Only a Breath Apart

by Katie McGarry

  “I’m assuming you already know Marshall is one of the members,” Glory continues.

  “Yeah.”

  “The second person is the man who performed Suzanne’s funeral, Pastor Hughes. He’s aware he’s a member of the tribunal.”

  I yank hard on the bill of my baseball cap. From his increased visits with Gran over the past six months, I should have seen that one coming.

  “You have your work cut out with him,” she says. “But he’ll be easier than your uncle.”

  “No kidding. Who’s the third?” Because I need this one to be a slam dunk.

  “It’s the passenger of the car coming up the road, and when this person comes into my house, you will follow and that is when your hour will begin.”

  I glance down the driveway that’s now fallen into darkness. There’s no car, no sound of an engine, or tires crackling over rocks on the road. There’s crickets singing, frogs croaking and the high-pitched chirp of a bat flying out into the night.

  “I’ll warm up the leftovers and leave them in the microwave. Eat as soon as you come in as things will move quickly. I’ll see you inside in a few.”

  The screen door closes behind Glory with a clap. On cue, there’s the purr of an engine and then headlights poke through the trunks of the trees. Got to give Glory credit: she’s a con, but she’s a good con. Timing on that was perfect.

  The car parks awkwardly a few spots down from Glory’s car, and I hitch my thumbs in my pockets as I wait to see who the third person is deciding my fate. The mailman? The receptionist at Gran’s doctor’s office? The guy down at the hardware store?

  The driver’s side door opens first, but it’s the passenger side door I watch. Scarlett Copeland emerges, and the moment her eyes meet mine, my gut twists and the smile that had been on her lips fades.

  I am screwed.

  SCARLETT

  It’s hard to ignore Jesse Lachlin when he’s built like a brick wall, and he’s one of four of us who are squished in a room that’s the size of a kitchen pantry. But ignore him, I do. I was nice to him at church, and then he discarded me as if I were a Sunday school volunteer application. There’s only so many times in a day I can allow myself to be walked all over and hurt, and I reserve that time for my father. There’s no room for anyone else to hurt me, Jesse included.

  Glory, Camila and I sit at a chestnut wooden table that’s the right size for us to extend our palms to Glory. Glory is currently studying Camila’s hand, and my palm sweats because, when it’s my turn, I’m not sure I want to hear what Glory has to say.

  On the table is a large raw crystal. It’s not pretty or very shiny. It has too many sharp edges, and something about it makes me uncomfortable. To be honest, this entire place makes me uneasy. I rub a hand along my arm as if I’m cold. I do have a chill, but it’s mental as there’s no air-conditioning. Even with multiple soft lamps and candles lighting the room, the entire place feels dark, as if I’m being smothered by a storm cloud.

  “Everything’s fine,” Camila says in a low tone. It’s clear that she meant it as a private conversation between me and her, but I’m sure Glory heard. I glance at Glory to see if she reacts, but she’s too busy studying Camila’s hand.

  “If he calls again,” Camila whispers, “Mom will handle it.”

  I nod like I’m not worried about Dad, and that the thought of him discovering we left Camila’s house never entered my mind, but worry gnaws at me. The constant fear of making Dad angry is a sludge in my veins that leaves a path of underlying panic.

  We couldn’t leave Camila’s house until my father called Camila’s mom to confirm I was there. When Dad calls to check on me, he’ll also ask her mom to hand her cell to me so my father can hear my voice. Camila’s mom is awesome. After Dad’s initial call, she’ll shoo me and Camila off with encouraging words for us to be teenagers.

  It’s a miracle that his behavior hasn’t scared off Camila or her parents.

  A beep of a microwave and the scent of something Italian fills the air. Seconds later, Jesse walks in to the room, plops down onto a red velvet love seat in the corner and places a plate of spaghetti on his lap.

  I stare at him, and for the first time since I exited the car, he looks at me. His red hair feathers out from his cap and there’s a hint of a five-o’clock shadow along his jawline. He’s handsome as always, but the heaviness in his eyes shows his grief and exhaustion. Jesse shouldn’t be here. He should be home, but then again, maybe home is too painful.

