I say, “Jeremiah Crew, I hope you’re on your way to the airport. I hope you get on that plane to Montana and don’t look back.”
* * *
—
I walk until I find my pile of things and then I drop onto the sand and dig in my bag and pull out two notebooks, one blue and one green. I open the battered cover of the blue one and flip through the pages, reading by the moonlight every word I’ve written since I’ve been here. Every thought, good and bad, every ache, every longing, every adventure.
Hemingway once said, “All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” So I don’t think about Mr. Russo telling me I don’t feel deeply enough, and I don’t think about whether or not it’s going to be any good. I open the blank green notebook—the color of spartina—and start to write.
You were my first. Not just sex, although that was part of it, but the first to look past everything else into me.
Some of the names and places have been changed, but the story is true. It’s all here because one day this will be the past, and I don’t want to forget what I went through, what I thought, what I felt, who I was. I don’t want to forget you.
But most of all, I don’t want to forget me.
DAY 35
I ride my bicycle down Main Road, under the green, green canopy of trees. I feel the sun on my face and the wind in my hair. The day is bright. I am bright.
I roll to a stop and I can see his house from where I am. I want to sit on his front step and wait for him to come back and take me on adventures. Take me treasure hunting. Take me for a walk on the beach under the moon. Kiss me in the rain in a cemetery by a whispering wall.
I don’t think, I just hit play, and suddenly this song is blasting in my ears—his favorite song, the one that will always belong to him, and to the two of us dancing through the ruins, under the fog. And he is there, smile half-cocked, staring down at me like I’m a miracle. You, I hear him say, are spectacular, Claudine Llewelyn Henry.
Him. Me.
Me. Him.
Us. Intertwined. Hands on my face, in my hair, trailing down my back, his fingers—soft as a cloud—on my skin, where no boy had gone before. But it’s more than this. It’s muddy feet and locked basements and blood moons and all the things we said to each other when no one else was listening.
I think of all the reasons I love him.
Like the jolt of his touch. Which is a kind of lightning. An electric current. Not enough to kill you, but enough to leave you wired and hungry and alive.
Like the fact that he smells like tomorrow, if tomorrow had a smell.
Like a shirt you’ve worn in just enough.
A sunset over a cornfield, the kind that turns everything gold and warm.
Sheets just out of the dryer.
Fresh snow.
He is all of these things and home.
The song ends and the quiet is filled with the steady, shimmering hum of cicadas, as if the air itself is singing. The sun beats down, heavy on my skin. The ferry will be here in an hour and I need to get back to the house. But for a moment I am rooted to this sandy path, staring past the horses, tails flickering, that graze in the grass, and the great sweeping arms of the live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss. At the blue rocking chairs and the various bones and skulls—bleached a hard, bright white—gathered in one corner of the porch. His house is quiet, no signs of life. His truck is parked out front, dusty from our last beach trip.
I wave away a bug. Touch the back of my neck where my hair has grown out a little. It’s still short. I think I like it this way. The freckles on my face and shoulders have multiplied since the beginning of summer, but I don’t mind them as much as I used to. I feel taller. Older. Good and right in my own skin. But still like myself. Claude Before and After.
Here we laughed. Here we fought. Here we loved and dreamed. Here is where the fire started. Here is where the first brick fell. Here is where the floor disappeared. Here is where I built a new one underneath my feet.
And here is where I began.
The last thing he said to me: I’ve got a few more things to do and then I’ll come find you. I tell myself if I stand here long enough, he might appear. And then I almost see him, walking toward me down the path. Bare feet. Shirt untucked. Face lit up at the sight of me. Ready for our next adventure.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
At the end of my senior year of high school, days after I turned eighteen, my dad came into my bedroom and told me that he and my mom were splitting up. All my life, it had been the three of us—Mom, Dad, me. My parents were everything. And suddenly, my world turned upside down. I couldn’t get my bearings. It was as if the floor beneath me had disappeared. I wasn’t allowed to say anything about the separation to anyone, which made it even more painful. Five days after graduation, my mom and I moved away from my Indiana hometown—leaving behind my childhood home, my dad, my dog, my best friend, and the boy I liked—to the mountains of North Carolina. It was a summer of lasts and firsts, and all these years later, that time of my life is still a very emotional place to visit.
