Let It Breathe

by Tawna Fenske

  “Eric, I don’t really think—”

  “I’m dialing right now.”

  “Come on, is this really—”

  “It’s ringing.”

  “Eric, I don’t want—”

  “Hey, Bob—how’s it going?” Eric held up his hand at Reese to silence her, so she settled for kicking him in the shin.

  “Listen, man,” Eric said. “A few of us are getting together at the Vineyard Grill in about an hour if you feel like meeting up for a beer.”

  Reese folded her arms over her chest and considered, not for the first time, how much more convenient it would be to hate an ex-husband the way most divorced women did.

  Eric grinned at her, still talking into the phone.

  “So we’ll meet you there?” he said. “Later!”

  He clicked off and gave Reese a smug look. “See? You’re getting out. You can thank me later.”

  “A few of us are getting together? You make it sound like a party instead of a ridiculous attempt by my ex-husband to fix me up with his loser friend.”

  “Bob’s not a loser. He’s a financial analyst. I think you’ll really like him. So you want to meet us there, or drive yourself?”

  Reese sighed, resigned to her fate. “I’m driving myself, and I’m bringing Larissa. Assuming she doesn’t already have a date.”

  “That’s not a safe assumption. Doesn’t she always have a date?”

  “Sometimes she gives herself the night off to line up new dates.”

  “God help them.”

  “Okay, I’ll go on this date, but only because I’m hungry and I really like their crab-stuffed mushroom caps. And because I wanted to talk to Sheila about the signage for next week’s event.”

  “I’ll let her know. So we’ll see you there?”

  “Fine.”

  Reese trudged back across the lawn and let herself into the house. She spotted the breakfast plates in the sink and remembered yanking the dishrag out of Clay’s hand and insisting she’d wash them later.

  At the thought of Clay, Reese’s mind veered into dangerous territory.

  The feel of Clay’s arm around her waist as he’d saved her from toppling over the bar.

  The heat of his fingertips against her cheek.

  The way his muscles rippled under her palms as he touched and stroked and drove her mindless with his—

  She grabbed her phone off the counter and dialed Larissa’s cell.

  “Hello, my third-favorite cousin,” Larissa answered.

  “Hey, ’Riss—look, I need a favor.”

  “You need help doing something different with your hair?”

  “No, I—”

  “You want to borrow a top that shows off your rack?”

  “No, I—”

  “You want seduction tips for sales reps? Come on, we’re reaching the end of my skills list here.”

  Reese rolled her eyes. “Why do I bother?”

  “Because you love me. And also because I make you smile.”

  “This is true.”

  “So what do you really need?”

  “Can you come with me to the Vineyard Grill to meet up with Eric and Sheila and some Bob guy they’re trying to fix me up with?”

  Larissa was quiet for a moment. “Let me get this straight—you haven’t had a date in forever, and you’re bringing your cousin, your ex-husband, and his wife along on your first?”

  “It’s not a date. I just didn’t know how to get out of it.”

  “So you want me to be your wingman?”

  “Pretty much. Come on, you know I’d do it for you.”

  “Okay. But only if you let me do your hair. And dress you.”

  Reese sighed. “Fine. Whatever. But I’m not dressing as a hooker.”

  “Define hooker. Would a high-class escort be okay?”

  “Just be here in ten minutes. Please?”

  “You’ll owe me.”

  Larissa clicked off and Reese went to take a shower. Twenty minutes later, she was sitting on a stool in front of her bedroom mirror while Larissa tortured her with a blow-dryer.

  “Ouch,” Reese said.

  “If you’d just hold still—”

  “How long is this going to take?”

  “A few minutes more with the hair, and then I brought you something cute to put on.”

  “Cute like pink bows, or cute like ‘I charge by the minute for a hand job’?”

  Larissa turned off the dryer and smiled into the mirror. “I didn’t know you knew the word hand job.”

  “Isn’t it technically two words?”

  “It might be hyphenated. I’m not sure. I think blowjob is one word. Which are you planning to give Bob?”

  “Neither, thanks. Are your clothes even going to fit me?”

  “The shirt might be tight on you, but that’s the point. You could even stuff your bra if you really wanted to show off the girls.”

  “I’m not showing off the girls. The girls are perfectly happy staying low key this evening.”

  Larissa shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just thought you might like a little extra oomph.”

  “Is there something about me that suggests I like oomph?”

  “Get dressed,” Larissa said as she shoved a pile of clothes at her.

  Reese dropped the bundle on the bed and shucked her top. As she peeled off her jeans, Larissa clucked her disapproval. “No. Just no.”

  Reese looked up. “What?”

  “You don’t wear a white cotton bra and gray satin panties on a date.”

  “It’s dinner, not an orgy.”

  “Don’t you have anything that matches?” Larissa marched over to Reese’s bureau and began rummaging around. “Here. Black lace bra, black lace panties. This works.”

  Reese frowned at them. “I haven’t worn those for years. I think they’re itchy.”

  “They’re sexy. And they’ll go great under the top I brought. Come on, hurry up.”

  Knowing there was no use arguing, Reese wriggled the panties over her hips and fastened the front clasp on the bra.

