Hold Me Like a Breath

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “I-I need to go.” I couldn’t handle the dead ends and nonanswers. The accusations and implications and the horrible thought that some crimes were never solved.

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry I upset you.”

  I didn’t tell him it was all right, because it wasn’t.

  “Call me anytime if you need to talk. Need anything,” said Bob. “There’s unlimited minutes on the phone and it’s secure.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And be careful, Penelope Maeve.”

  “Always.” The word was as weary and worn as the oversized chair I was sitting in.

  I stared at the cell phone’s screen after we hung up. Based on the date displayed, it had been three days since my last trip out of the apartment. I’d guessed as much based on the color progression of my bruises—the greens, yellows, and browns.

  I needed to get out. Get sunlight. Distract myself from the fears and images looping through my head. See if the dachshund and Pom’s owners were coupled yet, try the blueberry coffee, check on Shanice’s son. Find a pretty view and a sunny bench where I could sit and update my notebook. I wanted to add stories about the times I’d injured myself over the years and my family’s various bedside manners. I’d taken them for granted: Father’s balloon bouquets and Broadway serenades. Mother’s attempts to teach me to cross-stitch and crochet—though her own skills were limited. We’d made one lumpy, unraveling afghan and never finished our stitchery. Carter brought comic books, lilies, video games, frappés. He made “idiot-pathetic” jokes that somehow always made me less self-conscious. He’d bring Garrett too, who was always his own brand of distraction.

  Garrett. Physically okay … but thinking I was dead. Thinking we were all dead. That would wreck him. My guilt and desire to console him made me pick the phone back up. My fear of placing him in danger made me put it back down.

  He wasn’t coming. I was alone. And probably should stay pinned within the walls where I was safest, but I needed to try street pretzels and the peanuts that were roasted and sugared and smelled like ice-cream cones. I wanted to watch the carriage riders in Central Park, see the Statue of Liberty. All those touristy things I’d daydreamed and bookmarked back when my biggest problems were boredom and blood counts. I needed to enjoy freedom, because there were no guarantees I’d have it for long. I put my new cell phone in my purse, added the new key to the paper clip with the others, and left. Shutting the apartment door Bob’s people had wiped clean of my blood, I skipped down the stairs I’d painfully crawled up.

  I stepped into the sunshine of a perfect morning and gulped a breath of outside air—then choked on it. He was there. The Asian guy who’d run into me and haunted my dreams. My stranger.

  Standing on the sidewalk across the street, his dark pants, gray shirt, and messenger bag looked far too pristine against the grimy backdrop of the neighborhood. His eyes were on my building, on me, and he was crossing the street, running toward where I stood frozen on the step.

  My dreams hadn’t done him justice. He was gorgeous. The most attractive guy I’d ever seen. Period. Exclamation point.

  His black hair lacked any sort of part or order. It was long enough to be pushed back when he shoved his sunglasses to the top of his head so he could look at me with eyes that were intensity-brown under eyebrows that arched in shivery, come-hithery ways. Except they weren’t purposely come-hither—they were raised in concern. For me.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He beamed. Beamed. No one had ever smiled at me like that. Like just by walking out the door I’d made his life better. It punched holes in my caution, made me feel off-balance.

  But I stuck to my script anyway. “What are you doing here?”

  “You didn’t call, and I was worried.”

  “Do girls always call you?” His lips distracted me as I waited for him to form them into an answer … An answer to the wrong question. “Why are you outside my apartment?”

  “I wanted to see that you were okay. You just—you seemed so disoriented. I should’ve insisted on taking you to the hospital. I was worried you were diabetic and had gone into insulin shock.”

  This wasn’t the apartment building where I’d left him. My back and palms glossed with a panic-sheen of sweat.

  “You followed me. In what world is it okay to follow a girl you don’t know home and wait outside her building?” There was so much of my father in my voice. If I’d had a Ward here, I would have nodded at him to step closer and crack his knuckles. But I didn’t need the extra menace; the guy looked nervous enough. Shifting his weight, staring at my shoes.

