Just Breathe (6 page)

This one night, Marie and I were at his place for a party. He had the whole room captivated by his tale of a time in high school when he was high on mushrooms and had a trippy conversation with his mom. Even I was captivated by the drama unfolding in the story. So much so that it was Marie who nudged me to point out the bullshit flying around.

Two months or so before, we were all going to do mushrooms, but Jason claimed he had never done them before. It was a big deal at the time considering his age, so we’d pretty much catered to him that night. So if he had told the truth then, he was lying at the party. And if he was telling the truth at the party, he’d lied to me when we’d done mushrooms his “first” time. Either way he was a liar and for what? To play the ingénue with my friends and I back then, or to impress a room full of acquaintances at his party. Neither made sense to me—why lie about something so insignificant? What was the payoff? I was understandably pissed, so was Marie. We left the party about ten minutes later.

Except someone had stolen my boots. It just topped off the night. I wasn’t going home barefooted, but a quick getaway was needed, so I stole someone else’s boots. I took a pair that were comparable to mine, not the fanciest pair there, and I didn’t feel bad about it at all. At that moment I was disgusted to be dating a petty liar and disgusted with everyone associated with him. I wonder who took my boots though, and if they did it out of mistaken drunkenness or on purpose. I wonder if it was their boots I ended up taking. I never wore them again.

Screw Jason. I sit up and get to work on my project. The other day I saw this show where they decoupaged sheet music to an old chest of drawers, and it looked awesome. In my case it’s old books that were going to be recycled, rather than sheet music. I’m not up to the chest of drawers; I want to try something smaller first, so I’ve grabbed a blank journal with a lame cover and an old binder that I keep photos in. They make for an easier revamp, and it won’t be as big a deal if I give up—or suck too badly to continue. I’ve seen some work where fabric was used, but I think I’d only do that if I made something for Kennedy.

I won’t actually varnish the sheets to the journal and binder tonight; I’ll just cut pieces of the book pages out and work out placement. It’s relaxing, and I enjoy this working of the hands. Dominic had very nice hands. And that smile! He is all kinds of sexy. I’m glad he read the books I recommended. I gently poke my lip with my fingertip. His body felt solid as hell when we collided.

My cell phone rings, and of course it’s at the moment where I need both hands. Screw it, it can wait—that’s what voicemail is for. At first, I feel a bit bad about cutting pages from the books, but they would have been recycled. This way some of their content will remain. Plus it will look really cool... If these pieces would sit together and stop sticking to my hands because of static electricity... Shaking my hands doesn’t work.

Annoyed, I toss the scissors and glue which creates a wind that blows the pages about, and knocks the pieces from my hands. See, this is why I don’t do crafts; I lack the patience, and probably the manual dexterity to do them. Sure, I get ideas, but then they go tits up because I suck at everything!

Whoa. Break time for mental health. Standing and stretching helps a lot, my neck was in knots from sitting still for so long, and then the tension from freaking out.

The number isn’t familiar when I check my phone, but there’s a new message. I hit play and wait. Maybe it’s someone telling me that a distant relative I never knew has passed away and left me a bunch of money or an old castle somewhere! Maybe I’ve won a trip to a quiet beach! Or maybe—no, it’s just a pocket dial. Pocket dials can be interesting, albeit somewhat voyeuristic. I always feel compelled to listen to the whole thing. Curiosity killed the cat.

Switching to speakerphone, I crank the volume, set the phone back on the floor, and go back to cutting out pages. The recorded hisses and clicks, and sound of the phone rubbing against a pocket or purse, provide a strangely soothing background noise. A minute of this goes by, then it’s broken by a tiny, feminine sneeze followed by a muffled male voice that laughs and says, “I have a tissue in my pocket.” The rustling gets louder, the voice clearer as he realizes his phone is on. “Shit, my pocket wanted to talk to someone! Hope it didn’t pocket dial China!”

Jason.

Shock makes my fingers slip, and I nick my thumb with the scissors. Blood wells up from the cut. End of message.
Jason?
I clumsily fumble for the phone.

