Barely Breathing (8 page)

My phone beeped.
Snow Day!
was displayed under Sara’s name. Good. That meant I could stay in bed until my mother turned up the heat.

Coming to get you in a few hours,
appeared on my phone a moment later under Evan’s name. I responded with an affirmative, feeling much too awake to find sleep again. Footsteps fell across the unforgiving boards leading to the bathroom, and seconds later the pipes thumped and squealed with the sound of water rushing through them. "Fine," I huffed out loud, "I'm getting up."

I threw my hair up in a pile of twists on top of my head and slid on socks to protect my feet from the icy floorboards before plodding down the stairs. Pulling a box of cereal from the cabinet, I poured myself a bowl to take into the living room. I adjusted the thermostat to a warmer temperature so I would no longer have to see my breath.

I flipped on SportsCenter and started eating the cereal. The sound of the door opening and feet banging against the wood on the porch stopped me mid-bite. I peeked over to find a guy brushing snow from his jacket and shoving off his boots by the door. My heart pounded, knowing what I looked like and not wanting to be seen by whoever it was entering like he belonged here.

I watched with wide eyes as a guy with messy dark hair walked into the living room with a bowl of cereal of his own. I pulled my knees up to cover my chest, very aware that I didn’t have anything on under my long sleeved shirt. He had a muscular build and a youthful face―making me question exactly who he was. He didn’t look that much older than Jared.

“Hey,” he greeted with a nod, sitting next to me on the couch like he’d known me for years.

“Hi,” I replied, not moving a muscle.

“I’m Chris,” he offered before shoveling a mound of cereal into his mouth, the milk dribbling down his chin. He wiped it off with his sleeve while his eyes remained glued to the television. He glanced over at me again and said, “It’s a shitty mess out there.”

I nodded, not really wanting to have a conversation with this strange guy sitting next to me.

“Chris, are you still here?” my mother yelled from the top of the stairs, sounding like she hadn't expected him to be.

"Yeah," he bellowed in return.

"I thought you were leaving to get to class," she returned in confusion.

"Got cancelled," he answered, still staring at the TV.

"Um... could you start my car for me?"

"Yeah, sure."

Without complaint, Chris put his bowl down on the coffee table and walked out of the room. I listened to the jangling of keys and the click of the door. I’d hoped to disappear before he returned, but I was met with the door flinging open as he rushed in, out of breath, to escape the cold.

“What are you up to today?” he asked, using his toes to remove his snow covered boots.

“Not sure,” I answered with my arms crossed over my chest.

“My friend’s having a party tonight if you and Rachel want to come by,” he offered.

“Oh,” was all that I could find to say.

“Emily, you're up,” my mother noted in surprise as she walked down the stairs in a long black skirt, black leather dress boots and a fitted green turtleneck sweater. "I thought school was cancelled."

“Don’t you look all sexy in your work clothes,” Chris admired before I could answer. She flashed an embarrassed glance my way and laughed uncomfortably. He grabbed her when she reached the bottom step, burying his face in her neck. She giggled awkwardly and pushed him away, walking past him to the kitchen.

“So, will I see you when I get back from school in a few weeks?” he asked, following her.

“Umm... we'll see,” she replied reluctantly, her cheeks bright red. “Want some coffee?” He followed her into the kitchen, and I hopped up the stairs two at a time to escape to my room. I stayed in there until I heard them leave. A few minutes later a text appeared.
I'm so, so sorry about that. Thought he’d be gone by the time you got up.
I didn’t respond. I didn't even know what to say.

I wish I could say that Chris was a fluke and it never happened again. Although she attempted to hide the guys, I could hear her coming home giggling on the nights she stayed out late after work―presumably after drinking a little too much. I didn’t usually see them, nor could I confirm if she was in fact drunk―I just had a feeling. Every so often, I'd bump into one of the guys on my way to the bathroom in the morning, but I probably wouldn't have known most of them were there at all if I could have actually gotten some sleep.