Breathless is the book I never thought I’d write. It is, in many ways, even more personal for me than All the Bright Places. It’s the book I needed when I was sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. But it’s not a story I could write without the support and encouragement of a great many people.
Seven years ago, my literary agent, Kerry Sparks, took a chance on me, believed in me, and changed my life forever—both personally and professionally—in ways glittering and unimaginable. She is electric sunshine, brilliant and amazing, mama bear supreme when she needs to be, super-savvy editor, dear, hilarious friend, and my absolute hero on this earth. Thank you to Kerry and to everyone at Levine Greenberg Rostan Literary Agency for all you are and all you do.
Knopf’s Melanie Nolan is one of the very best editors I’ve ever had the privilege of working with. From that first lunch, where we bonded over Little Darlings and I knew she just got it, to our cowboy-boot shopping spree to every astute, insightful, aha-inducing note, and the way in which she has so giftedly offered guidance, while at the same time cultivating and nurturing my creative freedom, our collaboration has been invaluable. I am honored to work with her.
I have the most wonderful home at Penguin Random House, and the most wonderful publishing family. Deepest, heartfelt, unceasing thanks to Barbara Marcus, Felicia Frazier, Judith Haut, Jillian Vandall, Dominique Cimina, Morgan Maple, Arely Guzmán, Pam White, Jocelyn Lange, Lauren Morgan, John Adamo, Elizabeth Ward, Kelly McGauley, Jenn Inzetta, Alison Impey, Adrienne Waintraub, Emily DuVal, Megan Mitchell, Jake Eldred, Kate Keating, Noreen Herits, Gillian Levinson, Karen Sherman, Artie Bennett, and everyone else there who has helped bring this book into the world. You are eternally some of my brightest places. Also immense gratitude for artist Tito Merello, whose exquisite painting of Claude and Miah brought them to life on the cover.
My fabulous UK editor, Ben Horslen, and the entire Penguin Random House UK family are also the brightest of places. I send them one million thank-yous and my undying appreciation for this, our third literary journey together. Thank-yous and undying appreciation as well to Sylvie Rabineau and Lauren Szurgot of WME for their faith and enthusiasm in my books and me. With them in my corner, I feel like I can conquer the world—and I want to be both of them when I grow up.
I have enormous love and thanks for the generous, welcoming folks of Sapelo Island, especially Chris and Barbara Bailey, as well as the folks of the Outer Banks and Cumberland Island. (Jared Hilliard, I’m fortunate to not only call you my friend but to include you in this story!) I had the privilege of sharing some memorable summer evenings of dinner and wine with fellow bibliophile and friend Lisa Langshaw, who died before I could finish this one, but whose effervescent soul lives on in Addy.
My delightful, what-would-I-do-without-her assista
nt, Briana Bailey (all mentions of wild hogs are for you!). And my terrific social media assistants, Mackenzie and Lila Vanacore, whose expertise and inspired ideas fill me with awe on a daily basis. Special shout-out to Kenzie for letting me share her profound words, mixing them with my own, for Wednesday’s last speech to Claude, the one about breaking free of boxes.
My very first reader, Justin Conway (more on him in a moment), who is also a dynamite editor. And my earliest young readers, Briana Bailey, Annalise von Sprecken, Mackenzie and Lila, Katie-May Taylor, and Gabriel Duval. As well as Kerry Kletter, who is not only one of the best editors I know, she’s also one of the very best writers. (Seriously, please do yourselves a favor and go buy all of her books right now!) Speaking of excellent writers who are dear friends, Angelo Surmelis and Ronni Davis are a very important part of my floor. They hold me up and make me laugh and love me, freckles and all.
Thank you to The Lovelies for making it lovely, and Lisa Brucker, Grecia Reyes, Krista Ramirez, Beth Jennings White, Megan White, Jennifer Koerner, Shari Franklin, Logan Franklin, Karen and Jon Preble, and Janet Geddis (whose Avid Bookshop is THE BEST) for your friendship. Thank you, Alex, Hilda, and Terrie (not to mention Sloane!), for looking after the furry ones while we’re away.
Big appreciation to the actual Wednesday for supporting CLIC Sargent and letting me use your name. (Fingers crossed you like fictitious you!)
Thank you, Paula Mazur and Mitchell Kaplan, for believing in my books and me, and for all of your beautiful, sensitive understanding and genius.