That was Jason’s voice. That was what Jason used to say. “
My pocket wanted to talk to someone. Hope it didn’t pocket dial China.
” He said it all the time and always found it just as funny as the first. A thin trail of blood smears the screen of my phone as I select
replay message
. The cut on my thumb stings as I press the phone tightly against my ear, straining to hear every word, every sound of the call that I might have missed while it played in the background on speakerphone.

I can hear his voice and hers, but not what is said. Their voices are too muffled by the pocket until she sneezes and they raise their voices, and what’s left of my heart clenches painfully. Who is she? Where is he? What does this mean?

Has he already moved on?
Of course he’s moved on dumbass, he moved on when he moved to a different city without telling you!

But did he leave me for her?
Pain in the hand that I didn’t cut makes me look down to see I’m gripping the scissors so hard the handle is digging into my claw-like fingers. I set the scissors down and move to the bed to think.

It was a new number. He had to have manually entered my number into his new phone.

What does that mean? He probably just transferred his contacts electronically. It’s meaningless.
But what if—

It was just a pocket dial. He’s moved on, and I have too.
Have I?
The hot tears that leak down my face disagree, but they stop within minutes. He sounded so carefree, using the same material he’s always used.
Is she his new girlfriend?

Does it matter?

It doesn’t. Maybe not enough yet, but I have moved on too, at least from where I was even a couple weeks ago. I’m better, stronger than this! I wipe the tears from my face, and press
delete message
a bit harder than necessary, but it gets the job done.

Fuck him. Fuck him! I’m not a weak little girl who drowns in sentimentality because of a pocket dial. He treated me terribly, and obviously didn’t give a crap about me if he could just leave me like I was nothing. That chick’s sneeze sounded fake as well, so whatever. Good riddance. Pretty soon he’ll just be someone I used to date.

I wait for the wrenching emotions to rise at that thought, but can only summon a twinge. For the first time since Jason left, I feel...free. Well, freer. Sort of. The message is gone, but his new number is now in my phone. Sigh. I don’t know what to do. I need help. Having Jason’s new phone number is both empowering and terrifying; empowering because I know I can call him at any time, call ID blocked of course, and tell him off. I can ambush him.

It’s terrifying because I know I can call him at any time and I might not tell him off. He could ambush me. Old habits die hard, and his voice affects me in ways that aren’t fair. I need advice, and I need help, and I know just the cutthroat bitch with the heart of gold to call; Marie.

She answers on the third ring. “Elle! How are you?” Easy enough question, complicated answer best handled in person.

“I’m good. Listen, is it all right if I come over for a bit?”

“Of course! I’ll just kick Blondie out of bed and we’re good to go.”

Oh my. I blush. “No, well hey, if you’re busy, then I’ll just—”

“Shut up, Elle! Get your sexy ass over here. I have some news anyway and need to see you.”

“Oh my god, you’re pregnant!”

There’s a loud choking noise followed by Marie’s gasp. “Don’t even joke about that! What is wrong with you?”

Mwahaha. “See you in half an hour. Need anything?”

“Liquor and plenty of it after that scare you just gave me. Sadistic little minx, I’ve taught you well,” her voice is dipped in admiration.

“See you soon.”

I hang up with her and call a cab, deciding to forgo the pleasures of public transit, as a reward for not breaking down and calling Jason.

***

One uneventful cab ride later, I pull up to Marie’s apartment complex with a bottle in each hand. Manoeuvring the door open with an arm and my butt, I walk to the inner door, press the buzzer, and nod at the security cam. Marie always screens her visitors on the camera. She even watches it when she’s not expecting anyone, referring to it as her “favourite reality television show.” Marie’s voice sidles through the intercom and echoes through the lobby.

“Now I know you didn’t think you’d get off that easily, Elle. Dance for me!”

“Marie...”

“Dance! Something sexy but not sleazy.”

Damn. It’s not a huge deal, but anyone watching the security camera channel on their TV is about to see me embarrass the hell out of myself. Not that it would be the first time.

“Marie.” I try wheedling out of it one last time.

“You’re not getting in until I get a dance. Keep it classy. I’ve got aaaaaaall night,” she taunts. It’s true. One time I stood petulantly and refused her dance for twenty-seven minutes. She won in the end. She always does. Sigh.

I walk toward the wall away from the door and focus at the camera. Setting the bottles down, I begin a little shuffle with a little hip action.

