Hold Me Like a Breath (23 page)

“I … I wanted to see you again. I was worried. I felt responsible. I—” His eyes swept across my face and he frowned. “Did I do this?”

He brushed my bangs aside with a finger, revealing the grayish bruise. “I'm so sorry.”

I wanted to lean into the touch. Instead I jumped backward and smoothed my hair into place. This was the
correct
reaction, and the correct words would be some enraged version of “Don't touch me” or “Who do you think you are?”

What came out of my mouth was, “And I thought rock-hard jaw lines only existed in romance novels.”

He chuckled and some of the guilt eased out of his expression.

I raised my eyebrows in a silent
your move
. I wanted him to continue our conversation, to give me an excuse for not saying the word I should: “good-bye.”

He didn't. He fidgeted with the flap on his messenger bag, shifted his weight. Opened and closed his mouth. Licked his lips. Sighed. He let the pause stretch beyond the point of uncomfortable till I was rocking back on my heels to pivot and walk away.

Then he opened his mouth again and said in a rush, “I know you must think I'm crazy for being here. I'm not sure I disagree. It's probably some strange post-adrenaline, serotonin, or dopamine overload that's causing a momentary hero complex, but … I'm so happy to see you.” He lifted his eyes from the sidewalk, and his expression was as transparent as glass—hope balanced
on his slightly parted lips; nerves drew lines between his eyebrows.

These changed to doubt as he studied my face. I'd adopted a practiced mask of neutrality, and he couldn't tell I was hiding the same emotions behind it. It was agony watching his courageous vulnerability turn into flushed-cheek humiliation. Especially after he'd given what had to be the most scientific, least romantic declaration of I'm not sure what.

Probably he'd lived a life where he didn't
have
to hide his feelings. I forgot sometimes that not everyone was raised with gates and guards and guns. Maybe he'd been blessed with an ordinary life. One without all the posturing and duplicity. One where a reaction of silence meant disinterest, not self-preservation.

“Um. Yeah. Okay. Never mind. Sorry for disturbing you … and for that.” He pointed at my forehead.

“It was really unnecessary for you to come check on me, but thank you for bringing me home. I don't know if I remembered to say that.”

It was a polite exit line. It didn't reveal I'd spent three days dreaming of his lips on mine. That I was equal parts thrilled and mortified to see him again. That it hurt me to take the first step away.

“Wait.” His hand shot out and grasped my wrist. “Is there any chance you'd want to see me again?”

I looked at his fingers on my skin, loving the contrast of his pigment against mine. But they needed to not be there. I needed to not be wasting precious antibody-protected platelets on this.

Yet … as his fingers rearranged into a lighter grip, skating
across the skin on the inside of my wrist, the feeling made me want to sigh or bite my lip.

I pulled away. “What?”

“Look, I don't want to come on too strong.” He paused and gave a self-deprecating grin. “Probably too late for that, huh?”

I nodded. “Stalking isn't really on my list of attractive qualities.”

“What
is
on this list?” he asked. “Are there copies I could obtain and study?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Persistence
was
on it, but I'm rethinking it.”

“What can I say? You really made an impression on me.” The corner of his mouth twitched as he tried not to smile at his own joke.

It was lame … and endearing. It caught me off-guard and I laughed. “Actually,
you
made the impression on me.”

His laughter was rich and thick like melted chocolate. It seemed to pour slowly over me, erasing so much of my foreboding and replacing it with the sweetest sensation. Like smiling through a blush. Both of which I was doing.

“Now I've exposed my cheesy side too.” He peeked at me with a sheepish grin. “I don't suppose there's any recovering from being the cheesy, persistent stalker who made you bleed?”

“Well, when you put it like that …”

He was going to give up. I could see a regretful good-bye poised on the bow of his lips—which were so full and tempting and so much more attractive when smiling. And delicious to kiss— No. Wait. I hadn't ever
really
kissed him. Those had been
dreams. Illness dreams. A manifestation of my body breaking down and falling apart and for some reason releasing euphoric brain chemicals—probably the same ones he'd just listed.

