Hold My Breath (4 page)

* * *

T
hat ease in conversation
—it left the second Will got a text message. He said it wasn’t important, and it probably wasn’t, but that disruption was enough to bring everything that is our reality right back to the table. The wall between us is back. It was never really gone, but it was nice to know that, for a few minutes at least, I could ignore it.

My father is spending the day at the Swim Club. My mom is at city hall. She’s a councilmember in Knox, and her passion is rebuilding the city’s youth programs and parks. Unfortunately, she’s the only councilmember under the age of sixty-five, so she’s usually the only one willing to put in the extra hours to make calls for grants and sift through research from staff. The mayor applauded her when she made the commitment publicly, but also told her she’d be working on it alone.

“I’ve already done this for my kids. It’s your turn now,” he said. Never mind the fact that her kid—
me—
is all grown now, too, so that argument really doesn’t hold much water. He’s just making an excuse to be lazy.

With both of them gone so much, it leaves me here in an empty house. It’s been good for my training because I run or binge on Netflix while I pedal on my dad’s stationary bike during the middle of the day. I can’t call Holly until odd hours because of her classes and hours at the hospital, but we’ll text sometimes.

Idle time is my worst enemy today, though. Maybe it was seeing Will, talking with him. Or maybe this is just one of those things I’ve needed to do for a long time. Closure comes from a lot of acts. That’s what my therapist drilled into my head before I quit going. No amount of therapy is going to heal the wound left behind when the love of your life gets ripped from your heart, but maybe I can get some relief from it for just a little while. Perhaps closure is a thing.

My mom’s step ladder is barely tall enough, so I end up stepping on the lower shelves of my old bedroom closet to steady myself enough to reach the dusty box, still taped shut, pushed high near the ceiling. A layer of dust cascades down on my eyelids when I finally reach it, and I wipe my face with my shirt as I cough my way back to my mattress bed.

Mom wouldn’t let me throw these things away. I hated her for it, but I’m sort of glad right now. I might change my mind when I rip the tape away and look inside, though.

I dig my dull nail into the taut tape along the edge, near the lid, sawing for almost a minute and finally making a tear that rips completely. I flip the lid without giving myself a chance to back out, and I’m hit with the worst immediately. The photo on top is from Christmas Eve. It’s one of those small Polaroid ones. Evan is cradling me, and my head is slung back with laughter. His handwriting spells out TRUE LOVE ALWAYS on the bottom. He liked to tease me with things like that, like our love was out of some high-school yearbook or some teen-movie special. He ran out of room for the ALWAYS, so there’s an arrow pointing to the back of the image where he finished writing the word. I laugh as I turn it in my hand and read it. I also wipe away my tear.

I breathe in deep and hold my lungs full, my eyes focused on the layers of photos, notes, and memories in the small shoebox in front of me.

“Closure, huh?” I whisper to myself, lifting the next few photos and spreading them out on the sheets in front of me. The feeling that rushes over me is not what I expected. I don’t cry, other than that initial tear, and I don’t feel a shock or surprise or pang at seeing these photos. I feel the same dull ache that’s always there, constantly there, and with every new photo or note or memento I pull from the box, nothing changes. I think it’s because I see every single one of these memories in my sleep. They’re with me always. And seeing them laid out before me in the flesh, it’s just more of the same.

As I pile the photos back into the box, a thought occurs to me. My smile—it’s so bright. Every single photo of us as a couple, my teeth practically glow. I hold the one of me laughing in my hands, close to my face, and I can almost hear the sound I made. Before I realize it, I’m smiling at the image. The ache is there, but the visual—it’s made me happy. I am glad I didn’t throw them away.

I slide my fingers along the mattress and pick up the last few pictures left out. One image catches my eye, so I leave it to the side, putting the rest away. I don’t recognize this one, but I remember the day it was taken. I don’t know that I ever really saw the photo, and I’m not sure how it got into this bunch, but my chest starts to thump rapidly looking at it, almost like I’m…nervous.

I’m pretty sure I was fourteen, and Will…he’s sixteen. I know it because this was the summer he grew. The Hollister boys blindfolded me and took me down to Peterson Lake to see their surprise, and they didn’t pull the cloth away until my hands were wrapped around the scratchy rope and my feet were balanced on the small piece of wood fused to the bottom. They’d always talked about making a rope swing, and they finally made it.

I was nervous on it, unsteady on my feet, maybe a little untrusting of the wood that had been singed into the rope. The fall wasn’t far, but it was enough to leave me frozen. Will promised to take my first swing with me. Seeing the way his arms wrapped around me, his hands dwarfing mine on the rope while his body cradled mine a breath before we both kicked off and swung our way into the icy, crystal-blue water, brings back the rush of feelings I had that day—that moment.