  “I hope the two of you don’t mind Jesse being here,” Glory says in this mystical, singsong voice as she releases Camila’s hand. “I forgot I had promised him dinner when I had invited the two of you over.”

  Camila drops a grin on Jesse that’s a combination of flirtatious and deadly. Exactly like how I’d imagine a black widow spider must appear seconds after mating. Camila has two modes: friendly and dangerously blunt.

  “I don’t mind him staying,” Camila says. “That is, if he can figure out how to be a decent human being.”

  And then there are the times that her honesty wanders into mean. But I remind myself that Camila is standing up for me. I didn’t pick Camila, she picked me. When Jesse dropped me as a friend and then said terrible things about me to other people on the first day of our freshman year, she was the one who found me crying in the bathroom and told me it would be okay. For that, I will forever be grateful.

  Jesse leans back in the chair as relaxed as a lion in the sun. “Once I figure that out, I’ll pass along my tips to you.” He really is Peter Pan. Frozen in his immaturity.

  Camila loves a good sparring match, and while sometimes it’s entertaining to watch when her opponent is worthy, I don’t feel like watching today. Jesse is free game to her any other time, just not this week. “Can we move this along? I would like to know my future before the future happens.”

  Rolling with the change in the game, Camila shrugs one shoulder. “You’re right. He’s not worth it.”

  “Scarlett, are you okay with Jesse being here?” Glory asks as she gestures for me to offer my palm.

  “I can go,” Jesse pipes in and edges to the end of his seat. “I’m sure you have plenty of secrets you don’t want an audience for.”

  Camila jerks her head toward me, an unspoken question of what Jesse could possibly know that she doesn’t. Besides fireflies in jars and memories of uninhibited, pure joyous laughter when he and I were children, Jesse, like Camila, doesn’t know my secrets.

  Trust and friendships are hard for me. Because of that, Camila is the closest I have to a friend. I’m that friend Camila calls when she’s ticked everyone else off, like when she and Evangeline aren’t talking. I’m there when she needs someone, then I don’t complain when she’s made up with other people and she chooses to hang with them over me.

  It hurts at times, but I’d never tell her that. I’m the one who has the weird father, and it’s not her fault I’m friendship impaired.

  “I don’t have anything to hide,” I lie, then speak the absolute truth to Jesse as I give Glory both of my hands, palms up. “You know nothing about me.”

  I steel myself for his retort, but there isn’t one. Each second of silence that passes doesn’t make me relax, but instead causes nausea to frolic in my stomach. Jesse used to know me better than anyone else, and I wonder if my words hurt him as much as they hurt to admit.

  A fork scrapes against a plate, and I assume he’s eating. Like always, life goes forward for Jesse.

  Glory brushes her finger along a line of my left hand then my right. She frowns as she studies my hand as if she’s learning how to defuse a bomb. Lightly, so much so that I hardly feel it, she traces circles on my right hand. She lifts her head, and it’s disconcerting how quickly she switches to a smile. I can spot forced happiness better than most. “We’ll start with Camila.”

  Camila’s eyes twinkle as she winks at me, and I genuinely smile back. This is why we’re friends. Camila lives life while I, on the other hand, focus
on getting through the day.

  Glory hands Camila a deck of tarot cards and asks her to shuffle them. She does, hands them back and then Glory lays the cards out in the design of a Celtic cross.

  She looks over the arrangement of cards as if it’s an interesting piece of art then digs in. There are things about Camila Glory nails: like how Camila is vivacious, tenacious and driven. My friend eats it up, and I sit back in relief. I needed fluff and fun.

  I soak in the perky energy that flows out of Camila. When I didn’t think my friend could soar much higher, Glory tells Camila that she’ll soon need a passport, will be on a beach and that the boy in Mexico who has been on her mind has been thinking about her and that they’ll go on a date that will include snow cones. She even tells Camila that she and a close friend will soon reconcile. Camila nearly bursts from her skin.

