Hold Me Like a Breath (8 page)

Carter flinched repeatedly during my rant, though these truths couldn't be news to him. “You worry about all that?”

“Constantly. Every single time you or Father leave the estate, and that's the bulk of my prayers every night. I think it's part of being a Family.”

“I don't want you worrying about me, Pen.”

“Then maybe it's time to support the Organ Act,” I joked, waiting for him to say
Okay, mini-Nolan
like he did whenever I brought up H.R. 197 or used a big word. Instead he turned away from me.

“Maybe. Yeah, maybe …” He wasn't really answering me, just thinking out loud. His gaze was out the window, down the drive, and on something that either I couldn't see or that wasn't there. “Listen, Pen, I've got to go. There's something I've got to do.”

“Go where? It's midnight, and I have more questions.”

“We'll talk again soon. Promise.”

“No, wait.” I grabbed his arm and he was stuck. He couldn't leave unless he pulled away forcefully—and that would hurt me. It was a cheap trick, but an effective one. “
When
will we talk?”

I could practically feel the impatience skittering down his arm. “Let me go now—so I can do this thing before I change my mind—and you can name the place and time.”

“You realize my first question is going to be
‘Do what
?'”

He nodded.

“Followed by ‘
How'd you pay for a New York City apartment?' ‘What was in the trunk?' ‘Whose tires did Garrett shoot
?' And a million other things.”

“Can't. Wait.” He stretched out the words like rubber bands of sarcasm.

“Fine. Go on your hot date or secret mission or whatever, but don't stay out too late; you're taking me out for breakfast.”

“Sounds good. Doughnuts? Eight?”

“Deal.” I let go of his arm, giving his sleeve one last tug. “Have fun.”

He took a step down the hall, then turned around and bent to kiss my cheek. “And if you do hook up with Gare, don't let him break your heart—I'd hate to have to kill my best friend.”

“What if I break his?” I taunted.

“Serves him right.” Carter's laughter drifted down the hall to be joined by the pattering of his tan loafers on the stairs. Then both noises and my brother disappeared behind the leaded-glass panes of the front door.

The sunlight was slanted wrong, creating shadows instead of a glow. A glance at my clock confirmed my apprehension—10:47. A glance in the mirror heightened it—I had a new bruise.

It was on the side of my neck, a two-inch-wide, inch-long stripe—from the seat belt. Probably from when I'd fallen asleep on the drive home. Probably no big deal.

Just like there was probably no good reason for me to get the shivers when I called Carter and it rang and rang and went to voice mail. No good reason for me to continue shaking when I stood in a scalding-hot shower.

He'd changed his mind—again.

He was busy.

He was pissed I'd overslept and stood him up.

I was healthy.

I was healthy.

I was
still
healthy.

I exhaled a reassurance on each step as I walked past his empty bedroom and headed downstairs.

As I passed the parlor, Mother put down her tablet. “Good morning, sleepyhead. Are you just getting up?”

“A little bit ago.”

“How was the play? I still can't believe you got those boys to sit through a musical.”

I gave her a sharp look, but she wasn't suspicious, just amused. “It was good. Carter fell asleep—speaking of, where is he?”

“I haven't seen him. I had an early session with my trainer, and by the time I got back they were already in your father's office. I'm sure he'll be at lunch.”

I frowned.

“Are you that bored, sweet pea? I could ask Nolan to set up some lessons.”

“It's summer.” Even the homeschooled were entitled to a break. Especially when faced with a tutor like mine. Nolan was Family. He'd been fresh out of college when Father put him in charge of my education. He had wanted in the
business
aspect of the Business, but Father said he needed patience and leadership … skills that
I
was supposed to teach him in return for biology and world civ. I'd thought his lack of experience would make him a pushover. He'd assumed having only one pupil would be easy. We were both wrong. Five years later, our school days were still battles of will and stubbornness.

