Leave Me Breathless

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  I laugh a little. “Why do you ask?”

  “We need something else for the kids. We only have the usual games and the beauty pageant.”

  “Like a painting competition?” I don’t know where that came from, but Molly seems to love the idea if her bright smile is anything to go by.

  “Oh yes! I was actually thinking more face painting, but a painting competition sounds perfect.”

  I shrug, pushing back the image of my niece’s butterfly cheeks. How I’d have loved to be the one who painted those wings on her cute little face. But that can’t happen. Ever.

  Molly’s smile brightens some more. “Can I put your name down?”

  “Sure,” I answer, happy to help. I love this town more and more each day—the community, the friendliness, the beauty of the countryside. Though I really shouldn’t get too used to it. It’ll only make it more difficult to leave when the time comes. This is a pit stop. A temporary home until I can move on to somewhere even farther from London. Maybe Ireland. Ireland’s pretty. There will also be plenty for me to paint. England is risky. Being here is risky; I know that. But I need to see my mum.

  I smile as Molly starts backing away, taking another poster from her purse. “I’d better go, I have another ten of these to put up before my lunch break is over. Thanks, Hannah.”

  “No problem at all. I’m looking forward to it.” I slip the key in the lock of my door. “And if you need any help with the planning, you know where I am.”

  “You’re a gem. See you at the pub tomorrow. We can talk more then.”

  As simple as our plans are for a drink together, I’m excited. I’m making my own plans with someone I actually want to spend time with. I can be myself. Drink wine to my heart’s content without worrying I might say the wrong thing or upset someone.

  * * *

  The next day, I do what I’ve done every Saturday since I arrived in Hampton. I take an hour’s taxi ride to Grange Town and visit the park. I sit on my usual bench, and I wait, feeling something between excitement and apprehension.

  It’s exactly five past ten when I see them, and my heart speeds up, my spirits lifting high. “Hey, Mum,” I whisper, watching as Pippa pushes her down the path toward the lake. They stop in their usual spot where the swans always seem to congregate, and I laugh a little when Pippa pulls out a bag of seeds and drops it, sending the bird feed scattering everywhere at her feet.

  “Always so clumsy,” I muse, thinking of all the times as kids when we used to wreak havoc with our accident-prone chaos. Like that time Mum asked Pippa to rinse the pasta and she dropped the pot halfway to the sink after tripping over nothing. I laughed until my sides felt like they could split. Then Pippa laughed, too. Then she slipped on a piece of pasta and took me down with her. Mum screeched, Dad smiled fondly, not looking up from his newspaper, and Pippa and I rolled around on the floor. We had beans on toast for dinner that night.

  And there was that time when we were teenagers and I was working on my final piece for my art examination. Pippa kicked the leg of my easel as she passed, sending my canvas face-first to the dining room rug. I remember staring at it, my paintbrush hanging limply in the air. Pippa cursed. Spewed her apologies fast as she scooped up my piece from the rug. Looked at it in horror. And I laughed because it was crap, anyway, and I was stalling starting from scratch. Pippa thought I’d lost my mind. Mum told us she hated that rug. And Dad was smiling again. Dad was always smiling. We were all always smiling.

  Then I went to the university, got a job in a gallery, and met…

  I quickly shake my thoughts away and focus on my mum and sister, starting to laugh again when Mum, looking rather lucid today, points around her wheelchair where all the ducks and swans have descended, pecking up the feed. It’s chaos, wings flapping, Pippa shrieking, Mum laughing. It’s a good day for her. She looks so beautiful when she smiles, always has, though her smiles are not as frequent these days.

  My stomach starts to ache from my laughing as Pippa waves her arms around like a madwoman, trying to scare the birds away. It’s an ache I remember fondly. Because Pippa and I were always getting into scrapes and laughing our way through them. And Mum and Dad always seemed to take pleasure from that. My sister and I were the best of friends, only two years between us. We were joined at the hip. Peas in a pod.