She never provided an explanation or apologized for their presence. Perhaps she didn't realize I knew. They'd come in after I was in bed, and she'd sneak them out early, before I got up. It's not like it happened every night, but it happened enough that I always made sure I had a sports bra on before I left my room.

I wasn't exactly prepared for her lifestyle. And she wasn’t exactly prepared for mine either.

A creak pulled me from my sleep. I remained still with my eyes closed, listening to the wind push against the house and the groans of the old building fighting against it. I opened my eyes, staring into the dark with my ears at attention. There was another creak, closer to my room.

My unblinking eyes slowly adjusted to the light, as little as there was. But it didn’t matter how much I stared at the door, I couldn’t see into the black paint. I might as well have been looking into an abyss. I only knew where it was because a sliver of light seeped in under its uneven edge. Another board let out a creak right outside the door.

I wanted to call out for my mother, hoping it was her. But I remained paralyzed in my bed. The only thing that moved was my heart racing in my chest. I heard the handle jiggle, and the hinges shrieked open. The silhouette stood in the door’s frame, unmoving.

I opened my mouth to ask who it was, but I could barely breathe. The person stepped forward, allowing just enough light to make out the angular features of her face and the sneer on her lips. I looked down at her hand and she was holding something long and hard. It reflected the light enough for me to know that whatever it was, it was going to hurt.

“You don’t deserve to live,” she grunted, raising her arm over her head.

“Emily?!” another voice screamed. My eyes shot open. I remained frozen, breath heaving, trying to orient myself. The door flung open and my mother rushed in in a panic, “What's wrong?!” She stood just inside the door, flipping on the light, her hand over her heart.

My shoulders relaxed and I took a deep breath to ease the racing beats in my chest. “It was just a dream,” I explained, from my startled seated position.

“Holy shit, Emily,” she declared, letting out a long breath. “You just about gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry.” I ran my hand over my brow, erasing the lingering sweat that clung to my skin. “I’m fine.”

She hesitated before leaving, like she wanted to say something. She looked me over again and finally said, "Well... good night," then walked out, shutting off the light and closing the door behind her.

I clicked on the lamp next to my bed, to keep out the dark, and settled into my pillow with my arms wrapped tightly across my body. The dream lingered. It felt so real, I was afraid to close my eyes again.

My mother came into my room only a couple of times after that night, panicked by my screams. But then she stopped, probably realizing there wasn't anything she could do.

I felt guilty for waking her, especially when I saw her slumped over her coffee each morning. I knew I wasn't easy to live with. I’d often found Sara on the couch of her entertainment room in attempt to escape me.

My therapist had prescribed sleeping pills, but they didn't take the nightmares away. They only kept me trapped, thrashing inside of them.

"I'm sorry," I offered one morning. My mother looked up from her coffee. "About keeping you awake."

She shrugged. "You can't help it."

We didn't talk about it after that.

7. Social Life

"So, I just started dating this guy," my mother blurted one morning while I was buttering toast. I paused before turning around, not prepared for the confession―especially after all of the guys she'd hidden in the past month since my "breakfast" with Chris.

I took a breath and turned to face her. "Really?" I tried to remember the last time I'd heard a
visitor
and narrowed it down to about a week or week and a half ago.

"Except," she hesitated with a breath, "he's... younger.
A lot
younger, and I'm not sure how I feel about it." She appeared troubled, clearly looking to me for advice.

"How old is he?" I asked, attempting to fill the role.

"Twenty-eight," she grimaced, waiting for me to pass judgment. I didn't react. He was older than I'd expected, to be honest.

"How old was Chris?" I asked, without thinking.

Her face changed to a hue of red. "He was... young, but I had no interest in
dating
him."

"Right," I nodded, flushing uncomfortably. "So, do you like him?"

"Yes," she answered, her eyes lighting up. "He's
so
nice, and smart, and amazingly hot, and confident," she gushed, "but... he's
so
young, Emily. I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Who cares," I offered with a shrug, taking on my role with a little more gusto. "You obviously like him, and if the age difference doesn't bother him, then... date him. I mean, is it serious?"

