Breathe for Me (22 page)

“Goodbye, Jane,” I whisper; tears slick down my face. My heart feels a little lighter now, its long-held burden finally released.

After a few more moments, I head inside to shower, change into capris and leggings with a long-sleeved shirt, then grab my phone, stuffing a big wad of cash in my pocket. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. A life free of Sitri.

The realization gives me pause. The encumbrance of over five hundred years falls from my shoulders. I am free. And today, as a free girl, I will do whatever I want.

I spend the first few hours of the morning just wandering up and down the streets of the French Quarter, snapping photos of old brick buildings, their façades crumbling from decade upon decade of wear and tear. Elderly men and women feeding birds, holding hands. Little kids with grimy fingers clinging to their mothers.

For lunch, I stop in several restaurants and treat myself to whatever I want to eat. Crawfish etouffee, jambalaya, gumbo. The spices sizzle in my mouth, make me smile with the heated warmth that rolls sweat down my forehead.

Churches, courtyards, mausoleums—I click my way through and take shots that speak to me; I watch light play across statues and windows. The sun ascends higher, cresting in the hot blue sky, and then begins its soft curve toward the west.

A quick glance at the time shows it's just after three. School should be out any minute now. Pangs of sorrow flood my chest as I think about Samantha, wondering what she's doing right now. I grip the phone, my gloved hands beginning to shake, and open a new text, addressing it to her.

I miss you
, I write, then hit send before I can change my mind. Simple, but true. Hopefully she'll see it as a gesture that we can sort things out. There's no way I can leave things this way between us. Even if she's angry, I need to let her know how important she is to me before I go.

I open another new text, adding Dominic's name, and press my back against the brick front of a used-clothing store. What can I possibly say to him to make things right? My heart is so filled with love and sorrow, beyond just simple words. I conjure an image of his face to my mind—the soft swoop of that lock of hair always in his eyes. His crooked smile. The strong line of his jaw.

His mouth caressing mine through the soft fabric of the scarf.

I love you. And I'm so sorry for everything
, I write. I hit send and cram my phone in my pocket.

I start the long walk home, wandering through neighborhoods. The sun is beating down now and it's hot, but I let it fill me with its warmth. So very different from Sitri's coldness. He'll never have power over me again.

As I turn the corner onto my street I notice someone sitting on the stoop of the building. It's Samantha. She tucks a strand of newly green-streaked hair behind her ear and rubs her hands across her ripped fishnet tights.

My heart slams in my chest, and I dig into my cell to look at my texts. Nothing new from her saying she was going to come by.

When she sees me, she stands.

I swallow, approach. “Hi.”

Samantha bites her lower lip. Now that I'm closer I can see the dark circles under her eyes. My heart lurches in sympathy. “I don't want us to fight anymore,” she whispers.

“Me neither.”

“I got your text.”

“I'm glad.” I give her a shy smile, squeeze her hand. “Come inside. It's hot out. We can talk in there.”

We make our way through the courtyard, up the stairs to my place. The air conditioning instantly smacks us in the face, and I shiver lightly at the sudden blast of delicious cold.

“Wow, it's actually frosty in here for once,” Samantha says with a sigh of pleasure. She pulls her shirt away from her chest, waving it a few times. “My clothes are sticking to me. Blech.”

I snag a can of Coke from the fridge for me and a can of Dr. Pepper for her, tossing it to her. “Your fav.”

“You know me so well.” She cracks it open and heads to the couch.

I sit in the chair near her, suddenly awkward again. What do I say? Do I dare tell her? Is it crueler to remain silent and not tell her the truth, for her to hear about my plans through someone else? Or do I tell her my ridiculous story and hope she'll understand?

Samantha stares at me. “We need to talk,” she says, her voice quiet.

I give a halfhearted chuckle. “I've been hearing that a lot lately.”

She puts her drink down on the coffee table, leans toward me. “I don't know what's going on with you, but if you're in trouble, you need to tell me. I can't help you unless I know. And don't tell me there's nothing wrong because I know you better than that by now. I can read it all over your face.”

“You won't believe me,” I blurt out, then bite my lip.

“Try me.” Her mouth thins into a slit, and she stares intently at me.

I wrestle with guilt, with the burden of my deadly secret. Tell? Don't tell? Tell? Don't tell? What's right? Can I trust her?

Her hand rubs my back. “Please,” she says. Anguish pours from the word. “Please, let me in.”

The words unknot me. I look up into her eyes and spill my truths onto her lap, barely taking a breath as I talk, talk, talk. I tell her about my pending marriage so long ago, my curse, the demon Sitri. About Dominic, our kiss, pushing him away. About Amos, his suicide. My deadline. The impossible bargain Sitri offered me.

And when I run out of things to say, I fall silent.

The whole time, Samantha stares at me, barely blinking.

“Now's the time to tell me I'm insane and run away,” I say, hating the nervous rawness in my voice, wishing I could be flippant about it. If only I didn't care what she thought of me. But I do.

Samantha, still quiet, takes my hand, pushes the sleeve up and glove down to bare my wrist. The question is in her eyes.

I swallow, nod.

She licks her lips, then touches the tip of her index finger to my skin. Flinching, she pulls away, her shocked gaze slamming into mine. “It's true,” she whispers as she shakes her head in disbelief. “I don't understand this at all, but it's true.”

I get up, grab an ice cube and paper towel from the kitchen and hand them to her so she can care for her finger before it gets too painful. Shyness sweeps over me; I keep my eyes fixed on the ground and slip into my chair again to maintain a healthy distance between us. She needs time to process.

