Breathe for Me Read online

  “Did you eat yet?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “You?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you…do you want to come over?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual. “I can make something for us, if you like. I mean, I’m not the greatest at cooking, but I can throw together a few things, and—”

  “Sure,” Dominic says, interrupting my rambling. A smile spreads across his face.

  Every step back to my house seems to hold a lifetime. I capture it all in my mind, silently wishing I could keep this memory forever—the balmy breezes, his steady breathing, the rustling of the trees around us. It all etches within me a sort of living photograph.

  “So, tell me more about yourself,” I say, then wish I sounded a little less awkward and clichéd. “I mean, um, if there’s anything you want to share.”

  Dominic reaches a hand up and brushes the tips of his fingers along the bottom leaves of a low-lying tree. It rustles from his touch. “Hm. Well, I have a few friends but we don’t get to hang out enough. My favorite class is English—”

  “Mine too,” I say in a rush.

  He smiles, his eyes twinkling. “Kinda figured. What else… I like old kung fu films and Chinese food. My brother and I spend a couple of marathon nights each month in front of the TV, reenacting the fight scenes.” He grins wryly. “He usually wins, but I’m getting better at anticipating his moves.”

  What would it be like to share those kinds of moments with a sibling? Jane would have been too horrified to watch such a movie with me—she couldn’t even stand seeing our neighbor’s brothers wrestling around. And when they got cut, she’d fuss over them, clucking her tongue and cleaning up their messy wounds. So motherly and nurturing, even at a young age.

  An image pops into my mind of Dominic and me sitting on a couch together, watching one of those films, digging into a container of noodles and laughing at the buckets of fake blood that result from every flesh wound. I smile.

  “We should do that one night,” he says, and I jump a little, startled that he practically read my mind.

  I nod in response, licking my upper lip nervously.

  We make it back to my building, navigating our way through the courtyard and up to my apartment.

  “Is your uncle home?” Dominic asks.

  “No, he’s pretty much always out.” But thinking about my pretend uncle makes me think of Sitri, the reason for all my lies. How could I have forgotten about him? If he sees Dominic here and suspects I have feelings for him, it could mean the end of everything.

  I draw in a shaky breath, keying the door. Stay calm. Nothing is going to happen. Sitri doesn’t usually visit me this time of the day. Besides, this is a good chance for us to do our poetry assignment. Even Sitri couldn’t find anything to fault with that.

  The door swings open, and I gesture inside. “Please, make yourself at home.” I put the book on the end table beside the couch.

  Dominic strolls in, taking an appreciate glance around the room. “This is great. And look at that view.” He walks toward the patio.

  I follow him and reach around to open the door. “That’s my favorite spot. I like to unwind in that chair.”

  He turns toward me, glancing down into my face. He says nothing. His eyes speak volumes. He’s so, so close, I can smell wafts of cologne from his neck. I want to lean in, breathe deeper.

  I swallow, unable to do anything but stare back for a long moment, then force myself to move away. This is dangerous. It’s not just a game. I can’t let myself get caught up in these emotions. “I’ll bring you something to drink,” I finally say, heading toward the kitchen. “You can relax out there.”

  Instead of him moving outside, I hear him right behind me. I try to ignore him for the moment and focus on finding refreshments for us. I pull out two cans of Coke, then shove one into his hand. He gives me a crooked grin and opens the can, but doesn’t speak.

  With a crack of the tab, I open my own can and take a big swig, letting the sweet, cool liquid slide down my throat. I put the soda on the countertop, then dig through my cupboards to find food, opening and closing the doors.

  I can feel his presence behind me and have a hard time concentrating. A swell of panic overtakes me. This is a mistake. I shouldn’t have let Dominic in. I know better than to try a stunt like this. My body tenses, my shoulders clenching tight, and I dig my nails into the underside of the countertop.

  A hand slips softly onto my lower back. I freeze, my spine stiffening even more in response. His thumb kneads a spot on my vertebrae and pushes the fabric of my shirt against my skin. It’s not an intimate caress, but I feel like I’ve been stripped naked by Dominic’s touch.