"Not really," she admitted. "Not yet, anyway. We've only been on a couple of dates. But we have so much fun together, and he keeps asking to see me again."

"Then do it," I urged, completely freaking out on the inside that I was encouraging my mother to date a younger guy, or to date at all. She beamed at my acceptance.

"You're going to the concert with Evan tonight, right?" She took a sip of her coffee, unable to keep the smile from her face.

"Yes," I replied, eyeing her jovial expression apprehensively.

"Shit, I'm going to be late," she exclaimed suddenly, glancing at the clock on the microwave and jumping up from the chair. She looked to me and tensed excitedly, and before I knew it, she threw her arms around me and squeezed. I was too stunned to move. "Thank you," she squealed.

As I was walking into school alongside Evan and Sara, my mother texted me.
Going out with him again tonight! So excited!
I couldn't help but laugh.

"What's so funny?" Evan asked.

"My mother's
dating
," I explained with a shake of my head, "and she's more nervously excited about it than most girls at our school."

Evan raised his eyebrows. "That's got to be interesting."

"You have no idea," I responded, rolling my eyes.

"She has more of a social life than
I
do," Sara added, having heard my spiels about my mother's late nights and the sleepovers she'd host.

"Does she go out a lot?" Evan asked, not knowing any of it. I shot Sara a wide eyed glance.

"Sometimes," I replied casually.

When Evan was out of earshot, Sara stated, "I didn't know you didn't tell him about how much Rachel goes out."

"I was afraid of how it would sound to him," I explained.

"Who cares," Sara countered. "It's not like it's you who's bringing home strange men."

"Yeah," I explained, "but I don't want him worrying about me being in the same house as the
strange men
."

Sara nodded, understanding how that would rouse Evan's protective side.

"Besides," I continued, "she really seems to like this guy. So maybe the string of one-nighters is over."

"Em, you never saw the guys. Maybe it was the same guy each night."

I flipped my eyes toward her and shook my head. "Don't think so."

"Oh," Sara said with a shocked look of understanding. "Well, let's hope he's a keeper."

The sweat had barely dried from my skin, and my tank top and hair were still damp from the exertion when I ran into the house, slamming the door behind me and flying up the stairs. Of all the nights for Coach to torture us with sprints. It’s not like we lost by that much in yesterday afternoon’s game.

I glanced at the clock as I pulled jeans from the closet and a long sleeved shirt from the dresser, tossing them on the bed. I had twenty minutes to get ready. From the quiet, I could tell I was alone in the house. She was probably on her date.

I kicked off my sneakers and tore at my socks, then pulled my shirt over my head and dropped my shorts somewhere along the way to the bathroom. My urgency didn’t help cool my skin. I turned on the shower and made myself calm down long enough to wash up―and hopefully stop sweating.

Wrapped in a towel, I scampered out of the bathroom toward my room, and I heard the front door open. Shit. I wasn’t fast enough.

“I’ll be right…” I started, peering down the stairs. At the same time, the guy at the bottom hollered, “Rach…”

We both froze and stared at each other. Neither of us anticipated seeing the other―especially me in just a towel. I tightened my hold of the fabric wrapped around my body, water running over my shoulders from my dripping hair.

“Whoa,” he exclaimed in surprise. “You're not Rachel.”

“Uh, she’s not home,” I answered, but he’d probably already figured that out. I remained still. My instinct was to rush into my room and shut the door, but I couldn't move.

“I knocked,” he defended, looking up at me in apology. "Sorry. I shouldn't have just walked in like that." It didn't seem to faze him that I was dripping wet, half naked. He didn't avert his dark eyes. “I’m Jonathan.”

I widened my eyes, dumbfounded by his casualness. "Emma," I uttered.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Emma," he responded with a smile, still looking me in the eye. "I guess I'll just call her. Have a good night." Before I could say another word, he was out the front door. Within seconds I unglued myself from the floor and was right behind him, securing the dead bolt while exhaling the breath I'd been holding at the sight of him.

It took a moment for me to remember what I was
supposed
to be doing, and I ran back up the stairs, nearly falling on my face as I slid across the wet boards at the top.