Hold Me Like a Breath (12 page)

“He was carved up,” I whispered. “They wrote something on his chest. It wasn't English. Was it in Chinese?”

Garrett nodded. Stood. “I don't think we should talk about it anymore.”

“What did it say?”

“Let's go find Dr. Castillo.”

“He was my brother.” I stood, wished I had something I could break, a way of shattering something other than my heart. “Tell me!”

“It said ‘Warning.'”

“Warning?” I let the word sink in deep, as if it were carved into my own chest. The pain made me cross my arms over it, hug myself as tightly as I dared.

“I should've been there. Whatever he was doing, I would've gone with him. If I'd been there …” He stormed over to the wall, pressed both hands flat against the glass, and bowed his head. “They still haven't found his car. And I have no clue how he spent those hours. How could I not know? How could he not tell me?”

I crossed the room to stand near him, wishing he'd turn around and look at me. I could share this burden. “I wouldn't have let him leave if I'd known. I assumed he'd pick you up on the way, but—”

But they'd just fought. They never fought. And they'd fought about
me
. Guilt made my body heavy, like my veins were filled with mercury. I sank into the mulch of the flowerbed, ignoring
that its dampness was seeping into my white pants. “Your eye—who hit you? I've been thinking it was Carter, but he
couldn't
have. It happened the day I woke up, not that night …”

He finally turned, revealing a face ravaged by grief and guilt. “This,” he pointed to the fading green and yellow around his eye, “had nothing to do with you. Jacob hit me. He was … insensitive at the funeral. To be fair, I punched him first.”

“I haven't seen him.”

“He's been on gate duty.” His tone was clipped. “Though I doubt he would've been punished if he didn't do it publicly.”

“What did he say?”

“You don't need to hear this.” Garrett sat next to me. He placed his hand on the ground in the space between my waist and my arm. It wasn't quite the same as putting his arm around me, but it was close. If I leaned backward I could rest my head against his shoulder. I almost dared. Almost.

But he and Carter had fought over me. And because of that Carter had gone out unguarded.

“What did Jake say?”

He gritted his teeth, then spoke in a rush. “He asked how it felt to be responsible for the death of my best friend.”

My throat tightened again, and I found myself doing exactly what I'd just promised I wouldn't, leaning against him for support. If it was his fault, it was mine too.

“I hope you hit him hard.” I tilted my face up to his.

“I did. Broke his nose. He had
two
black eyes.”

“Good.”

“Ha, has our little pacifist developed some blood lust?”
Garrett's head bowed slightly, his nose just grazing mine, sending shivers down my spine.

I sat up, pulled away. “I think I'm growing out of my beliefs in fairy tales and any sort of absolutes.”

His eyes measured the space between us, growing more serious with every centimeter I added to the distance, lingering on the air, my face, my eyes, my lips. Finally he spoke. “I hope not. That would be another tragedy.”

I stood and strolled back over to the bench, wiping off wood chips and picking up the tablet. I hid behind it for the rest of the afternoon.

Right before dinner, I made a trip down the white corridor of the clinic, leaned my head in the door of Dr. Castillo's office, and asked, “Are my results back yet?”

He looked up and blinked. “Have they recruited you to double-check our efficiency? I assure you, everything here is running smoothly and on time.” He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

“What are my counts?”
Ask a direct question, demand a direct answer
. That was actually a piece of my grandfather's wisdom, but I felt that Carter would approve.

“You had an infusion six days ago; your counts are good. Please, let this go. You have more than enough on your plate right now.” He forced another smile, then stood and slipped off his white coat, hung it on the back of his door. “Now, I need to
head home or I'll be late for dinner. My family won't wait, and it's tamale night.”

I smiled at him, pretended to acquiesce. But if no one was going to tell me my counts, I'd get them myself.

I was quiet during dinner, but no one noticed. Mother had the glassy-eyed look I associated with her new medications. Miles and Father were too involved in a hushed debate to acknowledge anyone else. Mick was flouting Mother's lack of alertness by texting at the table. Nolan was telling Garrett, Al, and me about a poll a lobbyist had shared with him—it showed the percent of people who supported the Organ Act, the percent who thought they'd be able to make contact with a Family if they needed an organ—the smaller percent who thought they could afford it, and the percent who knew someone waiting for a transplant.

“The most common comparison made by citizens was equating the clinics to speakeasies. When H.R. 197 passes, it will be fascinating to observe if the transition out of Prohibition will provide a model for legalizing our industry.”

Normally, I'd find this interesting too, or be amused by Al's struggles not to smack Nolan. But I was too busy thinking about my secret counts. Too busy planning.

I waited several hours after dinner, until Garrett was yawning and subtly checking the time on his cell phone. “Going to bed soon, Penny?”

“Actually, I wanted to watch a documentary on Regency ballroom etiquette.”

“Ha!” He paused. “You
are
joking, right?”

“No. I can't wait to watch it.” I blinked innocently. I'd seen it before with Mother—she loved historical romances, but even she had been bored by the monotone narrator, nondescript background music, and lackluster photography. “It looks really good.”

“Oh. Okay. Sure.”

A pang of guilt hit me as I watched him swallow his disappointment. “It's on the DVR, if you want to pull it up. I'm going to get popcorn. Want anything?”

“Coffee,” he said, covering another yawn. “A big mug, please.”

I filled the biggest mug we had with coffee. Black, like he liked.
Decaf
, like he did
not
.

I set one of Mother's sleeping pills on the counter, crushed it with the flat of a knife blade. Then stood in front of that pile of powder and wondered if that was a line I was willing to cross. Torture through documentary boredom, yes. Lies, yes. Caffeine deprivation, yes.

