Who Needs Air

by Cassie Graham

  “Everything okay?” Whitley asks.

  I shake my head, blinking rapidly. “Noel,” I call. “Turn it to channel ten, please.”

  Noel must notice my alarm because she runs to where the remote is sitting on the back of the bar and clicks it to Lily’s station. The news anchor, a man with salt and pepper hair, dark brown eyes and a solemn expression appears on the screen. “It was said that August Wyatt and Jennings Cohen were out grabbing lunch when a group of fans attacked them on the street.” They cut to a clip, clearly shot from a cell phone, of August and Jennings running down the road as a group of rabid fans chase behind them. It cuts away when the boys make their way into an alley. “Reports say the women chasing Jennings and August were able to tear one of the men’s shirts and scratch the other. We’re unable to confirm if anyone was hurt, but the local authorities were called and the situation has been handled.” The anchor man clasps his hands in front of him and I hear Whitley gasp, grabbing for her purse. “Authorities are urging all Bradshaw citizens to respect the privacy of the entire cast. Earlier today the location of the stars’ hotel was leaked and it’s said they’re transferring everyone to a new locale.”

  Whitley rushes up and I snap my eyes away, my heart pounding harshly in my chest. It bangs on my ribs, willing my legs to move.

  “We have to go see them,” Whitley rushes out. “Come on.” She tugs on my arm.

  “What?” I ask, stunned. August wouldn’t want me there, I’m sure. He’s a big boy. I don’t want to overstep my boundaries.

  “What, what?!” she shouts. “The boys might be hurt. Let’s go make sure they’re okay.” Her eyes are manic and I stand. Sure, I don’t want to violate any sort of understanding August and I have, but it’s also within my realm of friendship to make sure he’s okay.

  I rush to my office to grab my purse. I take the eleven extra steps to let Beau know I’m leaving early, but his office is empty. Settling on calling him later, I run back to Whitley.

  Hurrying out the front of the museum, Whitley hails the black SUV she came in.

  “We need to get to Jennings,” Whitley requests the moment we climb inside. She doesn’t demand, though you can tell in her tone she means business.

  Unable to see his face, the driver in the front seat nods and pulls away from the curb with a squeal.

  Madder Than a Wet Hen

  Whitley pushes open the doors of the studio and I can tell by the expression of the people around us that they know she is on the rampage. She’s small, but the girl is hardcore. I wouldn’t want to be on her bad side.

  Holding my hand, she takes us away from a soundstage into a series of hallways. The white walls and concrete floors make the space look mundane. She chooses a hallway and turns to me. “August’s room is the fourth door on the left.” She releases my hand and points to the door next to her. “This is Jennings’.” She kisses my cheek. “Let’s meet up in a bit.”

  I stop her when she turns for the door. “You okay?”

  Her tone wavers. “I’m…I’m okay. This just isn’t the first time a fan has hurt Jennings.”

  Oh God.

  “Okay. Go.” I push her.

  She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

  When she closes the door behind her, I pull the strap on my purse higher on my shoulder and turn to find August. Knocking three times, it takes a minute for him to answer. When he sees me, his eyebrows deepen, close to his eyes and he opens his mouth. “Belle?”

  “Are you okay?” I ask, planting my hands to the sides of his face. I pull down the skin under his eyes and his mouth falls open. I continue to look him over, invading his space and I feel the skin under my palms pull up.

  He’s smiling.

  Why, on Heaven’s green earth, is he smiling? His neck and arms are scratched all to hell. His shirt is ripped into four different sections and his hair is disheveled – he looks like he just got into a fight with an angry bear. Like he ran through a damn car wash minus his car plus a few razor blades. He looks rough.

  My concern vanishes in an instant and my skin begins to grow hot.

  “Those…those bastards!” I shout, my anger bubbling under the surface of my skin. I feel manic, breathing like a raging animal. I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to find those crazy people and give them whatfor.

  August laughs, the smooth, velvety sound pouring from his lips, caressing me with its hypnotic sound. “I’m okay, Belle.”