  “I … I wanted to see you again. I was worried. I felt responsible. I—” His eyes swept across my face and he frowned. “Did I do this?”

  He brushed my bangs aside with a finger, revealing the grayish bruise. “I’m so sorry.”

  I wanted to lean into the touch. Instead I jumped backward and smoothed my hair into place. This was the correct reaction, and the correct words would be some enraged version of “Don’t touch me” or “Who do you think you are?”

  What came out of my mouth was, “And I thought rock-hard jaw lines only existed in romance novels.”

  He chuckled and some of the guilt eased out of his expression.

  I raised my eyebrows in a silent your move. I wanted him to continue our conversation, to give me an excuse for not saying the word I should: “good-bye.”

  He didn’t. He fidgeted with the flap on his messenger bag, shifted his weight. Opened and closed his mouth. Licked his lips. Sighed. He let the pause stretch beyond the point of uncomfortable till I was rocking back on my heels to pivot and walk away.

  Then he opened his mouth again and said in a rush, “I know you must think I’m crazy for being here. I’m not sure I disagree. It’s probably some strange post-adrenaline, serotonin, or dopamine overload that’s causing a momentary hero complex, but … I’m so happy to see you.” He lifted his eyes from the sidewalk, and his expression was as transparent as glass—hope balanced on his slightly parted lips; nerves drew lines between his eyebrows.

  These changed to doubt as he studied my face. I’d adopted a practiced mask of neutrality, and he couldn’t tell I was hiding the same emotions behind it. It was agony watching his courageous vulnerability turn into flushed-cheek humiliation. Especially after he’d given what had to be the most scientific, least romantic declaration of I’m not sure what.

  Probably he’d lived a life where he didn’t have to hide his feelings. I forgot sometimes that not everyone was raised with gates and guards and guns. Maybe he’d been blessed with an ordinary life. One without all the posturing and duplicity. One where a reaction of silence meant disinterest, not self-preservation.

  “Um. Yeah. Okay. Never mind. Sorry for disturbing you … and for that.” He pointed at my forehead.

  “It was really unnecessary for you to come check on me, but thank you for bringing me home. I don’t know if I remembered to say that.”

  It was a polite exit line. It didn’t reveal I’d spent three days dreaming of his lips on mine. That I was equal parts thrilled and mortified to see him again. That it hurt me to take the first step away.

  “Wait.” His hand shot out and grasped my wrist. “Is there any chance you’d want to see me again?”

  I looked at his fingers on my skin, loving the contrast of his pigment against mine. But they needed to not be there. I needed to not be wasting precious antibody-protected platelets on this.

  Yet … as his fingers rearranged into a lighter grip, skating across the skin on the inside of my wrist, the feeling made me want to sigh or bite my lip.

  I pulled away. “What?”

  “Look, I don’t want to come on too strong.” He paused and gave a self-deprecating grin. “Probably too late for that, huh?”

  I nodded. “Stalking isn’t really on my list of attractive qualities.”

  “What is on this list?” he asked. “Are there copies I could o
btain and study?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Persistence was on it, but I’m rethinking it.”

  “What can I say? You really made an impression on me.” The corner of his mouth twitched as he tried not to smile at his own joke.

  It was lame … and endearing. It caught me off-guard and I laughed. “Actually, you made the impression on me.”

  His laughter was rich and thick like melted chocolate. It seemed to pour slowly over me, erasing so much of my foreboding and replacing it with the sweetest sensation. Like smiling through a blush. Both of which I was doing.

  “Now I’ve exposed my cheesy side too.” He peeked at me with a sheepish grin. “I don’t suppose there’s any recovering from being the cheesy, persistent stalker who made you bleed?”

  “Well, when you put it like that …”

  He was going to give up. I could see a regretful good-bye poised on the bow of his lips—which were so full and tempting and so much more attractive when smiling. And delicious to kiss— No. Wait. I hadn’t ever really kissed him. Those had been dreams. Illness dreams. A manifestation of my body breaking down and falling apart and for some reason releasing euphoric brain chemicals—probably the same ones he’d just listed.

