Barely Breathing

I got out of bed and pulled on a sweatshirt before quietly tiptoeing downstairs to escape the panic that still shot around inside of me. Exhausted, but knowing sleep was probably a good hour away, I settled on the couch with a blanket covering me. I found a movie that had more dialogue than action, the perfect plot to drone me to sleep.

About a half hour later, the creak of a step drew my attention. Jonathan cringed at the sound with a slight pause before continuing down the stairs.

“Hey,” he greeted wearily, pulling the blanket off the back of the loveseat and sitting next to me on the couch. “What did you find?” He motioned toward the television.

“Not sure,” I whispered, not completely surprised to see him up. “I have no idea what’s going on.”

After watching the underwhelming drama on the screen for a few minutes, he asked without looking over, “Do you always have the same nightmare or is it different each time?”

"It's different each time," I answered, with my head pressed against the pillow. "But they usually end right when I'm about to die."

Jonathan was quiet.

I turned my head to find him appraising me, his mouth bowed in sympathy. "I take it yours aren't like that, huh?"

He shook his head, redirecting his gaze toward the TV. "Mine are always the same," he answered lowly, his jaw tightening as he stared straight ahead. His eyes hardened as he muttered, barely audible, "They won’t let me forget." The features of his face looked carved from stone as he pressed his lips together in a tight line. The dim light glinted off his dark, pupilless eyes. A chill ran through me.

I almost asked what it was the kept him up most nights, but then again, I wasn't sure I wanted to know what it was that made him suddenly so... hateful. He looked like a different person―a person I didn't want to know. I pulled my legs in tighter to ward off the frigidness.

Jonathan faced me, his lips turned up and his eyes creased around the edge―instantly returned to the guy who started a squirt gun fight. I wanted to shake my head, wondering if I'd just imagined the transformation. Maybe it was the lighting, and my lack of sleep, messing with me.

I pulled the blanket further up under my nose. “I just want to sleep,” I murmured, my eyes burning with fatigue.

“I know,” Jonathan yawned.

We returned our attention to the movie. My lids were getting heavy, harder to blink open. I was thinking about going back to bed when he asked, “So, do you need any guy advice?”

Sleep was instantly wiped from my eyes as color rushed to my cheeks. "Don't even start," I threatened, sitting up and hitting him with the pillow. He held up his hands to ward of the blow and started laughing.

"You should have seen your face when my mother offered to give you the talk," he chuckled. "I was trying so hard not to laugh." His chest spasmed with laughter.

"Oh, yeah, that was hilarious," I shot back. "Can we please not talk about one of the more humiliating moments of my life?"

Jonathan smiled widely, his perfectly straight teeth gleaming in the low light. "Sorry."

"Are those real?" I blurted without thinking.

"What?" he asked, completely perplexed.

"Your teeth," I continued to stare. They seemed too white in this low light, and too straight. I couldn't stop looking at them. A true indication that I needed to go to bed.

"That was a rather bizarre change of subject," he noted in amusement. "And yes, they're real. After years of braces, of course, but they're mine." He shook his head, still grinning.

"What?" I pushed, not sure why I wanted to know what kept the grin on his face. But I asked anyway.

"Forget it," he played, "you don't want to talk about it."

I rolled my eyes. "My personal life is not up for conversation."

"Not your personal life," he corrected, "your sex life."

"I don't have a sex life," I retorted quickly, my face flushing as soon as I said it.

Jonathan laughed again. "I know."

I buried my head under the pillow and groaned.

"Why is everyone making such a big deal about it?" I murmured from beneath the pillow.

"Because it is a big deal," Jonathan responded bluntly. His tone lost its humor when he confirmed, "But you're serious, right? You and Evan?"

I peeked out from under the pillow and found him waiting for me to answer. I nodded.

"And what's going to happen when you go to Stanford?"

"Hopefully he's coming with me," I answered, sitting up and smoothing the hair that was floating around my head.

Jonathan nodded. "He's as smart as you?"

"Pretty much. He also has some influence that I don't."

"Money," Jonathan concluded with a smirk.

I shrugged. "Part of it."

"And powerful parents," he added. He didn't even wait for me to answer. "Do they want him going to Stanford with you?"

I looked down, not wanting to think about Stuart's harsh words on New Year's Eve.

"Aahh," Jonathan surmised. "Not so much."

"It's his dad," I explained lowly. "He doesn't exactly approve of me."

"Not approve of you?" he laughed like that was completely ridiculous. "It's probably the money. I know that dad. But I went to college with her anyway."

His words caught my attention. He nodded guiltily. "I did it too. Fell in love with the rich girl. Her parents approved of me enough, until they realized how serious we were. But we went to Penn State together anyway, even though I really wanted to get as far away from this area as possible―and Pennsylvania was still too close." He took a deep breath. "I shouldn't have stayed."