  I clench my mouth and breathe out my nose. “You can’t be all right! Some psycho, crazed women just attacked you. Look at you!” I step back and fan my hands in front of him. “You’re all banged up. Dammit…there’s even a bruise forming on your arm.” I study the reddened skin, my fingers gently pushing down. “Is that…is that a handprint?”

  August gently tugs his arm from my grip. He examines the purpling skin and winches when he touches it. “Damn, guess it’s a little worse than I thought.”

  “A little worse?” I yell. “Have you looked in the mirror?”

  He shakes his head and takes a few steps back to sit in a deep green lounge chair in the corner of the room. “We got back and I just wanted to sit.”

  “Yeah, because you got hit by Lord knows how many mac trucks!”

  He snickers again, shifting his body in the chair. He winces in pain but he recovers quickly. “You’re madder than a sticky hen.”

  That stops me in my tracks. My eyebrows crinkle and I sputter, a giggle threatening to spill from my mouth. “A sticky hen?”

  “Yeah,” he says, tipping his head back against the cushion behind his head. “Isn’t that the saying?”

  My shoulders bounce and I hold my stomach, the laughter making its way up my chest and into my throat. “Oh, sweet Lord. It’s ‘you’re madder than a wet hen.’ Why would a hen be sticky?”

  August groans and closes his eyes, but I can hear his smile. “I don’t know. Why would a hen be wet?” I chuckle behind my hand. “Apparently New York has ruined my southern charm.”

  I snort.

  He peeks one eye open. “Hush, Belle.”

  I make my way to the couch next to his chair. The same shade as the rest of the furniture in the room, it’s plush under my body as I sit down. “Seriously, are you okay? Was it scary?”

  His fingers tap on the armrest, taking his time thinking of his answer. He’s never been one to hide his feelings around me. Even without saying words I know the whole encounter shook him up. “It was…” he trails off.

  “I know.” The words fall into my lap, because I do. “I’m glad you’re okay, though.” August doesn’t say anything back. He swallows, lifting his head and he blinks his hypnotic eyes. He turns them in my direction and I feel myself tremble under his examination.

  I can’t seem to look away. He’s entranced me with his stare and I’m captive under their scrutiny. I love the way it makes me feel. Devoured. Wanted. Lusted after. I feel my cheeks begin to flush as he licks his lips. If it’s possible, his eyes grow darker, almost menacingly so.

  His hands clutch the armrests, the veins in his arms so taut and noticeable. I wonder if the same thoughts are going through his mind.

  He’s water and I’m air. So different, yet neither of us can live without the other. We’re deadly, but we’re also life-giving. I’ll drown in him if I allow myself and he might not survive without me.

  I become antsy – my body growing hot. He’s clearly uncomfortable, moving his body in the seat, shifting from side to side. I knot my hands in my lap and I cross and uncross my legs. Tilting my head, so curious and sort of (totally) turned on, I contemplate telling him about how Beau ended our relationship.

  Just as I’m about to open the flood gates and tell him everything, he sighs dejectedly, turning his eyes away. Our intense cloud poofs above our heads and disappears. I clear my throat and look toward the television mounted on the wall, feeling ridiculous for letting myself go there. Grabbing at the top of my shirt, I fan my chest a bit with the fabric.

 
It’s essential I move away from him. I want to kiss him. I can’t. I know that, but I want to. I’m not attached to Beau anymore. There’s nothing stopping me.

  Wait…there is.

  August is my friend. I can’t ruin that because he gets me all hot and bothered with his damn broody stare. I’ve never been immune to it. The way he makes me feel is no different than how it was all those years ago. I just have to rein it in. I have to see the big picture – the giant one that reminds me we agreed to be friends. That’s it.

  With that realization, I stand up in a haste, not saying a word, making my way to the bathroom I had spotted when I got here. I quickly make my way inside and shut the door behind me.

  “Brooke? Can I please come in?” I asked her, leaning my forehead on the outside of the door. My hands laid flat on the cold wood and I wished I could be on the other side.