  “The jeans might be a little snug, but they’ll make your ass look great,” Larissa encouraged. “Careful not to mess up your hair.”

  Reese finished buttoning and snapping and then turned to survey herself in the full-length mirror.

  “Wow. I don’t look like a total tramp.”

  Larissa grinned. “We can fix that. Just let me undo a couple buttons here—”

  “No,” Reese said, swatting her hand away. “I actually look pretty good. You think?”

  “You’re beautiful.” Larissa folded her arms over her chest and gave a decisive nod. “It’s about damn time you let someone appreciate that. Someone besides your ex-husband, his wife, and your cousin. Are you sure we all need to be there?”

  “Positive. I’m going to need moral support.”

  Larissa laughed. “I’m much better with the immoral support.”

  “Let’s go,” Reese said, grabbing her purse off the chair and flipping it open to make sure she had her house key. She frowned. “Did you stick a condom in here?”

  “Just looking out for you, cuz.” Larissa linked her arm through Reese’s and tugged her toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go meet your new boyfriend.”

  Clay shifted on the bench seat at Vineyard Grill, trying hard to listen to every word his new AA sponsor was saying, but he wasn’t having much luck.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the guy’s insights. Patrick was a general contractor who’d been sober eight years. He had shaggy brown hair, huge biceps, and a demeanor that suggested he’d been around the block a few times and bench-pressed several cars en route.

  The local AA group had put Clay in touch with Patrick when he’d called to find out about meetings
in the area. He was a fellow Hazelden alum, and they’d talked on the phone a few times before Clay had moved back to Oregon. It was clear Patrick had a great grasp on AA and the recovery process.

  His grasp on grammar was a bit shakier. Clay couldn’t stop staring at the blue tattoo on his forearm. A prison tat, from the look of it. The words read: Your stronger than you think you are.

  Clay shook his head and tried to focus on what Patrick was saying. “That’s really cool you haven’t been experiencing a lot of cravings.”

  “Cravings?” Clay said, his mind veering in an unexpected direction before he caught up with the conversation. “Oh, at the winery?”

  Patrick nodded and picked up his soda. “Well, yes—at the winery or anywhere else there might be temptation.”

  Clay nodded and looked at his hands. “The temptation at the winery is nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Careful with the confidence. Remember that you can’t prevent relapse alone.”

  Alone. The word hit him funny in the gut, but he knew what Patrick meant.

  “You’re right,” Clay said. “I plan to hit all the AA meetings while I’m here.”

  “That’s smart.” Patrick gave an affirmative grunt and shifted in his seat, revealing another tattoo on his bicep that read: Strength threw sobriety.

  Clay looked away and glanced toward the door of the restaurant. As if on cue, Reese walked through it. Clay blinked. It was Reese, wasn’t it?

  But this was a different Reese. Her hair was down and fluffed around her shoulders in a way that made Clay wonder what it would feel like to grab a handful at the nape of her neck and tug it to make her back arch. She was wearing some sort of slinky black top and jeans that hugged her—

  “Clay?”

  Clay swung his eyes back to Patrick. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Did you hear a word I just said?”

  “Um—”

  “That’s okay,” Patrick said with a laugh. “Those girls are beautiful, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Girls?” Clay asked, confused by the plural. He looked back at the doorway and noticed Reese wasn’t alone. “Oh. Larissa. I didn’t see her.”

  “You know them?”

  “Old friends from a past life,” Clay said. “Want me to introduce you?”

  “Nah, that’s okay. Looks like they might be heading into the bar.”

  Clay nodded. “Right. And you probably want to maintain some privacy with the whole AA thing.”

  “Not really an issue for me,” Patrick said, leaning back against the bench seat. “Everyone in town knows I’m in recovery. I try to tell as many people as possible, just to get the word out I’m available to help. If you know anyone else who needs me, feel free to pass my card along.”

  “I appreciate that,” Clay said, trying not to make it too obvious he was sneaking glimpses at Reese. She hadn’t seen him yet, which gave him a chance to watch her from afar, studying the way her hair moved, the way those green eyes flitted around the room.

  Patrick cleared his throat. “Speaking of girls, have you dated much since you got sober?”

  Clay shrugged and folded his hands on the Formica table. “A few dates here and there. Nothing serious.”

  “In four years? That’s a long time.”

  Clay shrugged. “I’ve been busy with work, busy getting my life back together, busy attending meetings. You know how it is.”

  Busy fantasizing about my best friend’s ex-wife, he didn’t add.

  “I took it pretty slow myself. You’ll figure it out.”

  Clay nodded and took a sip of his Coke as he stole another look at Reese. She still hadn’t seen him. In fact, she didn’t seem to know anyone was watching her. He gazed in fascination as she lifted her hand, hesitated, and glanced around. Then she stuck her hand down the front of her shirt.

  Clay choked on his drink.

  He was still choking as he forced himself to turn back to Patrick, trying not to look back at Reese and whatever the hell she was doing with her hand in her shirt.

  “I’ll figure it out,” Clay said, his voice strained. “You’re right about that.”