  I focus all my attention on that hand. That soft heat.

  “I promise not to touch your bare skin, but you’re tense,” he says. “I can practically see the knots on your back.”

  “You have no idea,” I reply with an uneasy chuckle. It would be so easy to just fall back against him, to feel his chest pushing against me. I know better than to try that. But I steal a moment of luxury and allow him to touch me. To bring me comfort and ease my stress in the only way he can.

  After a moment, he pulls away. I feel the withdrawal immediately.

  “Maybe I’d better go home,” he tells me. Regret laces through his voice. “I don’t want to make things uncomfortable for you.”

  I turn around and nod, not daring to look up into his eyes. This is the smart thing to do. The right thing to do. Even if every ounce of my being wants to bring him closer.

  The weekend passes slowly. For some reason, Samantha doesn’t return my calls, and I don’t hear from Dominic. In a way, I appreciate that he’s giving me space. I’m barely controlling my fluctuating feelings as it is, and I feel bad dragging him into it every time I’m around him. I know I’m coming across hot and cold, and I don’t want to make him mad. But secretly, I wish he would contact me, even just to talk about our project.

  I spend my Saturday curled up on my couch in the crisp air conditioning, rereading the poem Dominic wrote for me and digging into the Christina Rossetti book. Dominic was right—her verses are beautiful. I connect with her emotions and find myself especially drawn to the love poems. Each time I stumble across a poem I want to talk about with him later, I flag it.

  I also crack open my copy of Jane Eyre. The heroine’s struggles with a family who hated her, to be cast out and disowned but still hold her head high through all her trials, inspires me. With couch pillows propped around me, I slowly devour each word and watch Jane’s childhood unfold before my eyes until late in the night, when I grow too tired to read anymore and fall asleep.

  Sunday morning and afternoon passes quietly, as well. I poke my head in the fridge, mentally planning dinner. Maybe a salad would be good. I can always run out and grab pastries later tonight.

  “There’s nothing in there,” a smooth, familiar voice says from behind me. “I checked it out the other day. You really should do more grocery shopping—your fridge looks like a bachelor’s.”

  I grab the bag of salad mix and roll my eyes as I turn to face Sitri. “Why don’t you just poof me some food in here, then?”

  He gives me a crooked grin as he leans against my counter, fingers casually brushing the granite surface. “Where’s the fun in that? If I’m going to be poofing anything, it’ll be something better than that boring crap you’re always eating.” He nods at the salad in my hand. “You’re in New Orleans, eating rabbit food for dinner. Shouldn’t you be sampling the city’s delights?”

  I press my lips together and plop the bag onto the counter, digging into the cabinets for a bowl. “I have, and I do. But I didn’t want to—” I pause, biting back the words that were about to spill from my mouth—but I didn’t want to dine out alone tonight. Again.

  For a long moment, Sitri is silent. I don’t hear a sound from him at all as I prepare my salad, then duck back into the fridge and grab dressing and cheese.

  “I have a surprise
for you,” he finally says.

  I snag a fork from the drawer and stick it in my salad bowl, turning around to face him again. This time, the smile is gone; instead, his eyes are locked into mine. “Why?” I ask bluntly. Sitri takes care of my basic needs, but anything beyond that worries me. Nothing he gives me is free.

  “Because I discovered something cool in the city and I thought you’d like to see it. That is, after all, why you’re here, right?” His words hold his usual sarcastic edge, but I sense an odd level of sincerity in his intent.

  I nod slowly, unsure what to think.

  “Have your salad. Go on—I’ll wait.” He crosses his arms in front of him and raises one eyebrow as he looks at me, unblinking.

  I purse my lips. “I can’t eat with you staring at me.”

  He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away.

  “Fine.” I grab the bowl and turn my back to him, shoveling in the food as quickly as possible, barely tasting a bite. After a few minutes I toss the empty bowl into the sink. “Done.”