  I heard her whimper and the door creaked as she moved away from it. “I can’t go out there and I don’t want you to see me in here.”

  I turned around and sat down on the ground. “Why?”

  “Because I can’t even look at water. I haven’t taken a shower since the accident. Water, Rush. It scares me.”

  I combed my hand through my hair and squeezed my eyes tight.

  The accident.

  Dammit. The accident.

  It had only been four days, but I wondered how could I have not noticed she hadn’t touched water since? For most the time, she had been cradled in my arms as she sobbed over the loss of her father.

  For four days, she had shaken as she recalled the moments her father lost control of the car and accidentally drove over the bridge and into the river.

  For four agonizing days, she had recalled laughing with her dad as they played the ‘slugbug’ game, and his eyes weren’t focused on the road. She cried about how he didn’t notice the deer on the bridge, but she did and so she screamed, causing her father to swerve over the bridge wall.

  She had clung to my shoulders and she wept over the fact that her dad went into immediate action. Rolling down the windows and unbuckling her seatbelt so she could climb out. She said it happened in slow motion and at hyper-speed all at once. By the time he had clicked her seatbelt free, the front end of the car crashed into the water with a rattling jar. The water, so unlike her imagination, rushed in quickly, breaking the windshield with a sickening crack. They were submerged in an instant. She said she had struggled to breathe, moving to her dad, attempting to unbuckle his seatbelt. It was no use. The weight of the water had locked it in place. She had tugged and pulled, hoping to loosen it even just a little so he could slide out. She quickly ran out of air, the warm lake filling her lungs. Her father had shaken his head and pointed upward, telling her to swim to the top, but she refused, pushing her body to its limit.

  Then finally, in what seemed like a blink of an eye, their entire struggle came to a head. Her dad kissed the pad of his pinky and pressed his finger against her nose. Their ultimate sign of love and he closed his eyes, his body going limp.

  At that point, Brooke’s body couldn’t take it anymore. Then, thankfully for her, someone – a bystander – pulled her to the surface, leaving her father behind.

  I shook my head and brought myself back.

  “I don’t want to be scared anymore, Rush,” she continued. “It’s so stupid. Water is a necessity. Yet, I’m terrified of it.”

  I turned toward the door. “Will you please let me in?”

  She sniffled, again. “I can’t. I stink and I’m gross. People will be here soon for the funeral. I just want to stay in here.”

  “You can’t,” I said. “You know you can’t. You can’t do that to your dad and you can’t do that to your mom.” I tossed off my black sport coat and rolled up the sleeves on my white button up shirt. Standing, I grasped the door handle. “Let me help you.”

  It took her a few beats but she opened the door and crossed her arms around her middle when I met her eyes.

  I shut the door behind me and pulled her into my embrace, holding her as tight as I could. If she was afraid of water, I was going to hold her hand as she maneuvered through it. She gave me strength and now was my time to support her.

  “You don’t need water, Brooke,” I said. “Water needs you. Without you, it’s nothing.”

  She snorted on my shoulder and pulled back a bit, looking me in the eye with red tinged sadness.

  “Seriously. Water waits for us every day, doesn’t it? It waits to be drank, it waits to be used, it waits to be swam in. Without you – without us – it’s just this wet, useless thing.”

  “I couldn’t survive without it.”

  “True, but it can’t survive without you, either. It was put on this earth for us.”

  She closed her eyes, a smile pulling on her lips. “You’re crazy.”

  “Also true.”

  “I’m being idiotic, right?”

  I shook my head and cradled her back. “Not at all, but water didn’t do this to you. Water didn’t take your dad. That’s just life. It was an accident. I could sneeze at the wrong time tomorrow, fall off a ledge and crack my head open.” She gasps and mutters something about not being the appropriate time to joke about death, but I go on, “Life isn’t guaranteed. We have to accept what we can’t control and move on. Your dad sacrificed himself for you. He was the air in your lungs, Brooke.”

  She sighed and I felt her body slacken. “He was the air, and so are you.”

  I stayed quiet for a second. “I’m what?”