Will always felt older, even older than he was. Maybe it was the way his body had changed. Or perhaps it was the fact that I was fourteen and growing more curious about my body, feeling things. Puberty is a twisted bitch, and I’m sure it was at work then, too. When Will held me, he didn’t let go—not even in the water. And I remember it as if it was just minutes ago, because at the time, I didn’t want him to let go. I didn’t want him to let go at all. And when he did, I got scared because feeling something like that, for Will Hollister, wasn’t how my story was supposed to go. He was older, and my crush had always been on Evan.

None of that explains the beating in my chest right now, though. My hand trembles holding the photo, so I grab my wrist with my free hand.

“Stop,” I tell myself.

I pull the lid onto the box and climb the ladder, leaning to put one foot on the shelving system as I slide the box back into the darkness and dust. I leave the photo of me and Will out, though. I’m not done looking at it, and that isn’t okay.

* * *

* * *

M
y stomach is so
tight I don’t think I could even convince my muscles to help me throw up if I wanted to. My left knee has been bouncing for the entire drive back to the club; I race into the driveway with enough force that my wheels spin out a little on the rocks.

I’m not sure why I’m in such a hurry. There’s no deadline for anything, and having to look Curtis in the eye before I take off isn’t going to be a pleasure. Hell, I should have driven slower and maybe he’d have been gone for the day.

I push the gearshift back into reverse, but I’m not fast enough to escape his attention. Curtis holds up a hand, waving hello while he holds the front door open for a group of young swimmers and their parents.

I gnash my teeth together hard and plaster a smile on my lips while I mentally repeat the word
fuck
over and over again. I don’t like confrontation. Avoiding conflict is half the reason I’m as miserable as I am. If I’d embraced it, once—the important time—I wouldn’t be carrying half of the misery that I walk around with every minute of the day.

But I can’t change who I am, and I’m a lying chicken shit.

Curtis holds the door open for me while I lock the car and jog up the front walkway, mentally running through every possible excuse I can give. His reaction is going to be terrible regardless of what I say, but not nearly as awful as it would be if I just spoke the truth.

“You remember being that young?” he says as I step up next to him. I turn and look at the young bodies wrapped in towels all making their way to idling cars.

“I don’t think I was ever that young,” I say.

I feel Curtis looking at me, so I hold my attention on the last kid, watching as his mom dries off one leg and then the other so he can push his feet into a pair of socks. I can tell by the look on the kid’s face that the last thing he wants is to put socks on, but he’s still too young to be defiant. I’d say he’s seven, maybe eight.
Hang in there, buddy. When you’re twelve, you can decide about your damned feet on your own.

“You were that young,” Curtis says, drawing me from my trance. I squint one eye and look at him. “You were a lot better of a swimmer, and maybe twice that kid’s size, but you were still young, Will. And oh my god were you a pain in the ass!”

I wince on instinct, but when Curtis starts to laugh I relax a little.

“You and your brother would come in here, and I swear to god the volume of life in general would go up about a million decibels. Maddy…she didn’t know how to scream, I don’t think, until she met the two of you,” he says, holding the door more open and urging me inside. I step in, and he follows, clicking the lock behind us, and flipping the main sign around to show the business number and open hours.

“Maybe we wouldn’t have been half as loud if that girl of yours didn’t provoke us mercilessly. I seem to remember a certain phrase she’d say, something about ‘if only we could learn how to swim like a girl?’ She always said she learned it from her dad, but…I always gave you the benefit of the doubt,” I say, smirking at the man I’ve always admired as much as I’d feared. My stomach still churns with my rapid pulse, but my body is getting used to the rhythm. Nerves are a funny thing—eventually, they start to enjoy the rush of adrenaline.

“Oh, I said it all right. Whenever Maddy would catch on to something faster than you two,” he chuckles.

“Well, that wasn’t fair. Girls are smarter, and we were two blockheads,” I say. He pats my arm and nods, agreeing with me. We both laugh, but mine…it’s a lie. All I can think about is how I’m going to say what I need to so I can
do
what I need to.

“You and your uncle settling in okay?” he asks, and I feel my palms start to sweat because I know I’m going to have to say something soon.

“We’re comfortable, yeah…thanks. Honestly, I think you could set my Uncle Duncan up in a closet and as long as he had a desk, a magnifying glass, and a decent lamp, he’d be happy for days,” I say, not happy that Curtis has started to walk up the stairs toward my room and the business office. I follow him, my hand sliding along the railing, gripping with each step as if I have some power to anchor us where we stand.

“He seems like a good man. Your dad…” he stops midsentence, his feet faltering on the last two steps. I can see the apology on his face as he turns to look at me.

“It’s okay. It’s honestly nice to hear people talk about him,” I say. Curtis grins and nods once, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me. I’m going to need to get better at lying, and fast.

“I’m sure it is…” he says, chewing at the inside of his lip for a second. “I was just going to say that your dad, he always said nice things about your uncle. I guess they were pretty close?”