time letting me know there are more things out in the Jeep needing to be brought in. My kitchen chair scrapes loudly against the floor when I push away from the table.

  Gwen follows behind me and tells me, “There’s a forty-pound bag of dog food in the back.” She nods toward the Jeep’s open hatch. “I hope it’s your flavor.”

  I smirk and drag the bag over to the side of the house. I drop to my hands and knees in the dirt to look under the porch. Mama Dog isn’t there but it looks like she must’ve crept back recently to feed her family. The puppies are heaped in a cozy pile of cuteness, all sleeping soundly for the time being. I spring to my feet and brush the dirt from the knees of my pants, aware that Gwen is staring pointedly at me, her arms folded in front of her chest.

  What? I mouth, my eyebrows knit together.

  “I suppose every varmint in the county will come around for a free meal now.” She shakes her head. “At least it explains why you wanted the dog food.
How many of the little fur butts are under there anyway?”

  I hold up five fingers, and head inside. I rummage around in the cupboards until I find an old pie tin, perfect to use as a makeshift bowl. I open the dog food bag and scoop some into the pan before sliding it under the lattice and tucking it back out of sight beneath the porch.

  Inside, I help Gwen put away the groceries. She opens the refrigerator to stick some veggies in the crisper and comments, “I guess the furnace guy must’ve figured out what was wrong with the heat.” Judging from the warmth inside the house at the moment, I’d say that’s a pretty safe assumption.

  “Oh, here, this is for you,” she says and hands me a large plastic bag filled with several different colors of pens, a brightly colored padded journal, shampoo, conditioner, and various other items from my shopping list.

  “Thank you.” I turn and take them up to my room. I dump the pens and journal onto the bed. I sit and chew on one of the pen caps, while staring at nothing in particular, hoping for inspiration to kick in. This room used to belong to Grandma and Grandpa until he died and she was too old to easily maneuver the steps. Because of this, the room is sparsely furnished. An antique bed and dresser set occupy most of the space and there’s a small desk and chair along one wall.

  My gaze lands on the box from the apartment which silently mocks me from the corner, and I decide now is as good a time as any to tackle the unwelcome chore of going through the contents.

  I grasp the tape sealing the flaps and in one fast motion, yank it off. On the top, the first thing to greet me when I fold back the cardboard is a facedown picture frame. The blood in my veins turns icy and my hand shakes as I slowly reach to turn it over. I blink at the four members of Fate’s Crazy smiling broadly from the photo and run my finger over the glass. It’s a publicity shot of us, the last one we took together. If my memory serves me right, I think it was taken just a few weeks before the accident. My knees go weak and I dissolve into a heap in the middle of the floor. Dalton’s dazzling smile radiates warmth right off the glossy photograph.

  I sit and silently contemplate the four former friends forever frozen in time in the black and white eight by ten. Tears begin to trickle down my cheek onto my lap. I don’t know how long I sit, lost in the past, unable to move.

  “Rhane?” Gwen clears her throat returning my attention to the present. “The plumber is here. Is it alright if he comes up?”

  I get my legs beneath me and stand slowly. I walk over to the loft railing while drying my cheeks with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. She’s peering up at me and I nod to let her know it’s okay to send him on up. Her gaze narrows momentarily and I sense her curiosity about what’s caused my puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

  The plumber glances my way once he reaches the top of the stairs and I point over my shoulder toward the bathroom behind me. He grunts something unintelligible and his boots thump heavily across the bare wooden floor.

  As soon as he’s out of sight, I dive back into the box. Inside are some more of my stage clothes and other random personal items. Birth control pills? Really? Yeah, I won’t be needing those anymore. My cheeks flame when I come to my vibrator, imagining the twins’ comments when they uncovered that in my personal belongings. I flip it on and nothing happens. Guess I should have asked for batteries.

  A lot of the crap packed inside the box I have no use for anymore: hair ties, hairbrush, makeup, perfume, leather pants. Stage props for Rhane the Musician, Rhane the Singer. What the hell use do I have for leather pants and stiletto-heeled boots now?

  Anger burns inside and I would love to be able to just scream my throat raw. If only I could. One by one, I slam every item, except for the vibrator, back into the box and give it a few fierce kicks for the hell of it. Gwen cautiously eases into the room. “Girl, what on earth has gotten into you? Have you lost your ever-loving mind?”

  “What gave it away?” My eyes narrow at her and I let loose the boot in my right hand. It goes sailing, narrowly missing her head, but only because she sees it coming and ducks. Her face turns red, and she opens her mouth to reprimand my behavior, but focuses on something behind me instead. I turn and Mr. Plumber quirks an eyebrow at me from just inside the door to the bathroom. He’s lucky I don’t have anything else in my hands to throw at the moment, or he’d be my next target.

  “Um,” he clears his throat and mutters, “If it’s safe to come out, I need to run down to my truck and grab a few of my tools and things to get started in here.”