  “You’re my air, Rush. I’m drowning. I’m drowning in sadness and fear and you somehow breathe life into me. When I have you, who needs air?”

  Three hard knocks jolt me from my recollection of my memories and Somewhere Only We Know.

  “Are you okay?” August asks and I wipe the moisture from my face. I hadn’t realized I was standing in front of the mirror, replaying one of the most difficult and eye-opening days of my life.

  “I’m…” I clear my throat. “I’m good. I’ll be out in a sec.” Turning on the water, I shove my hands under the faucet. Cooling my neck down, I look to my right and pick up the piece of paper sitting on the counter. It’s just a call-sheet for the cast, but on the bottom, in August’s handwriting, a scribbled note reads, Don’t forget air.

  My eyebrows furrow and my eyes narrow. Don’t forget air? What does that mean? Shaking my head, I toss the paper aside and make my way back into August’s room. “Sorry,” I say with a smile.

  “It’s fine,” he offers, walking to me. “I just…I need you to be all right.”

  “What? I need you to be all right. You’re the one who just got attacked.”

  He takes a deep breath, his shoulders heaving as he slowly lets out a rush of air. “I’m totally okay. Yeah, it shook me up, but I care more about you.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  His shoulders slacken. “Because you matter to me. What just happened…” He presses his lips into a hard line. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Belle.”

  That makes two of us. “Me either. Beau and I broke up, and I feel confused.”

  “You and Beau broke up?”

  I swallow. “Yeah. Today.”

  “Why?”

  I somberly laugh and turn to sit down, but August grabs my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. “Because of you.”

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “I don’t think it was you, I think it was more of an ‘us’ thing. Our past. The fact that we’re trying to be friends. Beau couldn’t handle it.”

  “He couldn’t take my masculine handsomeness?” August boasts with a smirk, still holding my hand.

  He puffs his chest and I roll my eyes. “That’s exactly it. You were just far too manly for him.” I exhale dismally. “I don’t know. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. We were always good friends. From the moment I started working at the museum, we clicked. We sort of peaked in that department, you know? I think the only thing to do was to date. He was great, but I�
�m not…I’m not overly sad about not being with him, either.”

  “You’ve never been one to second-guess yourself. If you’re sad, be sad. If not, that’s okay, too.”

  My thumb rubs the top of his hand. “Yeah. I’m okay. I would like to be his friend, though.”

  “Then do it.”

  Seems so simple when he says it. Considering how I left things with Beau and the hurt in his eyes, I don’t know if it’s going to happen any time soon.

  I’m in my own head, overthinking things like I always do when I realize August is still holding my hand. I’m still caressing his skin with my fingers and now that I’m aware of it, it seems far too intimate.

  I very gingerly try to pull my hand away, but he grips me tighter.

  Struggling to hush the butterflies in my stomach, I take a deep breath. I think my eyes might be having a stroke – or a heart attack. Is that possible? I can’t move them away from where we’re connected. It’s such a simple gesture and I don’t know if it’s because I know – or used to know – August so well, but it feels like he’s trying to say something without saying it out loud. Like somehow the words will seep out of him and into me without any actual sounds.

  I skim my eyes away from our hands and up to his arms, past his biceps and up toward his broad shoulders. A bit of skin on his clavicle peeks out, the bone pronounced and his neck tight. He still hasn’t changed from the debacle earlier and I wonder if he’s noticed me staring.

  Then again, I’m not quite sure if I care at the moment.

  My gaze focuses more as I lift my eyes higher, watching his lightly veined neck move as he swallows. I’d do the same, but my mouth is far too dry. I feel my hand tremble in his and will it to calm down, but it won’t. It’s on full hyper-awareness mode and I don’t think it plans on chilling out any time soon.

  August’s jaw twitches and I flick my eyes to look into his. In the same moment, my stomach flips. His eyes aren’t so light anymore. Sapphire, they almost look black. His whole demeanor is changed, and, I’m surprised to say, I don’t hate it. He’s the danger I remember. It’s the danger I loved so much.