  I sigh, and the inevitable wave of sadness I was trying to avoid comes over me. I wish I were over there with them. I wish they could know I’m here. I wish I could laugh with them. And more than that, I wish I could once again be the cause for their laughter. When I left home, I no longer made them laugh. I made them worry. And then I broke their hearts.

  A tear falls, and I rush to wipe it away as I watch my sister push Mum out of the park, back toward the care home. I didn’t want to leave the park feeling sad, and yet my mood is flat as I head back toward the main road to get a taxi back to Hampton. “See you next week, you two,” I say, looking back. But they’re gone.

  Another week to wait. Another lifetime. How long will it be before I’m left sitting on the bench, hoping to see them, and they don’t show up for their Saturday-morning walk around the park? What happens when Mum’s too ill to go out?

  I can’t bear to think about it.

  * * *

  When I make it back to Hampton, I open the store for a few hours, if only to try to occupy my mind with something other than my relentless sadness. I check my online store, seeing that people are starting to view my work. It lifts my spirits, but just a fraction. There’s only one thing that will help.

  When you feel low, get your palette and let your imagination run riot. Painting was Mum’s answer for everything. Sad? Then paint. Annoyed? Then paint. Bored? Then paint. When things feel dark, lose yourself in color, she always told me. Lose yourself in what you love. She taught me everything I know.

  I grab a blank canvas, an easel, my paints and brushes, and I head outside. I need to lose myself in that one thing that always settled me. For so long, I was without this sense of peace. For so long, I was kept from my passion. It’s funny that during those dark years, I needed my escape the most. But he wouldn’t let me have it.

  * * *

  I close the shop at five and go upstairs to shower, washing the paint from my hands, my face, my…everywhere. I rough-dry my hair, skip brushing it, and add a peach head scarf that clashes terribly with my orange shift dress. I don’t care. There’s no one to tell me what I can and cannot wear. I head for my living room to get my phone, frowning when I find it’s not where I left it. Or where I thought I’d left it. The next ten minutes are spent pulling all the cushions off the couch and searching my apartment. No phone. I glance at the clock. “Shit.” I’ll find it later. It’s not like I need it. Because who’s going to call me?

  At seven fifteen, I make my entrance into the town pub. Father Fitzroy is propped up at the end of the bar, a pint in one hand, a newspaper in the other, and he tips his head as I pass him. I smile a hello and spot Molly at the table in the window.

  I hurry over and perch on the hard wooden bench next to her, accepting the glass of wine she holds up. “Hey, sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find my phone.”

  “You mean you lost the brick?”

  I roll my eyes on a smile. “Good day?”

  “Yes, and the school committee loves your idea of having a painting competition for the kids.” Molly toasts the air and sips. “Do you need anything from us?”

  “Maybe stools for the kids to sit on?” Taking my first sip of wine, I smile around my swallow and get comfortable.

  “I’ll bring stools. What are they going to paint?”

  I look behind me, out the window and across the road to where I sat this afternoon outside my store and painted a lovely street scene. “Seems only right they paint Hampton when we’re celebrating Hampton. How about the high street? It’s so pretty.”

  “That’s perfect! And there’ll be bunting zigzagging the lampposts, food carts, and stalls. The perfect view.” Taking the bo
ttle from the middle of the table, she tops up both of our glasses. “Now, enough about business. Tell me about yourself, Hannah.”

  Her friendly smile makes it all the more difficult for me to lie. I lose myself in my wine as I try to remind myself of the story I’ve rehearsed a hundred times. “I had a crappy breakup with my boyfriend and was done with the rat race of the city.” Simple as that. “So I got out while I could.” I smile brightly, albeit forced. “I moved abroad for a few years, but it didn’t suit me. You can’t beat the English countryside, so I came back.” Molly seems to buy my pack of lies easily, and it’s a relief.

  “Then cheers to fresh starts.”

  We clink glasses and drink to just that.

  * * *

  An hour later, we’ve nearly worked our way through the whole bottle of wine and we’ve not shut up. We’ve laughed so much, and it’s taken me back to times gone by when I used to giggle constantly with my sister.