“Yeah!” Her voice echoes through the lobby. “Classy time is over! Now work that ass!”

I grimace, close my eyes, and “work that ass,” wishing I’d stayed home.

“Sexy! Okay, you can come in!” I hear the door buzz behind me and bend down to grab my bottles, whip around to open the door in time, and smack straight into Hazel Eyes. Dominic. At least I don’t fall over or drop the bottles.

“Dammit!” I exclaim, bumping my still-sore lip on his chest for the second time today. “What are you made from, cement blocks?” For real, he’s got a solid body. Like a boss, I resist the urge to feel his chest with my hands this time instead of my face. I tuck a bottle under my arm and prod my lip. No blood this time, so that’s good.

“Is that your way of saying I’m a brick house?” His eyes twinkle. Oh my, that voice. He looks even cuter in hazy evening natural light, dark hair picking up reddish highlights in the sun, and his eyes are warmer than I remembered.

“Cute. Why are you here? Do you live in the building?” I might have to visit Marie more often.

“No, I was just leaving—visiting a friend. But then I had to stop and watch the show.”

“What sho—oh.” I redden. “That was, you know...” I trail off, unable to finish that sentence in a way that will restore my dignity.

“Indeed. I take it you don’t live here either?”

“No, just visiting a friend.”

“Then I won’t keep you.” It’s then that I notice he’s held the door for me. His adorable grin blocked my view for a minute. I won’t have to redo my hellish dance for Marie—she’s made me give encore performances in the past when I missed the buzz. He opens it wider for me as I walk past him.

“Thank you.” God he smells so good.

“You’re welcome. Elle.” The way he says my name moves up my spine like a pair of lazy, wandering lips. Distracted, I almost walk into a wall, but reroute just in time. I reach down to press the button for the elevator, and when I turn back to Dominic, he’s gone. That man is trouble.

I’m still tingly when I walk off the elevator and knock on Marie’s door. She flings open the door clad in a short satin robe, so pale pink it’s almost white.

“Come in. What did thee bring me?” She looks at my hands. I hold them up—Alize Gold Passion in one hand, Hennessy in the other.

“We’re Tupac-ing it today. It’s all I had.”

“Ooo Alize! Gimme!” Marie flaps her fingers open and closed like a greedy child. I oblige and follow her to the kitchen. Her apartment is all ultra modern; chrome, leather, glass, and sharp edges. It’s beautiful and expensive and makes me wish I made more money, but I prefer a more relaxed atmosphere.

The kitchen is the only room that looks or feels lived in, though the bedroom sees a fair bit of action as well. I’m not judging, I’m noting—and not without a certain shade of jealousy. Marie is so free and certain about who she is, sometimes I wish I was more like her.

She gets the ice, I get the glasses, and we meet at the table. It’s right beside a large bay window and has an amazing view of the city. The setting sun paints smudgy, vibrant colours across the western sky—pollution melding with nature to create art. Seems that the only beauty they make together ends up being toxic—like this sunset, or when sunlight picks up the iridescent colours of an oil spill on the asphalt.

The ice cubes make pleasant little dinging noises against the heavy crystal. I crack open the lid and pour the Alize. Our glasses chime as we clink them together in a wordless toast and drink.

I remember our chat in the pub six days ago. “Was it the new partner that you kicked out of bed?”

Marie sips and smirks. “Blondie. I said give me a week, but I didn’t need it. I strung him along a bit anyways, played hard to get.”

I nearly snort liquor out my nose. “Three days is hard to get?”

“In the advertising world? Yes. Three days is an eternity. If I’d left it up to him, we’d have been banging in the stairwell on Monday.” She finger combs her hair with the hand that isn’t holding her glass.

“You’re like the female Barney Stinson.”

“Right? Up top!” She holds her hand up for a high five.

We slap hands, but my heart grows heavy. I have to tell Marie about the phone call. How can I word this? Where should I start? I’ll have to go all the way back to the break up, which will be awkward as she’ll wonder why I didn’t tell her the truth. If I were her, I’d wonder why I didn’t tell. Everything would have been fine but nooo, Jason had to pocket dial me. It’s time; I need help. I need Marie’s help. Okay, I can do this.