Just Like Breathing (Bring Me Back Book 1)

by Diana Gardin

  “Pussy.” His outright laughter pisses me off, and I push off the counter and whirl to face him.

  Bringing my hand up fast in an open slap, I catch him on the back of the head just before he ducks, and I count that small bit of contact as a victory. And then I stumble through the backswing. Something I never would have done if I’d had my eyesight. I was light and quick on my feet, despite my being just over six feet tall and one-eighty. I’m built of lean muscle; muscle that I keep tight and toned through running, weightlifting, and sparring with Axel. But that’s not helping me much anymore.

  Victory? Yeah, right. Before you went blind, you would have had him on his ass.

  “You got me,” Axel laughs.

  “Not fast enough.” I grunt and turn away, feeling my way from the kitchen into the living room. Leaning against a bookcase, I turn toward the light streaming in through the French doors leading out to the patio.

  Light. I can still register light, even though I can’t exactly see it anymore. Shadowy forms moving in front of an abundance of light appear in my vision too, but that’s it. I’ve been reduced to shadows and the perception of light, and it’s actually something to be excited about.

  The thought makes me want to punch the wall beside me.

  “Don’t do this to yourself, Flash. We’re in this together, remember? Keep training, keep working out. When we spar, it’ll be like nothing’s changed. You just have to give it time.”

  In this together. Yeah, maybe. But only one of us is blind.

  I don’t turn to face him. “I want to run again, Axel.”

  Silence. I knew this was coming, but he had to have known it, too. Running is the only thing that kept me sane during two tours in Afghanistan, the only sport I latched onto as a gangly teenager who needed to take out his energy and aggression on something.

  Without it? I’m drowning.

  “When I said we were in this together, I meant it.” Axel’s words are careful, like he’s dismantling a bomb that could go off at any second. “You’re not the only one who’s no longer flying those jets. When you were discharged, it only took me a few months before my time was up, too. I’m with you till the end, brother. You know that. And maybe you can’t run right now, but I have an idea of how you can get there.”

  I scrub one hand over my face as I consider his words. He’s right…he left the Air Force as soon as he had the option after my accident. He immediately went to school to become a Certified Mobility Specialist, so I wouldn’t have to work with a stranger on rehab and learning my way through life as a blind person. He’s been there for me every step of the way.

  “Let me shower first. I still smell like the fucking weight room from our workout this morning. Then you can give me your idea.”

  Axel doesn’t help me through my long, ranch-style house, to get to my master bedroom and bath. Hell, he only stayed with me for a month after the accident. Then he insisted that it was time for me to get acclimated to my surroundings without his hands-on help every single day.

  I told him he could kiss my ass for that.

  Tough love. It’s something my brother is damn good at, and probably the only kind of love I’d know how to respond to.

  “A dog?” My tone is incredulous as I repeat the words Axel just said to me.

  Axel’s tone is smug as shit, and he deserves to get kneed in the balls for this one. “A guide dog. It’s the fastest way to get you mobile through the streets of Savannah. I’m not gonna hold your hand to help you train. You know I’m not a runner, Flash.”

  “I’ve never had a dog.” Even as I say the words, I’m not completely opposed to the idea. I’ve never minded dogs.

  “Yeah, but remember how we used to beg Mom and Dad for one growing up? This is our chance! This dog would be specially trained to be your guide. Make sure you can get around those mean streets of Savannah without killing yourself.”

  Axel’s grinning. I don’t know how I know it, but there’s a shit-eating grin on his face right now.

  “Where do we start? Do I just go to a pet store and pick up a dog who knows how to help blind people?” I ask, my voice dry.

  Axel groans. “Dude, I’ve already done that first step. I contacted the organization that supplies guide dogs to those people who need and want them. You have an appointment to meet with someone this afternoon.”

  My mouth drops open. “What the hell? What if I’d said no?”

  Axel pats a hand on my cheek. Hard. “Then we would have sparred. Winner would have taken this one.”