Several long minutes pass in silence. I stare at the tops of my shoes, at the wood grain on the floor. The lines on my hands. Anywhere but at her.

“Why didn't you tell me?” she finally asks.

I make myself look up into her disappointed eyes. “It's a ridiculous story. I didn't think you would believe.” I pause. “And then, after Dominic's grandfather died, I was afraid of putting you at risk. I was scared.”

“So—” she clears her throat, “—so why are you telling me now?”

Carefully I weigh my words. “Because my time is almost up, and I'm out of options. I'm going to be… I'm not going to be here for much longer.” I danced around the subject of my suicide during my confession, not wanting to freak her out on top of everything else. That's still being ironed out anyway, and those private words will be shared with her in a letter. Later.

Samantha stands. “No, this can't be it. I won't accept it.” She paces across the room, back and forth. “We'll cut school tomorrow and go to the library. I think it opens at nine. We'll look up demon curses and—”

“I've already done that,” I say sadly. I stand up and grab her hands. “I need you to understand something. I've spent the last almost six months here doing research, desperate to break this curse. I—” My voice breaks, and I speak past the knot in my throat. “I love this city. I love you. I don't want to leave. But I didn't find anything to help. And I'm not giving him Dominic.”

“No, of course not.” Tears flood her eyes, stream down her cheeks, leaving a shadowed trail of mascara. “But what am I going to do without you? I can't just let you leave me, not now. Not when you finally told me the truth.”

My heart aches, and I gingerly wrap my arms around her in a hug. We remain that way for a long time, quiet, giving each other our sorrows and strengths.

With a sniffle, Samantha pulls away, then wipes her face, which streaks makeup everywhere. I chuckle, pointing her toward the mirror.

She gives a choked laugh and cleans her face up. “I'm a mess. Good thing Rick can't see me right now.”

“Um, I should also say that it's important he not know,” I tell her. “Please. Don't tell him any of this. Don't tell anyone.”

Turning back to me, she puts her hand over her heart, sincerity pouring through her eyes, her voice. “I promise. It'll go with me to the grave.”

The words tiptoe a chill across my skin, and I shove it aside. I need to focus on the here and now. “Thank you.”

“And I don't care what you say,” Samantha says, jutting out her jaw and crossing her arms. “We still have time. We're going to figure this out and beat Sitri at his own game. You're not leaving New Orleans.”

My sweet friend—so much bravado, so much strength, even in the face of certain failure. I hug her again, glad I let down my guard and told her the truth.

chapter eighteen

S
AMANTHA
CALLS
HER
MOM
and asks if she can stay for a few more hours at my place, claiming there's a big test tomorrow that we need to cram for. In reality, we spend the rest of the day finishing my goal of decorating the apartment. We both know it's a hopeless cause and there's no way to get out of the curse, but we shove the darkness from our midst and spend time taking more photos of each other in crazy poses, making goofy faces.

Then we head over to a local drug store and get the digital pictures developed in their 1-hour booth. While we wait we scour the store for supplies, filling up three baskets with food, caffeine, painting gear and a chick flick we haven't seen yet but is on sale.

“This is a great plan,” Samantha says as the cashier rings us out. “I'm glad we're doing this.”

I nod, casting a surreptitious glance at my phone. No messages. No calls.

My heart lurches, but I paste on a brave face. This isn't the time to cry over Dominic. Obviously he's still angry with me.

Tonight, when I'm alone, I'll figure out how to handle things with him. But right now my best friend needs me, and I desperately need her.

After snagging our photos from the surly employee who looks more interested in staring at Samantha's breasts than giving us service with a smile, we head back to the apartment. Samantha pops in the movie. As the opening credits queue up, I open the tubs of acrylic paint and hand her a brush.

“Anything you want,” I remind her. “Just put something of yourself in there. And don't forget to sign it.”

We decided that not only does my apartment need photos, it needs decoration. A personal touch. Therefore, we're going to paint murals in the living room. It gives Samantha a chance to flex her creative muscles and gives me a chance to absorb myself in something other than my own foreboding pain.

I grab a light-blue container first and dip the brush into the thick color, pausing. Then I just let myself paint abstract shapes, swirls, circles. Whatever comes to mind, uncensored, unedited.

As we paint, the movie plays in the background, its familiar tropes a comfort to me. Boy and girl meet, fall in love, have big misunderstanding, then come together at the end for a happily ever after. If only life were really that simple. We laugh at the appropriate parts, and after a couple of hours we're covered in paint, as are the walls.

“I'm done,” I proclaim, stepping back to look at my art. Not the most amazing thing, but I've never given myself permission to be free before. It's a good start. A very good start. Bold, cool-toned colors fill a decent portion of the wall behind the couch, a splash of life and vibrancy that makes the room look different. Definitely better.

“That looks great!” Samantha enthuses. “Now, give me just another sec…” A long pause. “Okay, I'm done. You can look now.”

I turn toward Samantha's image on the opposite wall—she made me promise not to until she was done. My breath catches in my throat, and I press a hand to my mouth, holding back a startled, choked cry.

It's
me
. She painted a close-up of my face. Shadows haunt my eyes, and a deep sadness pours from me. And yet, there's a small smile creasing my mouth. A hint of promise, of getting past the pain. My thick curls don't look unwieldy. They look soft, inviting.

“Do you like it?” she asks, her voice strangely shy.

I nod and give her a hug, careful not to expose her skin to mine. “It's perfect. I've never seen anything more beautiful.”

She sniffles, then presses her cheek against the side of my head and hugs me close. “Thank you. For telling me, I mean. For trusting me.”