Barely Breathing

"And I would absolutely not be the same person if you never existed." I lifted my head and remained still with anticipation. "We can contemplate the meaning of your life all you want, but know that you're my meaning... the reason behind just about everything I do―and I would never want to change that.” A smile stretched across my face and a warm current rushed through my body. My chest swelled with love. I leaned up and kissed him gently.

"What about your father?" I prompted when I pulled away.

Evan produced a wry smile and said, "You don't have to worry about me and my father. My mother will never let him take Stanford, or you, away from me. He raised me to be the person I am today, so now he just has to let go and allow me be that person. This decision is mine, and he will have to learn to live with it." Evan's voice was strong but calm, not filled with the resentment or frustration I imagined he'd express when speaking of his father. I admired his maturity and constraint.

"So," he stated with a grin, "do you feel better about existing?"

"Yes," I emphasized with a coy roll of my eyes. "You have a way of making a girl feel... significant."

"Good," Evan smiled and leaned over to kiss me. His words calmed me, and made the storm in my head lull to a hum. I was still troubled by everything I'd learned earlier in the day, but I knew being here with Evan was one place I belonged.

I spread out on my back, resting my head on his leg and closing my eyes to absorb the sun. "I like it here."

"Me too," Evan returned, playing with my hair. "The sun looks good on you."

I continued to lie on his lap, listening to the rush of the water beside us. The sun's warmth brushing against my face and his gentle touch made my skin hum with a delicate shiver. I wish I could've captured that moment and kept it safe in my pocket to experience whenever I wanted.

"I was told once that a girl needs time to prepare. So, Emma Thomas, would you like to go to prom with me?"

I sat up and gawked at him, my mouth open in a shocked smile. "It's... omigod, it's next month, isn't it?" He nodded. "Yes, Evan Mathews. I would love to go to prom with you." Then I muttered in dread, "Oh, no. That means I have to get a dress, doesn't it?"

"Or you could go nude. I hear that's the new pink," Evan smirked. I laughed.

"You would love that, wouldn't you?" I teased. "Oh, wait. Promise we won't have sex on prom night." Evan's eyes widened. "We can't be the couple who has sex on prom night." The thought of it made me cringe. That was absolutely not how I wanted to remember our first time. It was a bad movie in the making.

"We won't have sex on prom night," Evan promised, pursing his lips to keep from smiling. "How about the night before?"

"What? Really?" I studied his face, and he raised his eyebrows to indicate he was actually proposing the idea. "Are you serious about planning it?"

"Why not? The spontaneous thing isn't working out too well for us. We might as well set a date."

"Then, yes, I will have sex with you the night before prom," I vowed, sounding comically serious, "It's a sex date."

Evan laughed. "Can't wait." He leaned in and captured my breath with the touch of his lips.

When I arrived home, Rachel was just getting out of her car. It felt strange to call her that, Rachel. I let the word repeat in my head. That's what she'd wanted me to call her all along. And that's how Charles had referred to her. When he spoke of my parents, he said your father and Rachel. He never once called her my mother. I don't think that was an accident.

"How was dinner?" she asked, waiting for me before entering the house.

"It was nice," I replied. "Exactly what I needed."

"Good," she responded, looking a little confused by my answer.

"Did you eat?" We flipped on the lights in the foyer and the living room.

"We ordered take-out at the office."

She kicked off her heels and pulled her blouse out of her dress pants. I watched to see if she'd get a glass of wine from the kitchen like she usually did, but she didn't. Instead, she sat next to me on the couch and flipped on the television.

The whirlwind of thoughts in my head overtook me, and the next thing I knew I was asking, "Where are you from?” I kept my eyes on the channels as they flashed before me.

"What?" she asked, still continuing through the programs, obviously not expecting my question.

I had the opportunity to take it back, to not pry any further. But I decided I wanted to know. "Where did you grow up?"

She stopped, landing on a fishing program. I knew she didn't mean to do that, so she must have heard me this time. I turned toward her and she was looking at me like she didn't know me. I was prepared for her not to respond.

"Um, in a small farm town in Pennsylvania," she said slowly. "Why'd you want to know?"

"I guess because I never did," I explained bluntly. "Do your parents still live there?"

She was quiet. She looked from me to the television and back again – like she was trying to decide if she wanted to have this conversation. She obviously wasn't prepared for the questions, and maybe the shock of them was why she did answer. "My mother may, but I don't really know. I moved away with some friends when I was seventeen and never looked back. Never knew my father. He was a drunk and took off before I could remember him."

"How come I don't know any of this?" I questioned curiously. I wasn't completely surprised by the knowledge of her broken home life. It couldn't have been that happy if she never wanted to talk about it, or visit.

"I don't like living in the past. What's the point?" She redirected her gaze and began changing the channels again.