Nolan was big on structure, drills, and memorization. I craved
novelty and creativity. Preferred writing and reading fiction to his research projects; geometry over his favored calculus. Our only overlapping interest was a shared addiction to C-Span and a quiet support of the Organ Act, which aimed to legalize compensation for organ donations. It would allow payment for both live donors who gave things like kidneys or a portion of their livers, as well as families who chose to donate the bodies of their deceased.

“Mother,” I said, trying another tactic, “don't you think Nolan deserves a break from me? Carter says Father has him working on some ‘big, important projects.'” I added air quotes, but if it had been Nolan I'd been quoting, it would've sounded more like “prestigious, imperative endeavors.”

“He was just saying the other day how much he misses you. I'm sure he could find time to come up with a summer curriculum if I asked.” She paired her threat with a twinkle-eyed smile. I couldn't tell if this meant she was joking or serious.

I needed Carter
now
. Needed his help strategizing my argument for school so I never had to endure another of Nolan's lessons.

And maybe if I went to school, if I had more in my life than what fit between the gates of our property, then I wouldn't have fallen for his best friend. I'd have options. I'd have friends of my own, and not just Caroline, who was paid to jab me with needles.

“That won't be necessary,” I said. “Please don't bother Nolan. I'll find something to do.”

“Good girl.” She patted my hair. I bit down the urge to bark and beg for a cookie.

Pick your battles, Pen, but then fight to the death for the ones that matter
.

I wanted more of Carter's advice, more of his answers.

Ask forgiveness, not permission
.

I didn't go back to my room or toward the solarium, pool, library, or game room. I headed for Father's office. I didn't knock, and I didn't ease the door open quietly. I also didn't see my brother among the startled faces on the couches and chairs.

“Where's Carter?” I'd spoken over someone. Interrupted what was probably a serious, important discussion, but I was too anxious to be embarrassed. Not even Nolan's disapproving sniff, Al's frown, or the Ward brothers' snickers mattered.

“Off with Garrett, I assume,” said Father with a touch of indulgent amusement, like I was still eight and looking to tag along on the boys' latest adventure. “I haven't seen them today—but it's their summer break. I'm not a tyrant, sweet pea.”

“Summer break … must be nice,” scoffed Jacob Ward and his brother Mick cuffed him.

I didn't pause to roll my eyes at them, apologize for interrupting, or do more than nod at Miles Banks's “Good morning, Penelope.”

I ran to the garage. His car was gone. So Father was right: he and Garrett had gone out. Maybe for doughnuts, or maybe they'd gone for Korean barbecue without me. For all I knew, they were bonding over Garrett's lapse in brain activity when he'd mistakenly considered kissing me.

And here I was worried about the jerk.

So. Worried.

“Hey, princess.” I turned at the voice, at the noise of a car door opening. But it was only
one
door. Garrett's car was parked in the driveway, and he was the only one getting out. His long legs made short work of the pavers between us, then he was standing there, head bent, shuffling his feet.

I realized I hadn't returned his greeting, but to do so at that point would be adding awkward on top of awkward.

“Have you seen Carter?” we asked at the same time, then both looked up. Our eyes met, and I'm sure mine broadcast alarm—Garrett's did too, for an instant, before he forced a smile.

“He's not answering my calls. He must be
really
pissed at me,” said Garrett.

“You think that's it?” Carter hadn't seemed that mad when he said good night. Distracted, yes, but not mad at Garrett.

“What else can it be? I've been waiting around all morning for him. And I've texted and called him a dozen times. I feel like a jilted girlfriend.”

“He's never supposed to go off-estate without you, right?” I asked.

“Not unless he wants to hear about it from your dad
and
mine.”

“Because his car's not here.”

Garrett swore under his breath. “I hate when he pulls a Houdini. We
both
get in trouble, but guess whose dad is less forgiving.”

I flinched. Father had an impressive temper, but it flared hot and extinguished fast. Al Ward's anger burned cold. “They don't know. They think he's off with you.”

“I'll go track him down. Can you cover for me?”