  “Your eagerness is astounding,” he says in an amused tone. “Now, grab my arm and close your eyes.”

  I glance down at my bare arms and legs. “Wait, I can’t go out like this. I need to put more clothes on.” He should know the risks better than anyone, and I’m not going on this outing if it means someone could get hurt.

  “No one’s going to see you where we’re going.” He extends his arm. “Trust me. Grab on. Close your eyes.”

  I grab my cell off the counter and slip it into my pocket, moving forward and taking hold of his sinewy forearm. The muscles bunch up slightly under my hand, and I hear his quick intake of breath. I glance at his face—his eyes are closed, mouth slightly parted. My heart gives an odd flutter as I take in his unusually open expression. Is he…

  Don’t be ridiculous. This is Sitri. He’s the reason I can’t touch or kiss anyone. Someone who cares about me would never curse me like this. And yet, here he is, looking like my touch is affecting him. I don’t remember ever seeing this expression on his face.

  Before I can change my mind, I close my eyes.

  A sick twist hits my stomach as the light goes black around me. I swallow hard, find myself drawing closer to Sitri’s side. Then the disorientation fades. I peek an eye open, step away from him—we’re outside, in some sort of a large, well-groomed garden behind a massive building. The heady caress of early evening’s damp air warms my naked skin instantly, coating me in a thin layer of sweat.

  Not being covered from head to toe feels odd—oddly freeing.

  “Voila,” he says, waving a hand broadly around him. “The sculpture garden at the New Orleans Museum of Art. I was bored, wandering around the city, and discovered this fascinating little gem.”

  I turn in a slow circle and take in the sights around me. There are sculptures scattered throughout the grounds. My breath catches in my throat from surprise. “This isn’t what I expected.”

  He steps closer, looks down at me with one eyebrow raised. “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Something…” Something inappropriate or offensive. But I can’t seem to make myself finish the sentence. For some reason I don’t want to offend him. “Wait, where is everyone?” I glance at the time on my cell. “It’s almost six.”

  “The place closes at five,” he says quietly. “It’s all ours. And technically we’re invisible, so no one can see or hear us.”

  The cautious wariness gives way to a thread of excitement. I stroll up the nearby path and take in the rich outdoor scents.

  Sitri grabs my hand. “You have to check this one out. It’s crazy.”

  I’m so surprised by the eagerness in his voice that I let him drag me along beside him. He stops right in front of a sculpture of an enormous safety pin. I have to crane my head up to see the top point, which extends well above us.

  “Um, that’s fascinating,” I say, eyeing him as he strolls in a large circle around the pin’s perimeter.

  “This piece speaks to me,” he says, rubbing his chin. He steps forward to stroke a hand along the slick metal. “It shows how society’s oppression causes a slow bleed in democracy.”

  “Really?”

  He chuckles. “Yeah, sure, why not? Come on, let’s see what else is in here.”

  An answering chuckle slips out of me before I can guard against it. Sitri’s throwing me off-guard with this change. I’ve never seen his face, his persona so relaxed before. Is this a new tactic? Is he trying to loosen me up for some darker reason?

  What does he want from me?

  He must see the change in my attitude because the light dims a bit from his eyes and he steps closer. “You spend all your time in school or in your apartment, reading. Eating alone. You wanted adventure and freedom, Isabel. I’m giving it to you. Take it.” He’s so close now that I can see the flickers and shifts of gray in his eyes. “Having you angry with me doesn’t get me what I want. Or what you want.”

  “What do you want from me?” I whisper, standing stock-still.

  “I want you to want this.”

  “Why? Why do you care so much about my feelings?”

  He glances away to stare off into the distance. “I have my responsibilities. There are pluses and minuses to my job.” Pause. “I spend a lot of time alone. Sometimes I’d like to feel like I’m… bringing something good to someone. Like what I do is desired.”

  I consider his words, the quietness of his being. Is Sitri lonely? Is this why he came to me today, why he brought me here? He must have sensed my loneliness, recognized it as his own. Realizing he has vulnerabilities—and that he’s showing them to me—shifts a small element of my view of him.

