Barely Breathing

I crawled out of the bed and flipped the comforter over the top to hide the mess beneath. I tied my hair back in an elastic and pulled on a hoodie before unlocking the door and slowly opening it.

“I’m okay, see.” I looked up at him, shoving my shaking hands in the front pocket of my sweatshirt. His eyes softened as he took me in. “It was just a dream. Sorry I woke you.”

“You shouldn't go back to bed,” he advised calmly.

“Huh?”

“When you have a nightmare like that, you need to get out of your bed, to get away from it,” he explained. “Get a glass of water, watch television, something to clear your head. That way, when you go back to sleep, the nightmare’s not still there, waiting for you."

I remained quiet, taking in his words. His eyes were soft and empathetic. “Come on. Let’s watch TV for awhile, okay?”

“Sure,” I surrendered. “But you don’t have to stay up.”

“Don't worry about me,” he responded. “Let’s go see what they’re selling at this hour.”

I followed him down the stairs and curled up on the couch under a blanket while he sat on the loveseat, flipping through the channels. I glanced over at him as the soft light of the television lit the lines of his strong jaw.

I would never have predicted that he knew anything about needing to escape nightmares. He seemed impervious to fear, so confident and assured.

“The infomercials can be addicting,” he noted, glancing over at me. I flipped my eyes to the TV, my cheeks peaking with color, having been caught staring. He continued as if he hadn't noticed. “You need to stay away from them because the next thing you know you’re watching the sun come up, convinced that a six inch cloth can wash your entire car, and still be clean enough to wipe the windows.”

I nodded, not completely paying attention; a part of me was still trapped in the dark.

“It gets better,” he promised, noticing my disconnect. He sounded so sure of his words.

“How would you know?” I peered into his dark brown eyes, trying to look past them for answers, but he wouldn't let me in.

“Believe me, it does,” Jonathan whispered, looking away. In that quick moment, the confidence in his eyes faltered, giving way to something else. I wasn't quite sure what I'd seen, but I inadvertently shivered when I caught a glimpse of it.

11. All Better

"How are you feeling?" I asked, when my mother slumped down the stairs the next morning. Her nose was raw and red around the edges; her eyes were watery and puffy. She looked miserable―I shouldn't have even asked.

"I think I'm dying," she snuffled.

"You should go back to bed. Tell me what you need and I'll get it for you."

"Tea," she requested pitifully. "And some flu medicine so my head doesn't feel like it's going to explode anymore."

"I'll get that," Jonathan offered, appearing at the kitchen entrance, showered and dressed.

"Thanks," she said in a nasally voice, before sneezing into the balled up tissue in her hand. "I wish you weren't seeing me like this."

"Don't even go there," Jonathan consoled with a warm smile. "You're sick, and even sick, you're beautiful." He wrapped his arms around her as she flopped onto his chest. He held her and smoothed the damp strands of hair that were stuck to her feverish face. He was braver than I was. I was afraid of going within three feet of her. She was oozing from every orifice.

"I'll bring the tea up in a minute," I told her as Jonathan escorted her back up the stairs.

"I'll be right back," Jonathan announced a few minutes later on his way out the door.

I brought the tea to her room and set it down on the night stand. She had her eyes closed and the blankets pulled up to her nose.

"Do you like him?" she asked as I was walking toward the door.

I turned back toward her. She propped herself up on her elbow and carefully sipped the hot tea.

"Jonathan?" I clarified, not expecting her question.

Before I could answer, she said, "I really like him, and I hope you do too."

"Um, yeah, sure. He's nice."

"Thanks for the tea." She nuzzled back into the blankets, closing her eyes with a grin on her face. Even in her sickness, she was still a love-struck teenager.

“Looks like you’ll get to watch the game after all,” I noted after Jonathan returned from the pharmacy. “Where are you going?”

Jonathan hesitated. “Actually, I told Rachel I'd stay here with her."

"I'm not going anywhere," I offered. "I can take care of her if you want to do something else."

"I'd rather stay here, if that's okay."

"Sure," I answered in surprise.

"Where are Evan and Sara?"

"Evan's at Cornell with his brother, and... I don't know what Sara's up to."

Jonathan looked over at me, hearing the change in my tone upon mentioning Sara. He didn't ask; he just nodded.

I offered to pick up football food while Jonathan tended to my mother. Especially since we were running low on… everything. I’d pretty much assumed the role of grocery shopper in the house. My mother would shop when she wanted to prepare a specific meal, but with our conflicting schedules, that wasn’t very often.

I didn’t mind too much. She’d leave me a twenty and a small list of things she needed. The list was usually more than twenty dollars, but whatever. I covered the rest with the money that was deposited into my account each month. Money I hadn’t had access to for years, but was now in my total control.