  “That’s bullshit. You always win when we spar, but it’s only because I’m fucking blind.”

  Axel chuckles. “I know.”

  “I’m Kim, from SC Guide Dogs. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Without speaking, I offer her a quick handshake and turn to slowly make my way down my front hall and into the living room.

  Behind me, Axel clears his throat. I can almost see him shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Kim. It’s like when he lost his eyesight, he also lost his social skills.”

  Kim follows me into the living room. I can hear her movements, and detect that she takes a seat in the oversized chair beside the fireplace. Axel remains standing.

  “Mr. Jackson, your application for a guide dog was approved. I’ve brought someone to meet you today. This is Nitro.” Kim’s voice is cheerful and upbeat.

  I sit up straighter in my chair.

  “Nitro, speak.” Her tone is commanding but gentle. A loud, short bark resounds around the room, and I blink.

  “I’ve never had a dog,” I admit, my voice gruff. “I don’t know what to do with him.”

  There’s a smile in Kim’s voice. “Don’t worry. He knows exactly what to do with you. After two weeks of training with us, you two will know each other better than anyone else. And your relationship will only grow from there.”

  Relationship? With a dog? Right.

  “I think he’d like to meet you,” she continues. “I’m going to send him over. Just hold out your hand.”

  With reluctance, I do what she says. I hold out my left hand and after a minute, a warm, furry body places itself under it. I rub the dog’s back, which is softer than I expected.

  “What kind of dog is he?” I ask softly.

  “Nitro is a two-year-old German Shepherd. And he’s all ready to learn to be your guide dog.”

  The dog pushes his nose into my hand, as if he agrees with her completely.

  I look to where Kim is sitting. “Will he help me run again?”

  After a second’s hesitation, she finally answers. “After some time, it’ll be possible.”

  With a small sigh, I nod. “Then I’m ready to train with him.”

  3

  Arden

  September 20, 2017

  “Yes, Mom…I’m fine today.” I pause, listening, my phone set on speaker while it sits on my bathroom vanity. “Yes, I know it’s just one day at a time.”

  The process of grief is, apparently, a lot like AA. The same virtues and one-liners apply.

  People think that if I follow a process, if I stay the course, if I check all the boxes appropriate for grieving, I’ll be fine. Like one day, I’ll wake up and it just won’t hurt anymore.

  Bullshit.

  I lost the love of my life that day, when our car flipped over on the interstate. And not only that, I lost the child I carried in my belly for nine months, nursed to health every time he was sick, and kissed away every tear he ever cried.

  And now?

  Nothing.

  Just a gigantic black hole in my life where they used to be.

  After hanging up with my ever-worried mother, I go through the motions of putting on my makeup. My phone chimes, and I pick it up off the marble surface, reading the text from Brantley. It’s the same text I get from her every morning, and I know that this afternoon when she leaves the studio, she’ll stop by here with the same words she uses every day.

  You coming in this morning? There’s some pottery her
e with your name on it…needs your special touch. Or you can make coffee for the regulars. Your choice.

  Every morning for the past month, she’s sent me the same message. And every morning, I’ve responded with the same two words: Not today.

  I stare at the phone, reading her words twice, and then…then I place it back down on the countertop.

  I’ve never done that before. Usually my response is immediate.

  My eyes on the phone, I back out of the bathroom, before turning and hurrying into the master bedroom closet. The closet that now only houses one set of clothes, instead of two.

  Last weekend, Brantley came and helped me pack up Trenton’s clothes. We boxed them and sent them to Goodwill. The feelings that took up all the space in my chest while we packed them, they almost swallowed me whole. I didn’t think I could do it, get rid of his things that way. However, after talking to the grief counselor the hospital recommended, and repeated nightly conversations with Brantley over glass after glass of red wine, I finally came to the conclusion: it was time.

