Barely Breathing (The Breathing #2)(38)

"Sure," I replied. "You shouldn't need an excuse, you know." I knew I shouldn't have said it as soon as I did. "Sorry."

"No, you're right," he agreed. "I just feel bad leaving when she's not feeling great. Although, I'm not sure I can do anything to make her feel better. But she keeps saying she wants me to stay."

"She always wants you to stay," I blurted―my filter apparently shut off.

"Wow," he absorbed my candor with wide eyes. "Am I here too much?"

"No," I replied quickly. "That's not what I meant. Sorry, I'm a complete idiot today."

"You're doing that honesty thing again. Don't worry about it." He paused and added, "Don't ever feel like you can't say what you're thinking, okay?"

"Are you sure?" I questioned with a smirk. "You'll probably end up hating me."

"Unlikely," he said with a bright smile, putting the milk in the refrigerator. My cheeks warmed with his comment. "Oh, here's my phone number," he scribbled on a piece of paper on the kitchen table, "just in case you do need something while I'm out."

"Okay. Thanks." I picked up the number as he walked out the door and decided to program it into my phone, just in case.



My mother didn't stir the entire time Jonathan was gone, thankfully. I wasn't looking forward to telling her he wasn't there.

I texted back and forth with Evan most of the afternoon. He and Jared were at an all-day Super Bowl party off-campus. It sounded like quite the spectacle from the details Evan provided. I let him go right before kick-off, wanting him to enjoy the game with his brother and not worry about responding to me.

I kept checking my phone anyway, still not having heard from Sara. I wanted her to be the first to reach out after the way we left things, and it took everything I had not to text her as I grew more anxious.

Jonathan returned five minutes into the game.

"Ah," he groaned, looking flushed and freshly changed. "I missed kick-off."

"Don't worry," I consoled. "Nothing's happened really. You look …  different." It was hard not to notice.

"I had to tap back into my life for awhile," he explained, sitting down on the couch next to me with his eyes fixed on the game. "Got a haircut, went to the gym, made sure my place hadn't burned down."

I laughed, not expecting his sense of humor. "Well the hair looks good."

"Thanks." He flashed me a blush-inducing grin. I reached for a handful of chips, to keep from saying something else outlandish about how good he looked. "I bought beer. You don't mind, do you?"

"Uh, no," I answered, surprised that he asked. "It's football. Isn't that part of the guys' book of conduct? That a beer must be in your hand while watching?"

He laughed. "Do you want one? I could overlook the fact that you're a girl for the night."

"No," I responded emphatically. "Not legal, remember?"



       
         
       
        

"Oh, that's right," he answered, feigning like he'd forgotten. "I'm supposed to be the responsible adult, right?" He shook his head like the thought sounded ridiculous. He got up from the couch and went into the kitchen, coming back with a beer and a Mountain Dew.

"Perfect, thanks," I said, taking the bottle from his hand.

We watched football and ate overly greasy food while making fun of the overpriced commercials that fell flat and laughing at those that were worth the millions. And we'd take turns checking on my mother whenever we'd hear her moan.

In the middle of the third quarter, the doorbell rang. Jonathan and I peered at each other quizzically, neither expecting a visitor. I shrugged and got up to answer the door.

"Hey," Sara said, as soon as the door opened. She had a number nine written in gold on her cheek, with her red hair pulled back into a high ponytail. I let the door go so she could enter. She peered into the living room to find Jonathan.

"Hi, Jonathan." She gave a small wave.

"Hey, Sara," he responded. "Nice look."

"Thanks," she smiled.

Sara looked back toward me nervously. "I tried to call you," she said, pulling on the corner of her shirt.

"You did? I'm sorry, I didn't hear my phone." I groaned inwardly, frustrated that I'd missed it―most likely I was checking on my mother when she'd called.

"Can we talk?' she asked lowly, flipping her eyes from the floor up to me. "I mean, if you guys are watching the game, I can come back."