Breathe: A Novel (2 page)

“What, no Billy?” he teased.

Tara Duncan, the former captain of Pioneer High’s cheering squad, was crossing the parking lot with her husband, Bruce, doggie bag in hand. They stared at the car and then at me, but I slipped behind Tripp, not wanting to make awkward conversation. This was embarrassing, actually, as I had been Pioneer’s Eco-League president, and was known for riding my bike everywhere. Also, I hadn’t really broadcast the news about my return from New York.

We were seated at a table with an orchid and one small candle. When our server placed a complimentary appetizer between us, Tripp leaned forward to examine it. I watched as he squinted, smiled, and said something funny. He was even more gorgeous than I remembered.

“So you went to Reed College. Good school. Steve Jobs and all. You said you brought your horses?” Tripp sipped his wine, something French that he’d ordered with perfect pronunciation.

“Just horse. Singular. Winger. I think that was the hardest part of being away in New York, having to leave Winger here,” I said, taking a bite of tuna roll smothered in wasabi. I blinked and couldn’t help fanning my mouth.

Tripp watched me, smiling. “Do you still have him?”

“Yep. He’s fourteen. I used to rush home from school to ride him. He was the first horse I was allowed to train on my own.” I took another bite, avoiding the wasabi this time.

“Our family owns horses as well,” Tripp said. “Racehorses.”

I looked up suddenly. Racehorses were notoriously mistreated.

“Don’t worry,” he said as if reading my thoughts. “The Edwards Family herd is cared for
very
well to say the least.” Tripp placed his chopsticks on the small square plate in front of him. “We’ve had horses for generations. They were my father’s passion. He used to take me out to groom the new ones.”

“Don’t you have groomers?”

He shrugged. “It was something my dad and I used to do together. My mother didn’t even know about it.” He looked out the window for a moment. “Sometimes, we even rode together.”

“Rode your
racehorses
?” The idea sent actual chills up my spine.

“My dad wasn’t one to follow the rules.” He looked back at me.

I struggled to stay focused. “Where do your parents live?” I asked.

“My mother lives in Marin. My father passed away.” He took another sip of his wine.

“I’m sorry.” I put down my glass.

“It was a while ago. Summer before junior year at Andover. I never went back,” he said.

I waited for him to say something else, but he was quiet.

“Do you have any siblings?” I asked carefully.

“Two brothers and a sister. We all went to Stanford and stayed in the Bay Area. Tatum’s a doctor. The rest of us are in finance,” he recounted casually.

“But what about your mother? Did she remarry? Is she . . . okay?”

“Louise?” Tripp’s laugh surprised me. “I guess you could say that my mom is the Edwards family CEO. It keeps her very busy, which she loves. Now.” He leaned back and placed his napkin on the table. “Your turn. Tell me about New York.”

I hesitated, overwhelmed by the details of his world. A world I’d observed in New York as if through a thick pane of glass.

“Well, there’s not much to tell, really. It didn’t work out,” I finally answered before finishing the
sake
in my cup. Tripp refilled it.

“And why is that?” he asked, looking into my eyes for a long moment.

I considered my answer. “I guess I was just along for the ride.”

It was supposed to be an adventure. Our great escape from small town life in the Pacific Northwest. My best friend, Haley, had been planning it ever since I could remember. We’d met the day she blew into town, riding shotgun in her mother’s convertible Chrysler. At the beginning of what was supposed to be a cross-country road trip, they’d stopped at Pappy’s Pizza for lunch and directions. Trish noticed that the place was filled with handsome cowboys, found a rental on the community bulletin board, and decided they should just stay put right there in Sisters. Haley was beside herself and swore she’d make it to New York if it was the last thing she did. I was there when it all happened, eating a slice at the counter. We made eye contact but didn’t talk. Two weeks later, she recognized me on the school bus and sat next to me. I was part of her plan from that day forward. We were twelve.

In New York, it made perfect sense that Haley floated like cream to the top. She’d been preparing for years. When I did 4-H, she studied French. And while I was focused on roping and riding, she was all about fashion and film. She did try to help me, though, assigning books and articles and movies to get me in a ‘New York state of mind,’ but I never had time for all that. My life at the ranch was busy and full. And later, in college, I was consumed with playing catch-up, learning about social issues and global crises and all the other realities I’d been sheltered from. Still, Haley emailed me regularly, sending links and counting down the days ‘til graduation and our triumphant move to the Big Apple.