“Of course.” I mentally replayed my last conversation with Carter. There had to be something useful I could add to Garrett's search. “He went out last night. After …” My words trailed into a blush, and I looked at the pavers beneath my feet. “Didn't you go with him?”

“What? No. Where'd he go?”

“I don't know. He just said he had to do something—that he needed to do it right away, before he changed his mind.”

“Changed his mind?” Garrett said slowly. His face had gone grim.

“Could it be the people you shot at?”

“I didn't shoot at people. I shot the tires on a hea—a car. And no, they're not a threat.”

“Okay,” I said, but it lacked conviction.

“Hey, princess, look at me. He's fine.”

I shivered despite the July humidity. If Carter were here he'd tease,
Someone walk over your grave, Pen?
I shivered again.

“Find him quickly, okay?” I whispered.

Garrett touched my cheek with the tip of his pointer finger, tracing the curve from chin to ear. The touch was so light it shouldn't bruise and all I wanted was for him to do it over and over and over again. Make me forget I'd woken up in a day that felt wrong. Father would kill him for these caresses—another reason that it was better to
find Carter
than explain what made him so angry that he'd left Garrett behind.

“No worrying,” he ordered.

I nodded; it was a nonverbal lie.

“
We'll
see you soon,” he promised.

I nodded again and stood on the driveway as he drove away.

I'd promised Garrett I'd cover for him, but it would probably be wiser to hide. I headed to the clinic. I couldn't find answers about Carter there, but I'd ask some about myself.

Dr. Castillo was watching a video of a surgery on his computer when I knocked on the open door of his office. It looked like something laparoscopic—a liver maybe, or intestine? Something gray. He paused and minimized the screen. “Back so soon?”

“I have some bruises.”

“How are you feeling?” He stood and pulled his glasses from the pocket of his white coat, fitting them on the bridge of his wide nose and magnifying his brown eyes.

“Fine. I'm sure it's nothing.” I wished, hoped, prayed.

“Your mother sent you.” He exhaled into a smile.

“No. I came on my own. She already worries too much, so please don't say anything.”

“Let's see what we've got here before I make any promises.”
He apparently also knew better than to pick sides in Landlow infighting—maybe that was a Family rule, not just a Ward one.

I offered my left hand, used the other to brush my hair back, and tilted my neck. He inspected both bruises while I compared his healthy bronze skin to my bone-china pallor.

“Unknown cause? Or trauma?”

“Trauma.” If they'd been nontraumatic discolorations he'd have marked the boundaries with pen—like I was some human game of connect the dots—then checked later to see if they'd grown. “Car door and seat belt.”

His lips twitched slightly. “Who knew Carter's driving was so dangerous? Those are the only ones? Any nosebleeds? Gums bleeding? Petechiae?”

“None. Just these.” And an increasing feeling of dread and panic. I fought back a shiver.

Dr. Castillo gave me a measuring glance. “Are you worried about something, Penelope?”

“My counts …” I swallowed and attempted to forge the question despite the desert dryness of my throat.

“Yes? They've been good lately.” He pointed to one of the clinic whiteboards where the latest were always displayed: PL-84,000μl. “Oh, I guess I didn't update that yet. The results from yesterday's draw showed a slight reduction in platelets, but still around seventy thousand.”

“They've dropped?” The word “remission” popped like a bubble on my tongue, dissolving dreams of school and normalcy.

My body was never going to stop destroying its platelets, but the rate at which it destroyed them was key. When my counts dipped to thirty thousand it was as well known throughout the estate as the daily forecast. If they dropped lower than that, or I got cut and bled excessively, or if I managed to majorly bruise myself—not that this took much effort—I needed an infusion of immunoglobulin, aka IVIg. Until recently, I'd also needed one every two to three weeks.

“Before you get upset, think about this: we've been pushing your body lately. You've gone more than double the amount of time you usually go between infusions and your counts are still quite acceptable. I'm comfortable waiting for the results of next week's CBC before deciding if you need some IVIg to stabilize you, but if you're concerned or feel off, we can check your counts again today.”