  But could it possibly feel as good in real life?

  “I was going to get coffee and go for a walk. I guess some company wouldn’t kill me.” I bit my tongue on the last words. Kill me. There were people in this world who wanted to. Somewhere. Anywhere. And I’d been flirting.

  And not with Garrett. His name felt like an obstruction in my throat when I tried to swallow.

  But the killers would be looking for a blonde. By herself. Not a brunette with a guy whose shoulders would make anyone second-guess an assault.

  “Yes, please.” And that smile. That beaming smile from my dreams—where he’d said, “You’re my reason for breathing.” I wanted to be that reason. I needed to make my brain stop replaying that image and my cheeks stop blushing.

  “What’s your name?” he asked. “With the amount of time I’ve spent thinking about you, I can’t believe I don’t know it.”

  “Maeve.” I’d hesitated for a fraction of a second, but I hesitated so much around him, he couldn’t attribute it to anything but not having won me over yet. He would. I knew he would. It terrified me how much I wanted to yield to his charm and smile. “Yours?”

  He hesitated too. Maybe not trusting I cared. Like this was a test he needed to pass in order to walk the next block with me. Then he relaxed back into his smile, held out his hand and said, “Charlie. It’s so nice to finally meet you, Maeve.”

  “Charlie? No.” It was the touch of his fingers that caused the unguarded reaction. I’d been so busy concentrating on not gasping when his palm slid across mine in the light grasp of a quick handshake that I’d forgotten to police my thoughts.

  It wasn’t fair. Other people touched all the time. They were immune to the electricity of skin plus skin, but I’d never had a chance to build up a tolerance. He probably didn’t feel the same thrill of energy, his pulse probably wasn’t racing.

  Something shifted in his face. Not anger or fear, but something. Something guarded. Something I couldn’t read. It bothered me. I wanted to know all his expressions. I wanted them all to be smiles. “Why no?”

  “Charlie is someone who’s five years old. Or a dumpy-looking cartoon with persistent pessimism and poor coordination. You do not look like a Charlie.”

  “What do I look like then?” He’d figured out the compliment and his smile was back. A smolder more than a smile, like he was making up for its lapse by burning hotter.

  “Um … How about Char?”

  I needed to get a grip. So he was an attractive guy. A very attractive guy. So what? I’d seen plenty of attractive guys on TV. Garrett was attractive.

  Garrett. Whom I’d promised to run away with two weeks ago and who I’d thought would come and rescue me. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. And fair or not, the thought made me angry. He’d promised to protect me.

  “Char. I’ll take it.” He continued to smolder at me. “Hmm, you’ve invited me on a walk and given me a nickname. This is a pretty good morning.”

  “It is,” I agreed. I owed myself a good morning. A reward for the three days I’d just endured. One morning.

  “Would it be pressing my luck to ask to hold your hand?”

  I glanced down at mine. So far there was no sign of a handshake bruise. I should’ve asked Bob for my counts; I should have asked when they’d next be checked.

  There were so many reasons my answers should’ve been No. Never. Turning and walking away.

  Platelets. Murderers. Secrets. Crimes. The lies I’d have to tell and remember. The danger I’d put him in.

  If I’d been a better person I would’ve said no. Never. Run.

  “Not yet,” I answered. “Patience is on my list of desirable qualities. I’d like to see if you have it.”

  Chapter 25

  We walked a ribbon-candy pattern, down one block and back the next. Back and forth through a section of the city.

  “Where are we going and why like this?” I wished I had my map app so I could track our progress, create a record of the magic of the day.

  “Nowhere. It’s the perfect way to wander without getting lost.”

