Just Remember to Breathe

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  Dylan nodded. He looked deeply unhappy, and it was driving me crazy that I couldn’t do anything about it. I leaned forward and spoke. “Can we try one more?”

  “Yeah,” Dylan said.

  “I got this one,” Sherman said. “You’re getting beat up enough.”

  So we stood, and Dylan coached. Sherman was harder than Dylan. I think Dylan was holding back: the emotional connection between us, the history between us, made it impossible to go after me aggressively. Sherman had no such compunctions, and he came in blinding fast, grabbing me around the waist and knocking me to the cold ground.

  I kept rolling with the momentum, and managed to roll most of his weight off of me, but he recovered quickly, grabbing my right arm and twisting it up behind my back. I cried out, and froze.

  “Crap,” Sherman said, letting go, then rolling off of me.

  “We’ve got to work on that one,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  Dylan came forward, reached a hand out and gave me a hand up. “We’ll work on that when you get back from San Francisco. You’ve got to practice using your attackers weight against him. Roll, rather than push.”

  I nodded. I was still winded. “You going to be up for it? I can get pretty mean.”

  He smiled. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said.

  I looked at him and said, “Why don’t we all go grab some breakfast. It’s been a while.”

  Doubt clouded Dylan’s face. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  Sherman shook his head. “Come on, Dylan. It’s only breakfast. Let’s go.”

  He sighed. “All right.”

  So, wet and dirty as we were, we walked the five blocks to Tom’s. Sitting down, we all ordered coffee, and I pulled my legs up under me in the seat.

  “You looking forward to going home?” Dylan asked.

  I shook my head. “No, not really. Anxious. My parents can be just a little over-controlling. And I’ve not been very, um, communicative this fall. To tell the truth, I’ve barely spoken with them. It’s going to be one long, tension filled week. And all my sisters are coming into town, which will mean chaos.”

  “Speaking of sisters,” Sherman said. “I guess I should break the news. I’m going to Texas the week after Thanksgiving. You know, for a campus visit.”

  “Oh, my God,” I said. “Does Carrie know?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I’ve applied at Rice. Don’t know if I can get in… my grades weren’t as fantastic as my looks, you know. But close.”

  I laughed. “Good luck,” I said, smiling.

  “So, you know her better than I do. What’s a good gift to take?”

  “Condoms,” I replied.

  They both burst into laughter, and Sherman gave Dylan a high five. I blushed.

  “Sorry. Sometimes I forget to consult my brain before I speak.”

  “In all seriousness though… you know Carrie’s hardly dated at all. She’s always been so career focused. Not to mention that a lot of guys are intimidated by her height, and her looks. She mostly gets complete assholes chasing after her. You’re a nice change, Ray.”

  He grinned, then said, “I’ve been practicing my nice-guy exterior. But I’m pretty much an asshole underneath.”

  “Whatever. Just get her something nice. Something… unusual. She’s got a ton of clothes and jewelry… my Dad gives her lots of money. He treats her like she’s a model. But something thoughtful, and different, would be perfect.”

  He nodded, seriously, then said, “Oh, shit, look at the time. I gotta, go, see you guys later!”

  I couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t actually looked at the time before he said it. Instead, he dropped a twenty on the table, stood, and practically ran out. “See you guys later,” he called out as he went for the front door.

  “Jesus,” Dylan said. “That was a setup.”

  “You think so?” I asked.

  “Yeah. He wanted to dump us alone with each other.”

  “I wonder why?”

  He looked at me, and swallowed. Then he took a deep breath, and said, “Probably because I told him last night that I’ve been having second thoughts.”

  I looked away from him, suddenly number in my fingers and toes, feeling as if I had stuck my head in a refrigerator. “Second thoughts about what?”

  He sighed, then said, “About… me and you. Us. About my decision to walk away.”