"You broke up," I concluded, even though the answer was obvious since he was now dating my mother.

"Something like that," he grinned, the smile not reaching his eyes. I could tell by his uneasiness that the emotion was still raw, even after all these years. "College is... different."

I waited, not sure if I should ask him to continue―but wanting to know the story.

Jonathan gripped the blanket and looked toward the dark foyer. I could tell he was thinking about it, what happened between them.

"People change. I mean you barely know who you are when you enter, and you spend that time figuring out what you want from life, and who you want in it. The next thing you know, the people you always thought would be there, aren't. And the person you thought you could trust with everything, isn't the person you ever knew at all."

His shoulders sank. "And then six years later, you have a fraction of the life you thought you would."

I was quiet. I wanted to say something to distract him from going back there, to the place that bowed his head and caved his chest. But he did it himself.

"I got into USC," he declared with a proud smile, dispersing the emotion with ease.

"You did?! Jonathan, that's so great. Congratulations." I was genuinely happy for him, but then it hit me. "Wait. You haven't told her yet, have you?" I closed my eyes in dread.

"I will," he sighed.

All of a sudden, I felt the air go out of me, like someone just punched me in the stomach.

"Emily, what's wrong?" His voice was heavy with concern.

"He was supposed to know by now," I gasped, unable to catch my breath―consumed by panic. "If he got in... he was supposed to know."

"Evan?" he confirmed. I nodded, my chest squeezing. The entire day was starting to unravel. His needing to leave at lunch. And then right after in Art, the look on his face. He couldn't look at me or even answer my call.

"He didn't get in." I couldn't breathe.

"Emma, don't do this," Jonathan soothed. "Don't start freaking out before you know for sure."

"Easy for you to say," I squeaked, feeling like my world was tipping upside down.

"What if he doesn't get in?" he challenged. I stared at him with huge eyes, like he'd just told me I'd lost everything. I shook my head, denying that it was possible. I couldn't imagine being in California without Evan. I didn't want to even fathom it.

"Wow," Jonathan observed, "this is everything to you, isn't it?"

I sunk back into the couch, trying to ease the pain in my chest.

"Ask him. Don't go crazy thinking about it until you ask him."

I nodded. "Just like you have to tell her that you're leaving.” I watched Jonathan's face fall.

"Just not sure how to do it," he admitted glumly. "Her birthday's in a few weeks, and I was hoping to be around for it. Is that bad?"

"So you'd rather break up with her after her birthday?" I clarified, not sure which scenario I preferred.

"It's just that... I'm not ready to go yet." He paused and concluded, "It is bad."

"It's not my call," I told him. "But she should know."

"I know."

"Wait." I narrowed my eyes, suddenly recalling his reference to how different his life was six years later. "How old are you?"

Jonathan cringed guiltily. "How old am I, or how old does Rachel think I am?"

"Oh," I accused with my mouth dropped open, "you lied to her about your age."

"She has a problem with the age difference as it is," he defended with a guilt ridden smirk, "I wasn't about to tell her I'm twenty-four."

"You are bad," I said shaking my head, but unable to keep a scornful face.

"You have no idea," he replied with a wry smile, making us burst out laughing.

"Jonathan?" my mother beckoned from the top of the stairs. Guilt quieted our laughter.

She turned on the hall light and came down a few steps, enough to see into the living room. When she saw us on the couch, her face dropped and something flashed across her eyes. I wasn't certain if it was shock or anger, but it was so brief I could've convinced myself I didn't see it at all.

"Couldn't sleep?" she concluded with a sympathetic smile. I wasn't sure who she was talking to. I shook my head.

"I'll be up in a minute," Jonathan told her. She nodded and went back to her room, shutting off the light before closing her door.

"I should go to bed," I said, standing up and folding the blanket.

"I like this," Jonathan said suddenly, before I could walk away, “talking to you. I feel like I can tell you things... things that I usually keep to myself. Most people don't understand."

"I know." I hesitated before turning from him.

It was true. Until that moment I hadn’t realized what was happening. I was able to share the demons that wrestled with me in the night, and Jonathan understood in a way that no one else did. He was fighting with them himself, and that had drawn us together.

The corner of his mouth turned up softly. For a moment I couldn't look away. I was trapped in the darkness of his eyes. They sifted through me, searching for what haunted me. I pulled away with a blink. "Are you staying up?"

"I'm not quite ready," he admitted, picking up the remote.

"Be careful of the infomercials," I offered, borrowing his words from the first time he’d rescued me from my nightmare. He smiled. "The next thing you know, the sun will be up."