  His clothes, sitting in the closet we used to share, weren’t doing anything for me. They were taking up space that he used to occupy with his funny, light personality, and his sweet, gentle nature.

  That’s gone now. Swallowing, I stare at the empty racks. I still can’t believe how gone he is.

  “It’s been nine months,” Brantley kept reminding me. “I know you just woke up a few weeks ago, and it doesn’t seem that way to you. But they’ve been gone, Arden. For nine months. I just don’t want you to forget that. You take the time you need to mourn them. But they’ve been gone for nine months now.”

  I love my best friend, but every time she says those words, I want to punch her. Or kick her out of my big, rambling house. Because the number of months they’ve been gone doesn’t matter a bit.

  Not to my heart.

  All that matters is the absence of them. The absence of my family, my world.

  My love.

  It doesn’t exist anymore.

  I turn away from the empty half of the closet, and then my bare feet are running over plush carpet. Running…running, until I reach the light blue walls surrounding my little boy’s room.

  Danté’s room is exactly the way I remember it. I’ve changed nothing, moved nothing.

  Because this is where my little boy lived, and I think it might literally kill me to move a single piece of furniture or toss any bit of clothing into a bag. He lives here in this room, whether it’s real or only in my heart.

  I stare around at the row of white floating shelves that house the sports-themed picture frames. Danté as a newborn, Danté, Trenton, and I…smiling for the camera. Danté as a smiling toddler, up to no good, like he often was.

  And Danté as the bright, beautiful, three-year-old boy he was when he…

  A sob escapes me as I sink to my knees on the floor. I curl into a ball and lay there, sobbing and rocking against the soft beige carpeting.

  My chest is caving in. I can’t breathe, and instead of sobbing, I’m just gasping for air. Everything hurts, my bones ache as my limbs turn to stone. And my heart threatens to beat right out of my chest.

  It’s a panic attack; I know the symptoms now. But getting up to grab my medication would mean leaving my son’s room, and I’m not ready to do that just yet. I can almost smell him here, the fresh scent of the body wash we used on him every night in his bath. Pulling out the precious stuffed elephant he slept with and cradling it to my chest, I allow myself five minutes to get lost in my grief over the son I loved with every ounce of me, and lost.

  Just like that.

  And after five minutes is through—the same five minutes I’ve taken very day since I’ve been home—I stand up, brush the tears away from my face, and return to my bathroom where I left my phone on the vanity. I quickly punch out a text to Brantley.

  I’m on my way. I’ll serve coffee.

  As soon as I walk in the glass front door of our coffee shop and studio, the whimsical chime over the door sounds my arrival. Brantley bursts from behind the counter and wraps me up in a hug so tight it hurts.

  “You’re here!” she wails into my shoulder. “Oh, my God, Arden!”

  It’s a big step. I haven’t been here since before the accident. Ever since I woke up at the hospital, I couldn’t even think about coming here. About working. It just all seems so trivial, so mundane now.

  But today? Today, I couldn’t stand to spend another second in that house, missing them.

  “Here I am.” My response sounds lame, even to my own ears. “I’ll get to work.”

  Detaching myself from her arms, I head behind the counter and ignore the scrutinizing glance she’s covering me with.

  I launch myself into the daily duties of running a coffee shop.

  I could make coffee in the front shop of our studio in my sleep. The atmosphere is homey and comfortable, and I keep myself behind the counter as I fill orders. It’s not exactly a rush, but more of a steady influx of people on their way to work, just strolling down the streets of Savannah while they enjoy the sunshine and early tumbling of leaves from the trees.

  Savannah is one of the most gorgeous cities in the country, one of the places where summer lasts much longer than it’s supposed to, even on the first day of fall. Here, autumn sneaks up in mid-November, and until then, we continue living outside, enjoying the perfect temperatures and classic Southern setting.