  I stared at the black and white checks of the wall near us, trying to maintain control of myself. I didn’t answer. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. Because this hurt. This really hurt. I’d done this to myself, knowing that if I kept hanging around, he’d eventually start to waver. And now he had. The thing I wanted. But not exactly.

  When I didn’t answer, he continued awkwardly, his voice sounding very, very sad.

  “Look,” he said. “I know I hurt you. I know I screwed up. And … maybe I’m hoping you’ll give me a second chance.”

  I still couldn’t answer. My mind was running a thousand miles a second, visions of us together: running together around Central Park in the darkness before sunrise. Huddled together in his room or mine. The night we held each other, in a breathless, awkward and yet wonderful make-out session in Golden Gate Park.

  I closed my eyes. I could see those things, but I had to remember other things. Me, curled up in my bed, not knowing if he was alive or dead. And him not having the respect for me to tell me to my face why he wouldn’t have anything more to do with me.

  “Will you consider it?” he asked. Dylan rarely opened up so much, rarely made himself vulnerable like this. It was legitimate: I could see it in his eyes. I could see it in the very slight, almost invisible shaking in his hands. He was asking me to take him back, and it was laying him open, vulnerable to being hurt as bad as he’d hurt me.

  That’s why it was really tough to do what I knew I had to do.

  I shook my head. “No,” I said, very quietly.

  He nearly collapsed into his seat. I kept my eyes away from him.

  “I can’t live with that. With you … deciding it’s over, then just as quickly deciding you want me back. You don’t get to make those decisions all by yourself.”

  I cut my eyes away from the wall, and back to him. He sat, looking glum, staring at the table. Then he said, his voice rough, “I was afraid of that.”

  I leaned forward, and said, “Damn it, Dylan. This is twice. Twice you’ve broken my heart. Twice you’ve made me feel like I was… like I was worthless. If you want me, you damn well have to convince me. If you want me, you have to finally, after all this time, start telling me what you are thinking and feeling. No more bullshit, no more hiding, no more long silences. If you want me, you need to make a commitment and work for it.”

  I stood up, knowing I was going to start crying if I didn’t get out of there right this instant. Standing up and looking down at him, I struggled to maintain my composure as I said, “I love you, Dylan Paris. But sometimes love by itself… it’s just not enough.”

  I threw some money on the table and walked away, back straight, trying to hide the tears that were starting to leak from my eyes.

  That’s not much of a plan (Dylan)

  I walked back to my apartment in a fog. I was a damned fool.

  I’ve never been much of one for waterworks, so there wasn’t much of that. Instead, I just felt dead inside. I’d give a lot to be able to break down and cry, which is what I suspected she was going to go do.

  If you want me, you damn well have to convince me.

  I didn’t have a clue how to go about doing that. Not a fucking clue. What I knew was what I’d been coming to realize in the last couple weeks, as we were going through her farcical self-defense training. Did she think I didn’t know the university offered self-defense training for free? This was about pulling us together. This was about her keeping an eye on me, about giving us an opportunity to come back together. And maybe I … maybe I relished that safety a little bit. Maybe I took her for
granted, and assumed that if I changed my stupid mind, she’d be waiting for me.

  I was wrong.

  Her face when she said it: she was firm, direct, and very clear. The answer was no. She wasn’t having me back. Not unless I made some changes. But I didn’t know what kind of changes she was looking for.

  When I walked back into my apartment, Sherman was sitting there, packing his bag, preparing to go home. He looked up as I entered, and when I closed the door behind me he said, “Where’s Alex? She didn’t come back with you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Shit,” he said. “You didn’t ask her? If she’d take you back?”

  I stood there, then nodded. “I did.”

  “Oh. Oh crap,” he said. “She shot you down.”

  I nodded, then told her what she’d said. He listened, carefully. Then he sat, considering, for what seemed like an eternity. I collapsed on the couch. Ron, my elusive roommate from the chemical engineering department, came out of his room then. He nodded to me, walked to the kitchen and grabbed a beer. Then he waved, and disappeared back into his room. That was my fucking life.