I’d gotten to know the aisles well enough to get in and out of the store quickly. Except for today―it was insane.

“I think every person in three towns was at the grocery store today,” I complained to Jonathan, struggling with white plastic bags strung across both arms.

“Let me help you.” Jonathan rushed from the living room, relieving me of half the bags. “Is that everything?”

“If it’s not, then too bad. I’m not going back to that zoo.” I slipped off my shoes and followed him to the kitchen.

“I meant, is there anything else in the car?” He smiled at my dramatic response.

“No, this is everything,” I answered, embarrassed by my reaction. “How’s Rachel?”

“Passed out,” Jonathan responded, proceeding to empty the bags and put everything in its place. “I have to go out for a while. Would you mind covering for me until I get back? I’ll be here in time for kick-off. If she wakes up, just tell her I went to buy more tissues or something.”

“Sure,” I replied. “You shouldn’t need an excuse, you know.” I knew I shouldn’t have said it as soon as I did. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re right,” he agreed. “I just feel bad leaving when she’s not feeling great. Although, I’m not sure I can do anything to make her feel better. But she keeps saying she wants me to stay.”

“She always wants you to stay,” I blurted―my filter apparently shut off.

"Wow," he absorbed my candor with wide eyes. "Am I here too much?”

“No,” I replied quickly. “That’s not what I meant. Sorry, I’m a complete idiot today.”

“You’re doing that honesty thing again. Don't worry about it.” He paused and added, “Don’t ever feel like you can’t say what you're thinking, okay?”

“Are you sure?” I questioned with a smirk. “You'll probably end up hating me.”

“Unlikely,” he said with a bright smile, putting the milk in the refrigerator. My cheeks warmed with his comment. “Oh, here’s my phone number,” he scribbled on a piece of paper on the kitchen table, “just in case you do need something while I’m out.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I picked up the number as he walked out the door and decided to program it into my phone, just in case.

My mother didn’t stir the entire time Jonathan was gone, thankfully. I wasn’t looking forward to telling her he wasn’t there.

I texted back and forth with Evan most of the afternoon. He and Jared were at an all-day Super Bowl party off-campus. It sounded like quite the spectacle from the details Evan provided. I let him go right before kick-off, wanting him to enjoy the game with his brother and not worry about responding to me.

I kept checking my phone anyway, still not having heard from Sara. I wanted her to be the first to reach out after the way we left things, and it took everything I had not to text her as I grew more anxious.

Jonathan returned five minutes into the game.

“Ah,” he groaned, looking flushed and freshly changed. “I missed kick-off.”

“Don’t worry,” I consoled. “Nothing’s happened really. You look… different.” It was hard not to notice.

“I had to tap back into my life for awhile,” he explained, sitting down on the couch next to me with his eyes fixed on the game. “Got a haircut, went to the gym, made sure my place hadn’t burned down.”

I laughed, not expecting his sense of humor. “Well the hair looks good.”

“Thanks.” He flashed me a blush-inducing grin. I reached for a handful of chips, to keep from saying something else outlandish about how good he looked. “I bought beer. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Uh, no,” I answered, surprised that he asked. “It’s football. Isn’t that part of the guys’ book of conduct? That a beer must be in your hand while watching?”

He laughed. “Do you want one? I could overlook the fact that you’re a girl for the night.”

“No,” I responded emphatically. “Not legal, remember?”

“Oh, that's right,” he answered, feigning like he’d forgotten. “I’m supposed to be the responsible adult, right?” He shook his head like the thought sounded ridiculous. He got up from the couch and went into the kitchen, coming back with a beer and a Mountain Dew.

“Perfect, thanks,” I said, taking the bottle from his hand.

We watched football and ate overly greasy food while making fun of the overpriced commercials that fell flat and laughing at those that were worth the millions. And we'd take turns checking on my mother whenever we'd hear her moan.

In the middle of the third quarter, the doorbell rang. Jonathan and I peered at each other quizzically, neither expecting a visitor. I shrugged and got up to answer the door.

“Hey,” Sara said, as soon as the door opened. She had a number nine written in gold on her cheek, with her red hair pulled back into a high ponytail. I let the door go so she could enter. She peered into the living room to find Jonathan.

“Hi, Jonathan.” She gave a small wave.

"Hey, Sara," he responded. "Nice look."

"Thanks," she smiled.

Sara looked back toward me nervously. “I tried to call you,” she said, pulling on the corner of her shirt.

“You did? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear my phone.” I groaned inwardly, frustrated that I’d missed it―most likely I was checking on my mother when she’d called.