  Our studio, The Art Of Java, lies tucked away on one end of Broughton Street, a historic downtown spot where the foot traffic always flows. It’s unusual for me to stay behind the counter while I’m working in the shop...or, it was. I like to talk to people, normally buzzing around the place, making sure everyone likes their coffee and is comfortable in the shop. I’ve always had boundless energy, and using it to serve others is what I’ve always been good at.

  Today, I have no desire to leave the cage I’ve created for myself behind the counter. I listen to the orders, I make the drinks or plate the pastries, and I hand them over with the smile that feels rusty, tired, and false.

  Brantley watches me from a distance, hovering, but still giving me my space, and I remind myself that’s why she’s my best friend.

  The morning whizzes by, and then so does the afternoon, and even though I’ve barely spoken more than a few words to anyone, I feel like I’ve accomplished something. Something more than walking through my house all day, searching for two ghosts who will never be with me again.

  Taking off my cherry-red apron and placing it neatly on the hook behind the counter, I call to Brantley in the studio. “I’m out. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  She appears in the doorway, studying me. “I’ll be over with wine tonight.”

  I give her a small smile. “I’ll be expecting it.”

  She tilts her head to one side, a thick chunk of her brown locks hanging over the side of her face. Brantley and I are opposites in every way. Where’s she’s dark and olive-skinned, I’m rosy peaches and cream. Where she’s curvy and petite, I’m tall and willowy. My fine blond hair, that I wear nearly to my waist, is a direct contrast to her thick, chestnut waves that reach her shoulders. Her dark brown eyes always see me, even when I’m closing my green ones to try to hide.

  “You going for a run?”

  I nod. “It’s that time of day.”

  She doesn’t question it, just gives me a little wave before turning back to the studio. Brantley knows that I run at the same time every day, no matter what. Even on the darkest day, I run.

  It’s the only time I can breathe.

  Less than an hour later, I’m lacing up my sneakers and heading out my front door. It’s less than a two-mile run to one of the biggest parks in Savannah, and it’s where I love to lose myself on a trail. Forsyth Park isn’t far from where Trenton and Danté are buried, and I always manage to veer toward the cemetery.

  The smooth pavement of the running trail carries me beneath dripping piles of Spanish moss, the picturesque set
ting a perfect backdrop for the pounding rhythm I’ve found in my fourth mile. The buds in my ears pour out music I never would have chosen nine months ago. It’s all hard, frenzied renderings of songs that shatter your spirit. Anything softer than that would crush me, and there’s no possible way I’d survive it. I need music in order to keep going, but the music I need doesn’t soothe me…it drives me.

  It’s during mile six when the Sick Puppies’ “You’re Going Down” pushes me to the peak of my run, the place where I turn and head back toward my home. It’s a smooth transition on a day that I’ve chosen a long run, because the tall, iron gates of the cemetery loom in front of me.

  Going inside? Not an option. It’s something I did once with my parents and Brantley, right after I came home from the hospital. I knew then I had to, because even though our home held their things and our memories, they were gone. And I needed to say goodbye.

  I’ve never been able to cross that threshold again, even when everything inside me burns with the need to touch the stones surrounding their graves. I’m held back by the invisible chains of despair, because looking at my little boy’s name on a headstone nearly ripped me apart the first time.

  Shuddering slightly at the sight of the gates, I jog in place for a few seconds before turning. Tears well in my eyes as the music shreds me, pushing me to keep going.

  I only take one step forward before I slam into a solid wall. It’s so unexpected and jarring that my arms windmill backward, as I fly through the air and land on my ass two feet away.

  My bottom burns as it hits the ground, my hands scraping against asphalt, and one of my earbuds dangles beside my shoulder.

  The sound of a quiet whine jerks me from my shock as I look up, and see I haven’t run into a wall at all.

  I ran straight into a man, and even though he stands with the sun at his back, I can clearly see the frustrated expression on his face. Despite his black sunglasses, my focus is drawn to his eyes. He attention sweeps the path around me, as if he’s searching for the cause of the impact. As my eyes continue to scan him, my attention lands on the dog by his side.