  That made sense, and it meant I didn’t have to pay attention to our setting beyond counting: three blocks from the apartment, four. I could focus on him. His gaze was skipping from the buildings to me and back again. His smile brightened each time his eyes hit mine and dimmed at the stone and brick and glass. I wanted to tell him to forget manners, forget social mores; he could have my permission to stare, because I certainly was and had no intention of stopping.

  “Oh, watch out.” Char touched my arm to get my attention and pointed at a pair of men carrying a couch from a truck toward an apartment building.

  While we paused on the sidewalk to let them pass, I fluttered my lashes, pressed the back of my hand to my head, and simpered, “My hero.”

  He moved my hand out of the way and touched my forehead again, outlining the shape of the bruise with the lightest caress. “Some hero. I’m really sorry, Maeve.”

  My heart was too busy thudding for me to do more than nod.

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m coming on so strong.”

  I was, but not as much as I was wondering why I wasn’t running, why his statement made me lean toward him and nod in a way that meant go on.

  “Believe it or not, I’m not usually this … aggressive.” He shook his head. “That’s not really the right word. I’m not really a pursuer. Is that any better?”

  “I believe you.” His self-conscious jokes and unguarded grins made me think “earnest” not “player.” He didn’t have the practiced smoothness of guys on TV shows or the swagger of the older Ward brothers. “So why now? Why me?”

  He paused on a corner, taking a step out of the foot traffic and waiting for me to follow. I did, watching his mouth as he swallowed and licked his bottom lip while choosing the right words. “I recently lost two … opportunities because I didn’t speak up. They were things that mattered to me and …” He shook his head. “I decided when I got on the plane to New York that I wouldn’t do that anymore. That I wouldn’t be so passive or wait for things to come to me. That I’d be better at communicating—asking for—the things I want.”

  He reached out and gently placed a hand on my sleeve. “I want to spend more time with you.”

  I noted his choice of vague words: “opportunities,” “things.” Clearly whatever he’d missed out on was personal—but I wanted to know him well enough that he’d confide them. And I’d recently lost something as well: my family.

  Stupid. Rash. Whatever adjective I pinned on it, it didn’t change that his words resonated with sincerity and my reaction was to open my dry mouth and whisper, “I want that too.”

  Morning melted into afternoon. My resolve melted too. And my caution. I ignored the
passersby. I even let myself be seated in a restaurant with my back to the door. Char was dangerous for my well-being, not because of the collision, or because I wanted more—more bruises if it meant he’d touch me—but because he made me distracted, he made me breathless, he made me reckless.

  “What are you drawing?” he asked, sitting back down and leaning forward to see the napkin I’d been idly doodling while he’d been in the bathroom.

  My stomach dropped. Before I could wad it up, Char reached across the table and spun the napkin around. “Wow. Where’d you come up with this?”

  The only answer I could think to give started with a kernel of the truth. “My brother once teased me that all girls ever doodle are hearts and flowers—so I came up with this.” I took the drawing back and folded the napkin to hide the anatomical heart made out of daisies and tulips and other simple flowers. It was pretty much the only thing I ever doodled, so I guess Carter had been right.

  “Ha!” Char laughed and leaned forward. “How’d he react?”

  I’d put it on his birthday card that year—the year he turned thirteen—and he’d loved it. It was framed in his room. Father had often said we should adopt it as a Family crest, have it put on letterhead and the gates. I swallowed. Lies hurt, but the truth hurt more.

  “Oh. He just said I was weird or something.”

  “Well, I think it’s fantastic. May I have it?”

  I studied his face. There was no suspicion, no scrutiny. And why would there be? It was a strange thing to doodle, but since Father had never gotten around to making it into a crest, it was hardly incriminating.

  I slid the napkin across the table.

  “Thank you,” he said, folding it and putting it carefully in his pocket. “Now tell me something else. Tell me, I don’t know, your favorite constellation.”

  I laughed and my fear evaporated. “I don’t think I have one. But, by all means, tell me yours.”

  The afternoon dissolved into an endless conversation, an exchange of information that was carefully guarded on my part, but also felt effortless and honest.