  “It does get easier. Never easy, but easier.”

  “That’s what I keep hearing.”

  “Well, Clay—it’s been really great meeting you. I’ll see you at the next meeting?”

  “Looking forward to it. Thanks, Patrick—I really appreciate it.”

  “No sweat. Call anytime you need me. And keep on keepin’ on, man.”

  “You, too.”

  They shook hands, and Patrick stood up. The second he was out the door, Clay scanned the restaurant again for Reese. Dammit, where had she gone? And why did he care?

  He spotted her then, seated in the bar where he’d been extra cautious not to go. He studied her, still a little awestruck at her appearance. She occupied a booth with Larissa, Eric, Sheila, and some guy who was staring down the front of Reese’s shirt so intently Clay wondered if she had a television broadcasting the NBA finals hidden away in there.

  A waitress appeared at Clay’s table and he tore his eyes away from Reese to watch the perky blonde deposit his check on the table with a little smiley face drawn at the top.

  “Refill on the Coke?”

  Clay hesitated. He was leaving, right? Staying would be stupid, and going into that bar would be more stupid. Stupid for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was that it was a bar. The flashing Deschutes Brewery sign caught his eye, but it didn’t hold his attention. He looked back at Reese.

  “No, thanks,” Clay told the waitress as he stuck twenty bucks in the little wallet with the bill. “I was just about to leave. Keep the change.”

  She smiled down at him. “You new in town?”

  “Sort of. I spent a lot of time around here a few years back.”

  “My name’s Emily. And I get off at nine, if you want to hang out or something.”

  She slipped a piece of paper across the table at him, and Clay stared dumbly at the numbers. Before he could say anything, she swished away with her tray in hand and a wiggle in her walk he knew was for him.

  Clay put the phone number in his pocket and stood up. He looked back at the bar. He wasn’t going in there. He was going to leave out the side door and—

  Before he could complete the thought, Reese looked up. Their gazes locked for three beats, neither of them blinking. Clay swallowed.

  Suddenly, Larissa’s gaze swung his direction.

  “Hey—it’s Clay!” she shouted across the bar. “Come join us. We’ve missed you!”

  Clay gripped the edge of his table, considering it. There were two pitchers of beer on their table, but he hardly noticed. It was Reese who made his pulse kick into overdrive. Reese looked away first, touching Sheila’s wrist and making a point of admiring her bracelet.

  “Come on, Clay,” Larissa shouted loudly enough that other patrons turned to stare. “Don’t be shy. We’ve got plenty of room here.”

  Clay let go of the table and put one foot in front of the other, trying to look cool and probably just looking like a guy trying to look cool.

  Eric grinned, the same, familiar expression Clay had seen a million times since college. Sheila smiled, too, tossing her blonde hair as she put her hand on her husband’s arm.

  The guy next to Reese tore his eyes away from her breasts to see what the fuss was about.

  Reese was the last to turn and smile at him, a move that seemed almost calculated. The smile was worth the wait—warm and real enough to light up her eyes.

  “Hello, Clay,” she said. “What brings you here?”

  “I just had a meeting with someone. I’m heading home now.”

  “Ooooh—a girl?” Sheila asked with hope. “It’d be great for you to have a girlfriend, Clay.”

  “Not a girl,” Clay said. “My ne
w sponsor.”

  “Sponsor?” Larissa asked. “Is that like the commercials you see on TV where you pay thirty dollars a month so a starving kid can eat?”

  Everyone else at the table shifted uncomfortably, and Clay couldn’t tell if Larissa was drunk, joking, or playing the ditz like she sometimes did in a bar full of men. Probably all three, he thought as he watched her drain her glass.

  “No,” Clay said. “I got connected with Patrick through the local Alcoholics Anonymous group. I contacted them last week to get a support network in place before I came out here.”

  “Working the steps, huh?” the guy next to Reese said. Actually, he said it to Reese’s breasts, but Clay assumed the words were meant for him. “Had a brother do AA,” the guy continued. “Relapsed six times.”

  Clay wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he offered his hand. “Clay Henderson. Good to meet you.”

  “Bob Wilson,” he grunted, looking up to extend his hand. “I’m a financial analyst. I’m with Reese.”

  Clay saw Reese’s expression go from uncomfortable to annoyed and back to uncomfortable in a span of three seconds. He wondered if anyone else noticed.

  Then he watched her lift her hand and adjust something between her breasts.

  What the hell?

  On the other side of the table, Eric cleared his throat. “Clay and I were college roommates, Bob. Me and Reese and Clay, we’ve been friends a long time.” He looked back at Clay and gestured toward an empty chair sitting off to the side of the booth. “You gonna join us, buddy?”

  Clay hesitated. Larissa snaked out a stiletto-clad foot and dragged the chair closer. “Come on, Clay—it’s been too long. At least help us with the nachos and catch up on old times.”

  Clay hesitated again, hoping no one expected him to be the life of the party the way he might have been in college. Then again, people had stopped inviting him to parties within a few years of college, back when he’d gone from being the fun guy with a beer in his hand to the pathetic guy with twelve empty cans at his feet.