But.

No matter how much black I wore, no matter how much or little I said, how hot, cool, aloof or impassioned I was: I wasn’t a New Yorker. Eventually, the neighborhood pickpockets and purse-snatchers really got me down, especially after Haley moved to her boyfriend’s place uptown. And one night after work, I found the words “Go home” spray painted in fluorescent green on my apartment door. I went in and packed my bags.

“You still with me?” Tripp asked. I blinked and looked up at him.

“Sorry.” I shook my head and laughed. “Yeah. New York. I guess I didn’t have it in me. Wasn’t hungry enough. Isn’t that what they say?”

Once again he held my eyes. “What are you hungry for, Alex?” His gaze was penetrating.

Gulp.

I felt my whole body respond. I blushed, coughed, and took a sip of water. I had to look away to compose myself.

What am I hungry for?

Yesterday, I had no idea. But in that moment, I couldn’t imagine wanting anything more than what was sitting across from me. Watching me. Waiting for this dinner to be finished so we could leave. Together.

“Oh, the usual,” I said instead.

He twirled the wine in his glass.

“So, were you working in New York?” he prompted.

“I worked for Hill Holiday. A friend found the job for me.” One of Haley’s mom’s ex-boyfriends, to be exact.

“That’s a great firm. Did you work with Mike Salmon or Keith Hutton?”

I laughed. Those men were executives. Michael Salmon was the CFO, and Keith was the chairman of the board. I was on the thirteenth floor in a cubicle that faced the bathroom.

“No, not much contact with those guys. If we had crossed paths, though, I’m sure they would have appreciated the turquoise, studded cowboy hat I wore on my first day.” I raised my glass and smiled.

“You didn’t.”

“Oh, yes, I did.”

Tripp clapped, threw his head back, and laughed, making my gaffe seem charming.

“New York can be tough on your own,” he acknowledged.

“Actually, I went with a friend. She’s still there. Loves it.” I wondered how Haley was doing. We rarely saw each other once she married Karl, and hadn’t spoken since I moved home several months ago.

“Well, it’s not for everyone. I did my time there, too. Couldn’t wait to get back to California,” he said in a tone that made feel me that I was being let off the hook. I sat back in my seat, sighed, and smiled at him.

“Come to Marin next weekend.”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“Yes. I want to take you riding.”

I flew to Marin the following Friday, first class, Billy with his own seat in a carrier beside me. Tripp and I were engaged three months later.

We got married two months after that.

***

Now here I was, eleven months to the day after we met, naked and pacing in my favorite fancy boots, awaiting Tripp’s return. It seemed Ray LaMontagne was crooning too mournfully, so I clomped over to skip the song. “Let’s try something a little more light-hearted,” I said to the in-wall sound system. Next up was Van Morrison’s ‘Tupelo Honey.’ Moody, but definitely romantic. It would have to do. I’d combed my memory for every fantasy, idea, and desire Tripp had ever expressed. Tonight, I vowed, we’d do it all. With determination, I readjusted my stockings, put on the turquoise cowboy hat, and cracked my whip.

When I saw headlights illuminating the garage door, I bolted back to our bedroom (clomp, clomp, clomp), dimmed the lights, and propped myself against the king pillows. The whip’s handle poked my side. “Ouch!”

Legs crossed. Hat tilted.

Hair to the side. No, forward.

I was sweating.

Two minutes went by. Then five. Then eight. Tripp was rustling around in the kitchen, and I heard Billy bark outside. I was about to get up when he finally walked into the bedroom with Billy at his heels, flicked on the lights, and tossed a pile of magazines and papers on the bed. Without a word, he opened the French doors and said, “Back outside, Bill.”

He dropped onto the banquette at the foot of our bed with his back to me.

“I’m exhausted,” he said, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. Tripp always dressed formally when he traveled, whatever the destination. He stood and walked to the closet without looking at me, then turned to go into the bathroom.

“So, how was it?” I called, taking off the hat and then putting it back on.