  Molly is a little like Pippa—jumping from one topic to the next in one big jumble. It’s easy to love her. And it’s been a pleasure to talk because I just want to…talk. Not because I feel I have to. Speaking from the heart about my passion for painting instead of hiding it has lifted me. Molly’s listening because she’s interested in what I have to say. It’s a novelty. The past four years I’ve spent being rather lonely, keeping everyone at a distance. Not letting them get too close. I’m feeling more like my old self, the young, carefree, giggly young woman I used to be before my life turned ugly. Before I became a completely different woman.

  “More?” I ask, snagging the empty bottle from the table and standing.

  “Why the hell not?” Molly drains the last inch of her glass. “And get some peanuts, too.”

  I laugh and make my way to the bar, where the owner, Bob, is leaning against the counter chatting to Father Fitzroy, another pint in his hand. “Same again, please.” I set the empty on the bar.

  “And a Budweiser,” says a voice from beside me. I recognize it immediately, and my carefree smile drops like a rock. Ryan Willis. My hand freezes in midair as I release the empty bottle, my chest immediately throbbing. “Hi,” he says, but I keep my eyes on Bob, searching my brain for a simple reply and finding nothing. No words, no instructions, no bloody anything.

  Bob slides a bottle of Bud across the bar as he reaches for my bottle of wine. “You okay there, Miss Bright?” he asks, a little concerned. I’m concerned, too. I lose the ability to function like a normal, rational-thinking human being each time I’m in Ryan’s presence. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “I’m fine,” I murmur as I grab our new bottle of wine and throw the money down. “Thanks.” I beat a hasty retreat back to the table, cringing to myself the whole way.

  “You okay?” Molly asks, holding up her glass for me to fill.

  I force a smile and nod as I take my seat, desperately trying not to look toward the bar as Molly starts chatting again. I see her mouth moving, her hands gesturing, though I have no clue what she’s saying. I’m too busy fighting to keep my eyeballs forward. But when she suddenly declares she needs the ladies’, I’m left with no one to focus on. I look down at my grazed knee. And, damn me, peek over my shoulder.

  He’s sitting at the bar watching a football match on TV. His beer sporadically rises to his lips, and his throat stretches each time as he drinks. He’s alone, quiet, seemingly happy in his own company. Then he looks back, and I fly around on my chair and focus on my wine.

  Good God, I’m a loser. Say hi. Smile at him. He’s just being friendly, for Christ’s sake. But no matter how hard I try, I just can’t bring myself to face him.

  I gulp and look up when Molly comes back from the toilet. “Hey, did you get peanuts?” she asks as she scans the table.

  I’m up from my stool quickly, being presented with the perfect opportunity to fix my recent blunders and hopefully show Mr. Cool that I’m not a total weirdo. “I’ll get them.” I go to the bar quickly before Molly can offer. “I forgot peanuts,” I say to Bob as I turn toward Ryan, pulling a smile from nowhere.

  His bottle pauses at his lips, his eyes turning to me but not his head. I have every intention of introducing myself officially, of holding my hand out and putting my silly awkwardness behind me, but then he lowers his bottle and turns a fraction toward me on his stool. He cocks his head. His eyes twinkle, just a little, and he gives me a crooked half smile.

  And my plan turns to shit, my smile drops, and I’m mute once again. And my stupid body responds in a way it has never responded, catching me off guard. God, I’m really attracted to him. Fancy the absolute pants off him, in fact. He’s rough, rugged, and handsome, even with his bent nose and crooked smile. I reach up to my own nose, feeling the tiny bump on the bridge. Did he break his nose, too? Or is his naturally bent?

  He watches me as I stroke over the lump, his smile becoming faint. I quickly pull my hand from my face. Suddenly wary of my body’s reactions, and honestly not knowing what to do with them, I back away, blindly snatching the peanuts off the bar.

  “That’s a pound, please, Hannah,” Bob says, and I look at him like he’s just asked me for a million.

  “I’ll get them.” Ryan slips a coin onto the bar, and I’m positively dying on the inside as he watches me retreat, his smile now soft.