  Besides Mexico and snow cones, the “psychic” reading is vague, it’s harmless, and worth the cost of admission: free. There are worse ways to spend an evening.

  Glory gathers her cards, organizes them into a full deck and Camila performs a little clap as she angles herself toward me. “This is so much fun! I can’t wait for her to read you.”

  I expect Glory to hand the deck to me, but instead she tilts her head and stares straight through me as if she sees a ghost. A chill runs along my spine and goose bumps raise on my arms. I’m afraid to glance behind me, scared there will be a specter hovering in the air, yet I do look because curiosity is stronger than fear. There’s no ghost, only Jesse and he’s watching me. A tingling of electricity in the air, and I wonder if anyone else can feel it.

  “What’s happening?” Camila asks.

  “We’re waiting.” Glory’s expression is eerily set in stone.

  “For?” Camila pushes.

  I strain to listen to the silence, as if that will provide a clue. It’s weird how still the house is. No ticking of a clock, no radio being played for background noise, not even the sound of our breaths. It’s like the world has been frozen.

  A phone rings, and I jump as adrenaline courses through me. Camila laughs so loudly that it hurts my ears. She places her right hand on her chest, and her left hand on my wrist. “Oh my God, this is so much fun! You were scared, too. Don’t lie. I saw you jump.”

  Camila continues to laugh as she reaches into her purse and accepts the call. “Hi, Papá.”

  The way she says “Papá” is as if the name were a hug. Camila’s relationship with her father is so open, so harmonious, that she still refers to him with the joy that belongs to a child.

  Camila’s laughter fades, and she glowers. “No, I put the contracts in the binder. They should be there. I counted them and double-checked before I left the binder in your office.”

  A few seconds of silence, and Camila closes her eyes. “Can it wait until I get home? I’m out with Scarlett.”

  She mashes her lips together. “Okay. I’m on my way.” Camila ends the call, and I’ll admit to being disappointed. Even though I had my reservations, it’s been fun and I’m not ready to leave.

  “Papá can’t find the contracts we signed for the parties today. I’m sure I’ll find them as soon as I walk in.” Because her father’s office is a perpetual mess. “The timing stinks.”

  It does, but I can’t argue with her responsibility to her parents’ business. I reach for my purse and offer Glory my practiced smile. “Thank you. We had fun.”

  “But I didn’t do your reading,” Glory protests.

  “It’s okay.”

  Camila stands, balances her purse on her wrist, then grabs the table. “Oh my God.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I may have left the binder at the fair. I remember putting it on the table, but I don’t remember putting it in the box of stuff to go home. This is not good.”

  But fixable. “We’ll swing by the fair, see if it’s there, and if it’s not, I bet it’s in your dad’s office. Didn’t your mom and dad hire someone to work the booth tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I bet it’s safe and sound at the booth.”

  While I congratulate myself for avoiding that mini-crisis, Camila blows up my fix. “If I go back to the fair, I can’t get you home in time for curfew. I have to find the contracts, Scarlett. I can’t lose those.”

  My stomach drops, and I stare pleadingly at my friend as she gives me the same imploring stare in return. I’ve never broken curfew, and after the close call at the fair, I don’t plan on breaking that rule tonight.

  “I can drive you home,” Glory suggests.

  “What?” Camila and I say at the same time, and Jesse coughs.

  “I know where you live,” Glory’s eyes sparkle as if she’s given me the best solution, “and it sounds like Camila needs to get into town and then home swiftly. Your home is in the opposite direction. Plus if you stay, then I’ll be able to do your reading.”

  She’s right, on all accounts, yet I’m unsure. I was comfortable with Glory at six years old, but that was back when I had absolutely no sense of self-preservation. Camila sucks in her lower lip, and I can tell she’s already made her decision. She needs me to accept Glory’s offer.

  Fabulous.

  “Thank you.” I drift back into the chair. “That would be amazing.”

  Camila throws her arms around my neck, kisses my cheek, then she’s out the door. She will owe me for life, and by the fleeting smile she sends me before she walks out, she’s aware.