The homefolks, back in Indiana—Elizabeth Bailey, one of my cherished second moms, for being there for my eighteen-year-old self when I needed to talk to someone. Thank you for protecting my secret all these years. Jim Resh and his staff at the Wayne County Convention & Tourism Bureau, for being tireless champions of my books and me. Joe Kraemer, for being my brother and best friend and partner in crime and general bad influence (but in the most good way). Saz is for you and Laura Lonigro, gone too soon but forever young in our hearts and so, so missed and loved. I raise a glass to you both from the steps of the Dayton Art Institute. Our art institute.
Thank you to my family for their unwavering love, humor, and support, including cousin–daughter–kindred spirit Annalise von Sprecken, sister-cousin Lisa von Sprecken, brother-cousin Derek Duval, my adoring and adored aunts, Lynn Duval Clark and Doris Knapp, my favorite niece, Grace Payne, and favorite sister-in-law, Jennifer Payne, and my uncle Bill Niven, beloved surrogate father, protector, friend, and cat whisperer. Thank you beyond words to my spectacular Ansley for getting me, heart and soul, for hamming it up on Instagram Live with me, and for spontaneous dance parties (Harry Styles and the Jonas Brothers forever!). And to my marvelous Ashton for being always the gentleman, teaching me things with great patience, and reminding me—frequently—to calm down. All the snugs and love in the world for you both.
I don’t know what it would be like to write without cats walking across my keyboard or running away with office supplies or making sure I’m awake at three, four, or five a.m. Thankfully, I’m fortunate enough to have five very interactive literary kitties—Her Highness, Queen Lulu, of the computer keyboard and the early-morning awakenings; dear, perpetually befuddled, purr-factory Rumi; grateful, courageous Scout (with her giant polydactyl feet); the ever-maddening Linus “Shitbag” Niven Conway (whom I often wrote this book in spite of); and wide-eyed Luna, our “sweetly dim” (but oddly willful), bicoastal rescue fluff, who travels better than we do and is destined for movie stardom (consider this the start of my campaign for Luna as Dandelion in the movie version).
As I mentioned, this book is a personal one. Neither Claude nor I would be here without my parents, Penelope Niven and Jack Fain McJunkin Jr., who taught me I could be or do anything, who told me never to limit myself or my imagination, who gave me unconditional love, and who saw to it that, no matter what, I was encouraged and enabled to fulfill all my “Jenniferness.” I have been missing my funny, gruff, marathon-running, cookie-stealing, gourmet-chef-in-his-spare-time dad for eighteen years, and my exceptional, sparkling, heart-calming, book-writing, soul-twin of a mom (best friend, mentor, Penny and Jennifer, Jennifer and Penny, the Niven women) for six, but I am surrounded by and filled with their extraordinary love. And every word I write comes from them.
This book is personal in another way. In 2018, I traveled to a remote Georgia island, laptop in hand, the idea for Breathless forming in my head. My first day there, I met my now-husband, Justin Conway—the real-life Jeremiah Crew—who swept me off my feet and into his truck. I’d gone there in search of this book and instead found a golden, barefoot, age-appropriate flesh-and-blood version of the character I’d been envisioning for a year or more. This man who, on our first day together, learned my secrets and told me his. Who taught me to find shark teeth. Who brought me mud boots. Who showed me his island. Who carried me through a creek that became a river. Who drove me through the night by the light of the fireflies. Him. Me. Me. Him. Us. Intertwined. This book is for him. For our muddy feet and locked basements and blood moons and all the things we said to each other when no one else was listening. We just knew that first day. Six months later, we were married, and we’ve been continuing to write our love story every day since.
Last but not least, I need to thank my readers. Dear lovelies: none of this would be possible without you. I never lose sight of that, and I never will. I love you more than I can ever say.
Now.
Close the book.
But first—remember to open yourself up to love and possibility, to almostness and maybe.
Use your voice.
Let others in.
Choose your future. Choose your body. Choose yourself.
And go out there and write your life.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jennifer Niven is the number one New York Times and internationally bestselling author of All the Bright Places and Holding Up the Universe. Her books have been translated into over seventy-five languages and have won literary awards around the world. When she isn’t working on multiple book and TV projects—including the script for the film version of All the Bright Places (Netflix)—Jennifer also oversees Germ, a literary web magazine for high school age and beyond. Jennifer divides her time between coastal Georgia and Los Angeles.
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.
Breathless Page 33