  I swear silently and throw my arms up in the air before stomping down the stairs. In the kitchen, I pull on the boots and slip into my coat. I’ve got so much pent-up rage inside right now that I have to get out of this house before I break something.

  Being pissed off is something I’ve mastered over the years. But I felt it was much more productive when I was actually able to vocalize it. I’ve got to find a way to release all of this built-up energy or I am going to lose my friggin’ mind for good.

  Chapter 13

  On the property, in addition to the house, there’s a two-car garage. I trudge across the drive and walk inside to take a look around inside. Grandpa was proficient at woodworking and he had a small shop which took up one of the garage stalls. Grandpa always kept things spotless, but years of sitting empty and neglected has left everything buried under layers of dust and bird shit.

  I take in the empty space and make a mental note that it would be a great place for a workout room. I need to keep my muscles from shriveling up to nothing and getting back into kickboxing would be a great way for me to burn off some bottled-up frustration and excess energy. To hell with the “don’t overexert yourself” bullshit.

  I ease the garage door closed behind me and begin walking toward the small stream sitting just beyond the copse of trees behind the house. The afternoon sun creeps down the western sky and I feel the definite chill of fall in the air. I hug my arms around me, pulling my sweatshirt tighter. I stare at the pea gravel on the ground near the edge of the driveway while I put one foot in front of the other. When I was a little girl, I wore a path in the grass from running between the house and my very own private hideaway beneath the trees.

  Next to the small, trickling stream is a fallen log, perfect for me plop down on. I swear I can almost hear my former therapist’s voice on the breeze as it lifts the strands of hair from my forehead. She often tried to impart words of wisdom about how important it was for me to disengage from everyday life and sit in quiet contemplation as often as possible. Personally, I always thought she was full of shit. The things that wormed their way into my thoughts whenever I sat quietly were not necessarily good for my mental health.

  It’s no different now. As soon as my eyes drift shut, another time and place floats behind my eyelids bringing along images of Dalton. His infectious grin slides past, and I mentally reach out to him. As is always the case, he’s just out of reach. I blink a few times and he’s gone, disappearing completely from my mind’s eye. Why can’t I remember what happened the night of the accident? Why do the twins blame me for Dalton’s death? I take a deep breath and pull in the cool, crisp air. The scent of damp wood and fallen leaves blots out the visions, yanking me back into my present pathetic circumstances.

  My hands curl into fists and I pound them angrily against my thighs. Maybe someday, somehow, I’ll figure out just what the hell I did to deserve the shitty hand I’ve been dealt. I push to my feet and drag myself back to the house.

  In the driveway, a charcoal gray, extended cab Ford pickup is parked next to Gwen’s Jeep and the plumber’s van. Bright red and white lettering on the door of the truck lets me know that it belongs to Callahan’s Construction. Someone is in the cab and I watch as he pushes open the driver’s side door and climbs out. I stop in my tracks to stare at the lean redhead. I scan his mile-long legs all the way up from his cowboy boot-clad feet to the top of his jeans, which, seemingly, a size too large, ride low on narrow hips.

  He’s talking animatedly on the ph
one, and though it’s not my intent to eavesdrop on his conversation on purpose, it’s hard not to. His voice rises to a shout and whoever’s on the other end is getting an earful. I watch him rake a hand through his shaggy rust-colored mane, and I flinch from the anger in his tone when he yells “God damn it, Adrianna!” into the phone.

  He snaps it shut with the flick of his wrist and spins around to face me. Our eyes lock for a heartbeat before I lift my hand to wave sheepishly at him. I pretend that I haven’t just overheard the ass-chewing he gave Adrianna. Whoever the hell Adrianna is.

  If I’m not mistaken, I think his already ruddy cheeks fill with just a hint more color. Suddenly, I’m uncharacteristically self-conscious. This is crazy, but I don’t want him to think I’ve been spying on him, so I figure the best thing for me to do right now is walk away and let him regain his composure.

  “Sorry,” he says to my already retreating back. I don’t respond and hurry inside the house. For some unknown reason, I suddenly feel the need to put as much space between Callahan Construction Dude and myself as quickly as I can. The redheaded string bean of a guy has caused my heart to race out of control and there’s an odd heaviness in my lower belly that is both uncomfortable and disconcerting.

  Gwen’s mouth drops open to say something as I storm inside and zip past her, kicking off my boots as I go. I race up the stairs and hear her mutter, “What in the world…?” Her words fade when there’s a knock on the door. Up in my room, I stand as close to the loft railing as I can without being seen so I can listen.

  He introduces himself as Ian Callahan. His voice, soft and low, is as inviting as a cotton blanket on a chilly night. I mentally roll my eyes at myself. They are using their inside voices so I can’t make out what they’re saying to one another. Soon, I hear the cellar door squeak open, and when I realize I’m holding my breath, I sigh noisily and chastise myself for being so weirded out by Ian Callahan’s presence.