Tripp emerged and leaned against the nine-foot, cherry wood doorframe, toothbrush in hand. He looked around the room as if he didn’t recognize it. Finally, his eyes rested on me for a second. I cocked my head to the side and started to say my big line—‘Care to climb on, cowboy?’—when Tripp interrupted.

“Did you ride today?” He was back to gazing at something through the French doors, although it was dark outside.

“No,” I replied.

“What’s with the outfit?” He still wasn’t looking at me.

“I was at
temp
ting to se
duce
you,” I said, tossing my hat on the floor. “But something tells me you’re not in the mood.”

He looked at me again. “Cute.”

“Clearly not,” I said, reaching for a cashmere throw to cover myself.

“Al, just let me take a shower. I need a few minutes.”

“Okay,” I said. Allowing myself to feel hopeful again, I posed for him one last time and said, “So do you want The Cowgirl, or just a gorgeous naked woman in your bed?”

He offered a meager smile and said, “Just my wife, please,” then disappeared into the bathroom.

I threw myself back and sprawled on the bed. It was time to rethink my strategy. I sat up and winced at my reflection, ridiculous in the glare of overhead light. Then it dawned on me: Tripp said it himself. He didn’t want some cartoonish seduction; he just wanted me, his wife. Maybe that was the problem: I was trying too hard, and Tripp just wanted the real thing. I peeled off my costume and slipped into the steamy shower beside him. Inhaling the scent of sandalwood soap, I watched the curves of his back for a moment.

Then I reached for him.

“Alex!” He jumped forward and bumped the shower nozzle. Gripping his head, he spun toward me. “What are you doing?”

Stunned by his response, I wondered the same thing. Tripp leaned over and turned on the second showerhead, clearly indicating that I should move over. I dutifully stepped under the other downpour of water and turned to face Tripp, who was consumed with the task of lathering himself. The sight of him inspired my determination.

“We should name our house Twin Falls,” I joked.

Tripp didn’t say anything, but the pounding of water was loud, so maybe he didn’t hear me.

“Here we are, alone together,” I tried in a louder voice. “Tell you what, king-sized beds and double showers aren’t doing anything for marriage these days . . . ”

Tripp looked over at me without saying anything. He was soaping his chest now, and I was succumbing to frustration.

“Well, babe, can’t wait to hear about your adventure. Must have been pretty intense ‘cause you’ve barely said a word to me. I’ve missed you, you know.”

I paused; then, against my better instincts, I reached for him again, suddenly self-conscious. Tripp stepped back, this time hitting the back of his head.

“Shit!” he said.

“Forget it. This was clearly a bad idea.”

Tripp grabbed for my hand.

“Sorry. Let’s just talk when I get out.”

We looked at each other for a second.

Talk?

When Tripp finally turned off the water, I had retreated back to the bed. I thought about trying to look sexy, but my track record had been so horrendous that I went for an attempt at cute. Tripp liked the pink cashmere robe, so I threw it on, failing to dry myself completely. It felt like being wrapped in saran wrap and smelled like the barn after a rainstorm. I wanted to pull the covers over my head. Instead, I cinched the robe and put on some lip balm, reasoning with myself. He was exhausted. He just needed space. I leaned against the pillows and grabbed a magazine from the stack Tripp had deposited on the bed. It was
Yoga Journal
.

Yoga Journal?

I opened to a page that had been dog-eared.

Dog-eared?

Anusara in Atlanta:

Yogini Lauren Gates on visualization, playful practice, and the benefits of aromatherapy.

I proceeded to leaf through what was basically a ten-page centerfold spread, the voluptuous model performing what could only be called contortion yoga. My heart sank as I scanned the pictures, a leg behind her head here, a perfect backbend there. I pulled the robe tighter across my chest. Tripp obviously had studied these pictures.

Then I saw the post-it.

“[email protected]” was printed in purple felt-tip pen with the words “Come back soon, Warrior!” written underneath.

I gasped.

My stomach flipped.

I jumped to my feet and began pacing again, a thousand awful scenarios racing through my head. Just then, Tripp strolled out of the bathroom looking so hot that I wanted to scream. His towel hung from his waist and the muscles of his perfectly toned abs were tan. Tan? Why was he tan? And what were those red circles all over his torso? He looked liked he’d been in a fight with a mechanical tennis tutor.