  “Dude, you fucked up, bad. You know that, right?”

  I sighed. That was damned helpful. “Yeah. I know.”

  “So… what are going to do?”

  “Convince her,” I replied.

  “How?”

  “Not a fucking clue.”

  He frowned. “That’s not much of a plan.”

  “Tell me what she said again.”

  I went through it again. Commitment. Telling her how I felt, as if I knew the answer to that. Convince me.

  He frowned, and then said, “Look, dude, I’ve got to get to the airport or I’ll miss my flight. But it seems to me like she gave you the plan already. She told you what you have to do. Now it’s up to you. Listen, I’ll call you next week. Keep me updated on the plans for the trial, all right?”

  I nodded. We clasped hands, and then he grabbed me in a bear hug and growled, then headed out the door.

  I went back to my room and collapsed on the bed, staring at the picture of her I kept on my night stand.

  Don’t freak out (Alex)

  I love flying west. It’s quirky, I know, but the nice thing about it is, you can leave in the morning and actually arrive still in the morning, if you’re on a non stop flight. Going east, across the United States, isn’t nearly as much fun. Going against the sun, a four hour flight turns into an all-day ordeal… leave in the morning, don’t get there until late at night.

  Actually, I’m lying, just trying to stay positive.

  The fact is, I hate flying at all. Being cooped up in a tin-can with two hundred other people at near the speed of sound, thousands of feet above the surface of the earth? I get the shakes on takeoff and landing. The only tolerable flight I’ve ever had in my life was the one home from Tel Aviv to New York three years ago. I spent that entire flight in Dylan’s arms, and didn’t notice the fear. He held my hand on takeoff, and I was asleep when we landed.

  I was already regretting what I said to him. Even if it was the right thing to say, the right thing to do. I’d gambled, and it was a big one. But I’d also done what I needed to protect myself. I loved Dylan, but I wasn’t going to take him without conditions. I wasn’t going to take him without being able to trust that he’d be there tomorrow.

  So this flight, I mostly spent crying. God, sometimes I’m pathetic. Is that a definition of strength? Doing what you have to do even when it’s horrible, when it tears your heart out, when it feels like a huge mistake? If so, I guess this counted. I felt strong. I felt self-affirmed, empowered. I felt miserable.

  To make things worse, I spent the entire ride going through my album. I was updating it, adding the very few pictures we’d taken in New York. Together. Every picture I saw of us together made me feel like crying just a little more.

  The flight attendant stopped by twice to ask if I was okay. The second time, I answered forcefully, “Do I look okay? Please, just leave me alone.”

  She did.

  Before the flight landed, I went back to the bathroom and carefully washed my face, then re-did my mascara and makeup. One thing I was not going to do was give any indication to my family that I’d been crying on this flight. This fell under the category of things my mother did not need to know.

  At the end of the flight, as I was packing away my carry-on bag, the poor guy who’d been sitting next to me during the flight said, “He’s a lucky guy, I guess, to have you love him so much.”

  I grinned. “Maybe. If he only knew it.”

  “Good luck,” he said.

  I guess I depend on the kindness of strangers. Because I’d put the rose in as well.The rose given to me by the florist around the corner from the dorms, just two weeks ago.

  So, bag slung under my shoulder, a fake smile plastered on my face, I walked through the security gates and greeted my family.

  My dad wasn’t at the airport, of course. He’d be sitting at home, waiting to greet me in some formal way most likely. But my mom was, and the twins, Jessica and Sarah. Expecting the same sort of giant, chaotic family bear hug I’d been greeted with when I got home for the summer, I was a little surprised (and disappointed) when my mother hugged me first, then each sister separately. They’d arrayed themselves on either side of my mother, Jessica dressed in a white dress, Sarah in black jeans and a grey t-shirt.

  “Welcome home, darling,” my mother said.

  “Hey,” Jessica said.

  Sarah didn’t say a word.