  I can’t let my guard down around him. But maybe I can be less standoffish to him. If I keep him on my good side, it might help my ultimate cause—breaking my curse.

  And when I do, I won’t have this anymore, something whispers inside my mind. Maybe Sitri’s surprise has another purpose, to remind me of his powers. Of what he can give me. As much as I hate to face it, there is something to be said for having whatever you want, whenever you want it.

  “This is a cool place,” I admit. Not directly commenting on his last words but still giving a bit of ground. “I’d never get to explore it like this otherwise.”

  The smile creeps across his face again. “There’s so much of this city you haven’t seen yet, Isabel. Things that I can show you, places that regular people can’t go. But I can take you there.” He holds his hand out. “Let’s look at some more sculptures.”

  I lick my lips, and his eyes dart to my mouth. His heated look flares the panic in my belly. I’m not ready for this intensity in him, but I don’t quite know how to respond. Instead of taking his hand, I give a slow nod. “Okay, let’s go.”

  chapter six

  ON MONDAY MORNING, I make my way toward school. Samantha’s out front waiting for me. The streaks in her hair are bleached blond now, making her skin glow. Or maybe she’s glowing for an entirely different reason.

  She runs over and slips her arm into mine. “Okay, I know I didn’t call you back this weekend, but that’s because I was spending practically every second with Rick,” she says, her voice breathless and giddy. Her eyes sparkle in a way I’ve never seen before, and she clings to my arm in excitement as she speaks. “Isabel, he is awesome. And he kisses so, soooo well. It was the best weekend ever. Wait until you hear all about it!”

  “That’s awesome,” I say. “So what did you guys do?”

  We make our way inside the building, Samantha talking nonstop about their date on Friday, then moves on to Saturday and Sunday. I nod and “mm-hmm” in all the right places, letting her rattle on.

  “So, what did you do this weekend?” she asks.

  “I stayed inside most of the time. But I did go to the sculpture gardens at the NOMA.” Of course, I’m not going to delve into the specifics about it with her, since she doesn’t know the truth about me. The rest of yesterday evening w
ent surprisingly well. Sitri was on his best behavior and showed me a number of metal sculptures in the gardens, talking about other artists he’s met over the years and which works of theirs he loves the most. Afterward he dropped me off at the apartment and left, like a perfect gentleman.

  Like a date.

  To be honest, I’m still a little thrown off by the whole thing, unsure how I should feel, what I should think.

  Samantha beams, her smile helping me shake off my unease. “I love that place! I wish I’d known—we’ll have to go together next time. They have some great contemporary exhibits in the museum. Oh! There’s Rick. I gotta go.” She squeezes my arm, then takes off down the hallway toward Rick, who’s waving at her.

  And then, I am alone. I feel the sting of her absence as I watch her leave. It’s not fair for me to be upset with the situation though. After all, I’m most likely leaving for good soon. And she’ll never see me again. Perhaps it’s better for me to pull away and let her go off with Rick—both for her and for me. Just in case I can’t figure out a way to convince Sitri to let me stay.

  I go to Algebra II and get into my seat in the back of the room. Mr. Morris drones on about the newest chapter. I already read it, so I let my mind wander away from the subject at hand. I glance outside. Tomorrow is the first day of September. Fall is just around the corner, and then winter. What is New Orleans like in the thick of January—does the air get a little cooler?

  The thought that I might not experience it pains me. I’ve grown to love this unusual city—it’s not like England at all. At least, not the England I remember, before Sitri took me. But that place is long gone, swept into history books and paintings and movies that can’t and don’t come close to conveying the beauty, the war-ridden angst of my homeland.

  This city, though…this city is alive. It’s filled with music and laughter and amazing food. The people are unique, and someone like me can actually make a home here.

  Mr. Morris’s sharp voice interrupts my thoughts. “Alexis, I told you to zip it.”

  She tosses her thick braid over her shoulder. “It wasn’t me, Mr. Morris.” Her voice holds a sour edge.