  Glory focuses on the tarot cards as she shuffles them, and I ready myself for nonsense. Maybe she’ll tell me that I’ll meet the love of my life at the next high school football game. Maybe she’ll tell me that he’s cute, loaded and is ready to sweep me off to his private island where all I’ll have to do for the rest of my life is read books.

  “Scarlett,” Glory says slowly, and my eyes narrow, as nothing good ever comes from anyone saying my name in that tone. “There’s a reason why I asked you here—and I’m hoping you’ll be accommodating.”

  And here’s the ulterior motive I’ve been waiting to rear its ugly little head. “What?”

  “I do want to read your cards, but Jesse’s cards need to be read as well, and I know with everything that is inside me that I need to read your cards together.”

  JESSE

  I choke and slam a hand to my chest to dislodge the knot of spaghetti. “What did you say?”

  “I need to read your cards together.” Her merciless eyes land on me.

  I always knew Glory was a con. Knew she had to have a dead heart to exploit people the way she does. But to mix things up between me and Scarlett with the knowledge of how we used to be tight and then how we aren’t—that’s subzero.

  Pieces of Scarlett’s long black hair fall over her shoulder as she risks a peek at me. She’s not happy either, and that only increases my rage at Glory. Why can’t she leave the two of us alone?

  The fork clanks loudly against the china when I drop the plate onto the wooden floor. Scarlett sags in her chair as I sink into the seat left empty by her demonic friend.

  I go to stretch out my legs, but my boots hit the table, so instead I bend my knees. My jeans come in contact with Scarlett’s warm thigh and electricity shoots through me. I jump, and Scarlett straightens as if I shocked her with a Taser.

  She tries to scoot her chair to the side, but it hits the base of one of the towering bookcases. Because this room is the size of a refrigerator box, there’s nowhere for either of us to go, nowhere for either of us to put ourselves without touching the other.

  I resettle so my leg is a fraction of an inch from hers. Even though we aren’t touching, I can still feel her heat. Scarlett is the most gorgeous girl at our school. I know that. Every male who has been in a one-mile radius knows that. I’ve had to work hard to keep from staring at her like the other idiots at school and that just pisses me off more. Scarlett and I aren’t friends anymore, and I shouldn’t find her attractive.

  Glory watches us with an amused gl
int in her eyes, and too angry for a decent comeback, I cross my arms and glare.

  Scarlett angles her feet in the direction of the door and tucks her hair behind her ear. “While I greatly appreciate you offering to do a free reading, I think I’ll skip it, but I would highly appreciate it if you could give me the ride home. Now.”

  Straight to the point with some salt at the end. Nice to see some things about Scarlett haven’t changed. When we were friends, she would have never hung out with the likes of Camila: social climber, soul sucker, eternal self-appointed judge to the entire school. Now the two of them are as thick as thieves.

  Being Glory, she ignores the direct request and places the stacked deck in between me and Scarlett. “Whoever feels led should cut the deck. The other should shuffle. And, Scarlett, this reading was a direct request from Suzanne before she died. She knew it had been on my mind, but I never felt pushed to act on it until today.”

  If looks could kill, Glory would be withering on the floor taking her last breaths. But because Glory doesn’t die, Scarlett cuts the deck, slapping her half of it next to me with enough anger the table shakes.

  “Guess I’m shuffling the cards,” I say.

  “Guess you are,” Scarlett shoots back without looking at me.

  This should be fun, like having my fingernails ripped off. I gather both piles, do a sloppy slip of a few cards from one position to another, then slide the cards back to Glory so they topple over in a waterfall. If that pissed her off, she doesn’t show it as she gathers them in her hands and starts placing them in complicated patterns.

  As Glory flips one of the cards onto the table, Scarlett jerks.

  “Are you okay?” Glory asks.

  Scarlett slightly quakes, like a light aftershock. “Just a chill.”

  Glory looks pleased—the type of pleased a hyena has when a gazelle takes a nap in front of him. She points at the card she laid down. “Does the Chariot mean anything to you?”