Barely Breathing (The Breathing #2)(18)

"Yes," I agreed with a smile. "I'd like that."

"So, would you be okay with calling me Rachel then?" she asked cautiously. "Mom feels a little weird to be honest."

I let out an uncomfortable laugh, slightly surprised by the request. "I can try."

She smiled softly and released her nervousness with a quick breath. "Great. Now, what do you eat for lunch?"

I continued behind her, pushing the grocery cart around as she held up items and waited for me to nod or shake my head before placing them in the cart or putting them back. By the time we were done, there was more food in the cart than two people could eat in a month. Thankfully, a good portion of it was frozen.

"Do you want to learn how to cook?" my mother asked as she set the items on the belt. "I could teach you."

I smiled warmly at her offer. "Uh, sure," I replied, not having the heart to tell her that Evan had already made several attempts to teach me, and each had ended disastrously. She seemed eager to be able to do something with me―I would at least try.

"So, how long have you and Evan been together?" she asked after we had loaded the groceries in the car and were driving home.

"Officially," I calculated, "about ten months."

"What does officially mean?"

"Well," I fumbled, not sure how to explain how we felt for each other from pretty much day one, and how due to misunderstandings and hurt feelings, it had taken forever before we finally ended up together. "I guess I don't know how to answer that. Let's just say we started dating last March."

"Okay," she accepted with a confused nod. "He seems really nice."

"Yes," I agreed. My face glowed. "He is."

"I'm still looking," she said with a sigh. "I'll never find anyone like Derek again."

My heart faltered. I knew we had agreed to be friends, but she was still my mother. And having her talk so casually about finding the next best thing to my dead father knocked me back a bit.



       
         
       
        

"Do you want to help me with dinner tonight?"

"Huh?" I stumbled, still trying to get over her comment.

"Want to start your cooking lessons?" she clarified.

"Can I take a pass on tonight?" I begged. "I think I want to wait a bit before revealing how terrible I am."

She laughed. "You can't be that bad."

"You have no idea," I grumbled, making her laugh again.

"Okay. Maybe another night."



I sat in the kitchen with her while she explained what she was doing as she filled the pork chops with stuffing. I just nodded like I was paying attention, knowing it was useless. I could figure out the most complex math equations, or understand the internal workings of the nervous system, but to ask me to baste or julienne anything caused anxiety beyond explanation.

My mother set the plates down on the table I'd set for two, the one thing I could do.

"Thank you," I said, sitting down with a glass of water.

"Sure," she responded, sitting across from me.

When I looked up from my plate to praise her for the meal, I found her watching me. It was like she was examining every inch of my face, so intently that it made me want to sink under the table.

"I forgot how much you look like him." Her eyes were glassy and distant―she was looking at me but not at the same time. I bowed my head to escape her sorrowful gaze.

"So, Sara seems like she's an amazing friend," my mother said, her voice suddenly back to normal. I glanced up as she pierced the cut pork chop with her fork.

"Uh, yeah," I responded, shaking off the haunted look in her eye. "She's my best friend."

"I have one of those," my mother smiled. "Sharon." She let out a laugh just thinking about her. "We've done everything together. She usually gets me into trouble, but I have the best stories because of her."

I nodded, trying to remember this woman that seemed to be such a huge part of her life―but came up blank. I realized there wasn't much about my mother that I knew, even from the twelve years she was technically in my life.



It wasn't the howling of the wind or the boards groaning that drew me from my bed that night. Yes, they were the reasons I was still awake, but I was brought to my feet by the clatter of metal crashing outside my door. I found my mother kneeling on the floor with her back to me, trying to stack the framed photographs that were scattered across the hallway.

As I got closer, I could hear her mumbling to herself, clumsily setting one frame on top of the other. When I bent down to help her pick them up, I realized that she was crying.