  “Thanks,” I more or less whisper, turning and heading back to Molly. I should avoid him forever, since I’m not myself when I’m around him. But there’s just something about him. He’s knocked me for six. He’s kind of warm, without really being warm. He’s kind of cute, without really being cute. And he’s kind of familiar, without being familiar at all.

  What is happening?

  God, I don’t know, but I do know that he must think I’m a total nutcase. Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m broken beyond repair. Maybe I just don’t know how to act in front of a man anymore.

  I squirm my way back to the table and take refuge in my wine.

  “Are you hot?” Molly asks, pointing her glass at my flushed cheeks. I reach up and pat at them.

  Yes, I’m burning up. Hot and bothered.

  But obviously still broken.

  Chapter Five

  RYAN

  My outside shower is one of the things I love most about being home. The mornings are cool this time of year, but that cool air mixed with the heat from the spray is an unbelievably amazing feeling on my skin. Steam from the hot meeting cold. Invigorating.

  I grab a towel and wrap it around my waist as I head back inside my cabin to make a coffee. Sitting down at my desk, I check my emails, deleting most, then send a message to Jake for an update. My phone rings almost immediately after I’ve clicked SEND.

  “Hey,” I answer, leaning back in my chair. “I assume the baby has arrived.”

  “Oh, he’s arrived all right.” Jake laughs, though it’s tired, and I suddenly hear the piercing cry of a newborn. “Caleb Sharp is most definitely here.” He sighs, now sounding fucking exhausted.

  I can’t help my small smile. “Congratulations, mate.”

  “Thanks. How’s things up there?”

  “Peaceful.” I get up and wander to the freezer, grabbing the Chunky Monkey and cracking off the lid.

  “I can relate. I’m getting ready to take Cami and the kids to my country place. No neighbors. No noise. Just me and them in the middle of nowhere.”

  I smile. Hampton is in the middle of nowhere. No one comes here. No one leaves here. I momentarily reflect on the time I left town years ago with no plans of coming back other than to visit Mum. I soon did come back, though. Wild horses couldn’t have kept me away. And then I’m thinking again about that paint-splattered woman. No one comes here. But she has.

  “Anyway…” I get a spoon and hold my mobile phone to my ear with my shoulder as I dig into the ice cream. “You enjoy your sleepless nights.” I grin when he snorts, hearing a sound from outside. I glance to my open door. “I’ve gotta go. Someone’s here. Love to the family.”

  “Sure. Keep in tou
ch, bud.” Jake hangs up, and I throw my phone on the couch and move to the window, looking out as I take the first mouthful of my vice. It’s silent, perfectly silent…until I hear the sound of branches cracking. I take the few steps to the front door, alert but by no means concerned by the sounds of someone on my property. I’m in Hampton. Nothing ever happens in Hampton.

  Leaning my shoulder on the doorframe, I wait for whoever it is to show themselves, my eyes trained on the track where it disappears around the corner. And while I wait, I carry on slowly spooning some ice cream into my mouth.

  Then I see something.

  “Well, well,” I say to myself, slowly swallowing. She rounds the corner, and even from here I can tell she’s fighting with her instinct to retreat. Every time I’ve encountered this woman, she’s been like a rabbit caught in the headlights. The first time, I get it. I’d run her off the road. She must have been shocked. But in the store? And in the pub the other night? She’s a scared little thing. Or is it something else? I raise my eyebrows to myself. Do I want it to be something else?

  She’s gazing around, her awe obvious, as I start munching my way through my Chunky Monkey again. I can’t blame her for being so enthralled. My place is pretty enthralling.

  Then she spots me in the doorway and stops dead in her tracks. Her eyes are glued to my chest, and I peek down with my spoon hanging from my mouth, reminding myself that I’ve just gotten out of the shower and have only a tiny towel covering my dignity. “You going to bolt again?” I call softly, digging my spoon back into the tub.

  She blinks and looks up from my bare torso. “Pardon?”

  I smile and take the three steps down from the veranda to the lawn. “You have a habit of running in the other direction whenever I’ve seen you.”