But drugging him?

I swept the powder into my hands and then washed it down the sink.

No.

I wasn't willing to betray his trust on that level.

The smile he traded for his mug twisted in my stomach. Especially when he patted the couch next to him and spent the opening credits paying more attention to my hand than the screen. I'd placed my palm flat on the cushion between us, fingers splayed, and he traced around these, just outside the perimeter of my skin. The lines seemed like they should be carved
into the couch's leather, like they should be glowing on my hand, because even without any skin-to-skin contact, I felt warm all over.

I pulled away, crossed my arms. He sank back with a barely audible sigh and switched his gaze to a thin-lipped historian droning about how the waltz was once considered too scandalous for unmarried women.

In his reflection in the window, I watched Garrett's chin sink toward his chest. He startled and jerked awake once, twice, but I pretended not to see the sheepish
did-you-notice
glances he sent my way. Using the remote, I gradually dimmed the lights, lowered the volume, and increased the room temp.

The third time his eyes shut, they stayed closed. His head lolled backward, rested comfortably on the couch instead of in a cramped angle against his chest.

I leaned toward him and whispered, “Garrett?”

He looked younger in his sleep. The tension erased from his eyes and forehead, the angles of his jaw relaxed. His mouth was parted and his bottom lip shivered slightly with each inhale and exhale. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to bend over and kiss him. I wanted to snuggle against him and have a night where I wore his security and scent like a blanket.

“Garrett,” I whispered again. “You awake?”

He stirred, pressed his lips together, then exhaled and relaxed further into the couch cushions. I
could
kiss him. He was sleeping deeply enough that it probably wouldn't disturb him. And if it did, I could pretend I was leaning over to nudge him awake. I
could
, but that was a violation akin to sleeping pills. I'd deceived
him enough tonight—and I needed that deception to be worthwhile.

I shrugged off his temptation and padded out of the room and across the house.

The sudden brightness of the clinic's hallway made me blink as I eased the door shut behind me. After the cozy dimness of the den and the tiptoe darkness of the library, the stark lighting of halogens on white tile made me feel exposed, as if my hopes were being examined and might crumble from the scrutiny.

I'd had the clinic's network password for weeks, since before Carter. Getting it had been as simple as waiting until Caroline's hands were busy labeling a vial of my blood and saying, “I want your opinion on a dress. What's your login? I'll pull it up.”

She hadn't hesitated to tell me or even looked away from the syringe she was putting in the sharps container.

The clicking sound of keystrokes never seemed loud during the day, but at night I flinched as each reverberated in the exam room like a gunshot. While the edges and corners of the estate were rounded, the clinic hadn't had the same architectural renovations. Lit only by the computer screen and the spilled glow from the hallway, all I saw were shadows made of points, angles, and threats.

And the
numbers
on the screen. Disappointment shaped into digits. My CBC results from the past six days read like a countdown: Infusion, less, less, less, less, less. Today's numbers were above forty K, but not by much.

“Don't move.”

It was hard to obey once I realized what was poking me in the back.

My voice quivered as I said, “It's
Penny
.”

The response was a rush of gold-medal swearing, which allowed me to identify the Ward brother behind me.

“Mick, could you move the gun, please?” The pressure lifted from my spine, but I didn't feel any less panicked. “Thank you.”

Mick gripped the back of the office chair and spun me around to face him. “
You
are not supposed to be here.”

All the Ward brothers had the same auburn hair and greenish eyes, but Mick looked the most like Garrett. It was like staring at a distorted copy: a little less handsome, a little more mean; a little less humanity, a little more muscle.

He kicked the base of my chair. “Well?”

“I-I forgot my cell phone?”

“And you were hoping Google would help you find it?” He tapped the muzzle of the gun against the computer monitor. “Does Garrett know you're here?”

I started to shake my head, then froze, not sure which answer was
less
incriminating.

“He's assigned to you for a
reason
, you know.”

Guilt was a fist around my heart, making me all too aware of how he'd feel if he woke up alone. If anything happened to me while he wasn't there. Sleeping pills or stolen kisses were nothing compared with my real betrayal—leaving him behind, just like Carter had.

My panic wanted me to beg,
Please don't tell him; please don't tell my father
. My rational side knew I lacked bartering chips.

Or …

“If you don't tattle to our fathers about catching me here, I won't tell them how you bruised me by shoving a gun in my back.”

He swore under his breath.

I stared him down, eyes narrowed as I bluffed. “It's probably going to be a
bad
one. You really pressed hard. So, I could wear a low-backed sundress to breakfast … or I could cover it up with a T-shirt.”

He raised his eyebrows as he chuckled. “So that's how you're going to play it? Good for you, kid. Go. I never saw you.”

I slid from the desk chair and into the hallway, feeling his eyes on my back all the way to the library doors, where I paused and turned.

He saluted me with the hand still holding his gun.

I tiptoed back to the couch in the den. Curled up next to another Ward brother.

I leaned down and kissed the air just over his left cheek.

Garrett sat across from me at breakfast and watched with resigned eyes as his family exited. Nolan trotted at Father's side like a pet dog, and Miles wished us a good day as he left.

We had become the proverbial “kids' table.” I was used to it, he wasn't. I could see his stir-crazy building. His tolerance for my boring routines of swimming, stretching, clinic, reading, online shopping, and television was evaporating. These ways of filling my days seemed so much more pathetic when he was beside me sighing, fidgeting, and casting long glances at the closed door of Father's office.