I found her words ironic, especially since she hadn't figured out how to move past my father's death. Or maybe she had, and his death was an excuse to be miserable. She didn't seem to be making any effort to be happy, except maybe with Jonathan―but even then, she had sabotaged it with her drunken tantrums. Perhaps she preferred wallowing in eternal sadness. I didn't understand why she'd want to live like that.

"Why don't you ever try to talk to me about what happened when I was with Carol and George?"

Rachel's shoulders pulled back, struck hard by my question. I realized I'd reached my limit, but I didn't hold back.

"Why was I there to begin with? Why did you leave me with them?" For years, this question had destroyed me, always thinking it was me―that I was too much for her to handle. It's what had motivated me to be perfect, to never be a burden again. Perfection still left scars.

So now, I just wanted to know the truth.

"I didn't leave you," she whispered. Her answer left me speechless. Before I could utter a sound, she stood up and walked out of the room. I watched as she went into the kitchen and gripped the refrigerator handle. She stayed like that for a moment, battling with the decision to open it or not.

I waited. She let the handle go with a shake of her head, appearing distraught and frazzled.

"I don't know why you want to talk about this," she said from the doorway, her voice shaky. "Why would you want to bring up things that already happened? We can't change them, so let's just let them go, okay?"

I inspected her light blue eyes as they darted around the room nervously, and I nodded.

"I'm going to take a bath." She disappeared up the stairs.

I had always been too afraid to question her. I wasn't sure where I roused the courage from, but I was pretty certain Charles Stanley's visit had a lot to do with it.

I was prepared for her to be angry with me, and even yell. But that never happened. Instead, she seemed nervous and uncomfortable. And maybe even a little... guilty.

32. In the Woods

I didn't sleep that night, nor was I expecting to. I kept flipping my phone over in my hand, wanting to call Jonathan. I needed him to distract me with absurd conversations about a botched sci-fi movie, or the pillow that cured athlete's foot. It was hard not to call, to hear his voice waiting for me on the other end. But I had promised I wouldn't, so I didn't.

I heard Rachel's door open, followed by the pipes thumping into action for the shower. I viewed the clock and recognized that she was up early, which probably meant she wanted to be out of the house before I woke up. She was avoiding me again. Maybe I wasn't the only one who couldn't sleep last night.

I waited to hear the front door close before getting out of bed. While in the shower, I considered apologizing to Rachel just so that she'd stop evading me. Or perhaps it would blow over by the time I returned from practice tonight, or maybe time away at Sara's would help. Or maybe I didn't care.

That last thought was unexpected.

I didn't know where it had come from. It didn't feel like me. But at the same time, it felt more honest than I'd been with myself for a long time.

I dressed in a fitted grey t-shirt and jeans, and opted for the pink checked Converses that I'd only dared to wear a few times. They drew attention, and I didn't usually want that. It was supposed to be nearly eighty degrees today, which was unfathomable in Connecticut in April. I decided to grab my zipped sweatshirt just in case the morning air was still cool.

I hated the weather teasing with summer-like conditions, knowing it would only return to the rainy and cool norms within a day or two. It was torturous to think summer and graduation were that close, yet still two months away.

I grabbed my backpack and soccer bag before heading out the door. As I walked toward my car, a black motorcycle came into view. I stood by my car as the bike pulled into the driveway and coasted to a stop beside me.

The rider had on a black t-shirt and jeans with a pair of black leather boots. His head was covered with a helmet reminiscent of a combat helmet―not much protection if you asked me. The mirrored glasses covering his eyes reflected the image of my dumbfounded stare. Then he smiled, and the creases around his mouth rocked me back slightly.

"Jonathan?"

"Good morning," he replied after shutting off the engine. "How are you?"

"Uh, fine,” I answered, flustered. "What are you doing here? I thought we weren't talking to each other; that we decided it was the best thing to do."

"Not really," he countered, taking off his glasses. "Rachel decided we shouldn't talk, and she's not here right now. I don't think it's the best thing at all, do you?"

I was stunned by his defiance and continued to stare at him, not knowing what to think, forget about what to say.

"Let's do something," Jonathan demanded boldly, not at all a request.

I laughed. "I have to go to school, and shouldn't you be at work?"

"This is not the kind of day where you should be at school. And no, I should be right here," he rebutted. "Come on, Emma. You're already accepted into Stanford. One skipped day of school isn't going to change that."

"I don't know," I hesitated, inspecting the shiny black Harley with chrome detailing―determining if I was willing to even get on the bike, forget about ditch school.

"You agreed we would do something, so let's do it. Stop thinking so much and get on the bike, Emma." His directive was bold; he wasn't willing to hear another excuse. He slid on his glasses and jumped on the starter, revving the motorcycle to life. The deep guttural engine roared, calling for the road with a twist of his wrist.