  My mother leaned close and whispered, “The twins aren’t speaking with each other at the moment. Sorry about that, it’s made things terribly awkward.”

  She wasn’t kidding. I had to sit in the back seat of the minivan, because Sarah and Jessica, both sixteen years old, refused to sit in the middle row together, and the back row had been taken out, the space filled with boxes of God only knew what. Sarah sat up front, staring out the window, refusing to acknowledge anyone.

  Jessica looked Sarah, then crossed her arms, pouted, and stared out the window.

  Oh, boy. This was going to be a fun vacation.

  “So, uh, Mom, what have you been up to?”

  “Oh, not much. Mostly worrying about you girls, and waiting hand and foot on your father while he writes his memoirs.”

  “He’s still working on them?”

  She met my eyes in the rear view mirror for just a second, then said, “Yes, he’s still working on them.” She didn’t sigh, or roll her eyes, or anything else, but it seemed like she wanted to. “How is school? We hardly ever hear from you, Alexandra.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve been really busy, lots of commitments this year. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch more. I’ll try to do better.”

  “Your father and I would appreciate that.”

  Jessica blurt out, “Carrie’s home. And she has a new boyfriend.”

  Sarah turned around in her seat and glared at Jessica, then muttered, “God!” and turned back around.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Carrie has a boyfriend?”

  My mother interjected, “It seems so. But she’s being very mysterious about it. She’s been home two days, and she’s constantly texting, or giggling on the phone, or locked in her room talking on her computer. It’s really undignified for a woman her age.”

  I grinned, suddenly happy for the first time in days. “That’s great, Mom!”

  “Well, of course, you would think so,” she said, putting me neatly in my place.

  I guess I wasn’t in the mood, though, because I replied instantly, “What’s that supposed to mean, mom?”

  She sniffed. “You know we’ve not always approved of your choice of boyfriends.”

  I shook my head, keeping a smile plastered on my face, and looked out the window. “Yes, mom. I know that.”

  “Well, let’s not get into all of that, it’s all over now anyway.”

  I took a deep breath. If she only knew.

 
For the first time since I’d seen her, Sarah spoke. “What happened to Dylan, anyway? I thought he was cute.”

  “Sarah!” my mom said, in an injured voice.

  “Well, it’s true, he was cute. Didn’t he join the Army or something?”

  I replied, my voice calm, trying desperately to not reveal anything. “Yes. He was badly wounded in Afghanistan.”

  “Oh dear,” my mother said, her voice low.

  I looked at her, trying to discern from her expression, did she know? My dad emailed Dylan when he was in the hospital. He at least knew Dylan was wounded, and didn’t tell me. My father saw how miserable I was last year, and he knew. And he didn’t tell me.

  Dad and I were going to have a discussion.

  “Did you know about that, mom?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No, I’m so sorry. I hope it wasn’t serious. Even though we didn’t really approve of him, he’s a nice boy.”

  “It was serious,” I answered, still trying to gauge her reaction. We were sitting at a red light, and she met my eyes in the rear-view mirror. “He nearly lost his leg. And his best friend was killed.”

  She went pale, then whispered, “I’m so sorry, Alexandra. I know you cared for him.”

  I exhaled and sat back in my seat. My mother was, as usual, inscrutable. She could have made millions as a poker player, though I suppose being the wife of a diplomat was much of the same thing.

  This drive was excruciating. I took my phone out and turned it on. I knew it was too much to hope for, but maybe there was a message from Dylan. Or an email. A text. Something. Some clue that he’d really heard what I was trying to say. Anything.

  As soon as the phone turned on, text messages started coming in. None from Dylan, but one from Kelly, and two more from Sherman, then one from Carrie.

  Kelly’s message was short and to the point:

  Call me the moment u land. Urgent.

  Sherman wrote:

  Alex, do not turn on the news. Call me or Carrie ASAP.

  Carrie’s was far less cryptic, but but no more helpful.