But could it possibly feel as good in real life?

“I was going to get coffee and go for a walk. I guess some company wouldn't kill me.” I bit my tongue on the last words.
Kill me
. There were people in this world who wanted to. Somewhere. Anywhere. And I'd been flirting.

And not with Garrett. His name felt like an obstruction in my throat when I tried to swallow.

But the killers would be looking for a blonde. By herself. Not a brunette with a guy whose shoulders would make anyone second-guess an assault.

“Yes, please.” And that smile. That beaming smile from my dreams—where he'd said, “You're my reason for breathing.” I
wanted
to be that reason. I
needed
to make my brain stop replaying that image and my cheeks stop blushing.

“What's your name?” he asked. “With the amount of time I've spent thinking about you, I can't believe I don't know it.”

“Maeve.” I'd hesitated for a fraction of a second, but I hesitated so much around him, he couldn't attribute it to anything but not having won me over yet. He would. I knew he would. It terrified me how much I wanted to yield to his charm and smile. “Yours?”

He hesitated too. Maybe not trusting I cared. Like this was a test he needed to pass in order to walk the next block with me. Then he relaxed back into his smile, held out his hand and said, “Charlie. It's so nice to finally meet you, Maeve.”

“Charlie? No.” It was the touch of his fingers that caused
the unguarded reaction. I'd been so busy concentrating on not gasping when his palm slid across mine in the light grasp of a quick handshake that I'd forgotten to police my thoughts.

It wasn't fair. Other people touched all the time. They were immune to the electricity of skin plus skin, but I'd never had a chance to build up a tolerance. He probably didn't feel the same thrill of energy, his pulse probably wasn't racing.

Something shifted in his face. Not anger or fear, but something. Something guarded. Something I couldn't read. It bothered me. I wanted to know all his expressions. I wanted them all to be smiles. “Why
no
?”

“Charlie is someone who's five years old. Or a dumpy-looking cartoon with persistent pessimism and poor coordination.
You
do not look like a Charlie.”

“What do I look like then?” He'd figured out the compliment and his smile was back. A smolder more than a smile, like he was making up for its lapse by burning hotter.

“Um … How about Char?”

I needed to get a grip. So he was an attractive guy. A very attractive guy. So what? I'd seen plenty of attractive guys on TV. Garrett was attractive.

Garrett. Whom I'd promised to run away with two weeks ago and who I'd thought would come and rescue me. He wouldn't. He couldn't. And fair or not, the thought made me angry. He'd
promised
to protect me.

“Char. I'll take it.” He continued to smolder at me. “Hmm, you've invited me on a walk and given me a nickname. This is a pretty good morning.”

“It is,” I agreed. I owed myself a good morning. A reward for the three days I'd just endured. One morning.

“Would it be pressing my luck to ask to hold your hand?”

I glanced down at mine. So far there was no sign of a handshake bruise. I should've asked Bob for my counts; I should have asked when they'd next be checked.

There were so many reasons my answers should've been
No. Never
. Turning and walking away.

Platelets. Murderers. Secrets. Crimes. The lies I'd have to tell and remember. The danger I'd put him in.

If I'd been a better person I would've said no. Never. Run.

“Not yet,” I answered. “Patience
is
on my list of desirable qualities. I'd like to see if you have it.”

We walked a ribbon-candy pattern, down one block and back the next. Back and forth through a section of the city.

“Where are we going and why like this?” I wished I had my map app so I could track our progress, create a record of the magic of the day.

“Nowhere. It's the perfect way to wander without getting lost.”

That made sense, and it meant I didn't have to pay attention to our setting beyond counting: three blocks from the apartment, four. I could focus on him. His gaze was skipping from the buildings to me and back again. His smile brightened each time his eyes hit mine and dimmed at the stone and brick and glass. I wanted to tell him to forget manners, forget social mores; he could have my permission to stare, because I certainly was and had no intention of stopping.

“Oh, watch out.” Char touched my arm to get my attention and pointed at a pair of men carrying a couch from a truck toward an apartment building.

While we paused on the sidewalk to let them pass, I fluttered my lashes, pressed the back of my hand to my head, and simpered, “My hero.”

He moved my hand out of the way and touched my forehead again, outlining the shape of the bruise with the lightest caress. “Some hero. I'm really sorry, Maeve.”

My heart was too busy thudding for me to do more than nod.

“You're probably wondering why I'm coming on so strong.”

I was, but not as much as I was wondering why I wasn't running, why his statement made me lean toward him and nod in a way that meant
go on
.

“Believe it or not, I'm not usually this … aggressive.” He shook his head. “That's not really the right word. I'm not really a pursuer. Is that any better?”

“I believe you.” His self-conscious jokes and unguarded grins made me think “earnest” not “player.” He didn't have the practiced smoothness of guys on TV shows or the swagger of the older Ward brothers. “So why now? Why me?”

He paused on a corner, taking a step out of the foot traffic and waiting for me to follow. I did, watching his mouth as he swallowed and licked his bottom lip while choosing the right words. “I recently lost two … opportunities because I didn't speak up. They were things that mattered to me and …” He shook his head. “I decided when I got on the plane to New York that I wouldn't do that anymore. That I wouldn't be so passive
or wait for things to come to me. That I'd be better at communicating—asking for—the things I want.”

He reached out and gently placed a hand on my sleeve. “I want to spend more time with you.”

I noted his choice of vague words: “opportunities,” “things.” Clearly whatever he'd missed out on was personal—but I wanted to know him well enough that he'd confide them. And I'd recently lost something as well: my family.

Stupid. Rash. Whatever adjective I pinned on it, it didn't change that his words resonated with sincerity and my reaction was to open my dry mouth and whisper, “I want that too.”

Morning melted into afternoon. My resolve melted too. And my caution. I ignored the passersby. I even let myself be seated in a restaurant with my back to the door. Char was dangerous for my well-being, not because of the collision, or because I wanted more—more bruises if it meant he'd touch me—but because he made me distracted, he made me breathless, he made me reckless.

“What are you drawing?” he asked, sitting back down and leaning forward to see the napkin I'd been idly doodling while he'd been in the bathroom.

My stomach dropped. Before I could wad it up, Char reached across the table and spun the napkin around. “Wow. Where'd you come up with this?”

The only answer I could think to give started with a kernel of the truth. “My brother once teased me that all girls ever doodle are hearts and flowers—so I came up with this.” I took the drawing back and folded the napkin to hide the anatomical heart
made out of daisies and tulips and other simple flowers. It was pretty much the only thing I ever doodled, so I guess Carter had been right.

“Ha!” Char laughed and leaned forward. “How'd he react?”

I'd put it on his birthday card that year—the year he turned thirteen—and he'd loved it. It was framed in his room. Father had often said we should adopt it as a Family crest, have it put on letterhead and the gates. I swallowed. Lies hurt, but the truth hurt more.

“Oh. He just said I was weird or something.”

“Well, I think it's fantastic. May I have it?”

I studied his face. There was no suspicion, no scrutiny. And why
would
there be? It was a strange thing to doodle, but since Father had never gotten around to making it into a crest, it was hardly incriminating.

I slid the napkin across the table.

“Thank you,” he said, folding it and putting it carefully in his pocket. “Now tell me something else. Tell me, I don't know, your favorite constellation.”

I laughed and my fear evaporated. “I don't think I have one. But, by all means, tell me yours.”

The afternoon dissolved into an endless conversation, an exchange of information that was carefully guarded on my part, but also felt effortless and honest.

“—And
that
's why, even though I'm seventeen and it makes me ridiculous, my favorite movie is still the cartoon of
Sleeping Beauty
.” And
Enchanted
, but that reminded me of Garrett and I couldn't think of him while sitting here. Not without my
smile cracking and my mouth turning sour with the taste of betrayal.