Barely Breathing (The Breathing #2)(64)

After I hung up, I pulled my books from my bag. I needed to distract myself, and I was hoping homework would help.

I was interrupted from the miserable depths of political theory by a knock at my door. Before I could respond, my mother stuck her head in.



       
         
       
        

"Hi," she said, opening the door wider upon seeing me on my bed. "I wanted to see if Evan wanted to come to dinner tomorrow night. I thought he might be up here with you."

I'd opened my mouth to answer when she picked up the textbook Sara had given to me. It had slid halfway out of my backpack. I scrunched my face when she read the title out loud.

"What's this?" she asked, then started flipping through the book. "Wow, they're really teaching you everything in high school these days. I could have used this when I went to school."

Before I could consider the results, I blurted, "It's not for school." My mother's eyes widened and her mouth rounded in sudden realization. I wanted to close my head in the book.

"This is for you?" She asked, the shock still on her face. "You're still a virgin," she slowly concluded, like she wasn't expecting that to be the truth. The mortified look on my face made it obvious that it was. "I would have thought that you and Evan … " I dropped my head face first on my bed. This day could not get any worse. "Do you want to talk about it? I never thought I'd have to give the talk before, but I can if you want." My head shot up at her offer, and that's when I found Jonathan paused in the hallway―yup, it had just gotten worse.

"No …  really, um, that's okay," I stammered, cringing inwardly.

"Really, you can ask me anything," she continued. I think she would have sat down on my bed to keep talking about it if Jonathan hadn't knocked on the open door, letting her know he was there.

"Are you ready?" he asked. I couldn't look at him. I wanted more than anything to disappear.

"Oh, yeah," my mother responded, brought back to what she was supposed to be doing before she crossed all mother-daughter boundaries. "Well, ask Evan about dinner, okay?"

I could only nod, my explanation of his illness lost in the back of my throat. When she set down the book, I quickly shoved it deep inside my backpack.

Jonathan held the door open to let my mother pass, then said, "Goodnight." I looked up, and he grinned widely.

"Goodnight," I returned, my entire body on fire.

A few minutes later, I heard the closing of the front door. I tried to turn my focus back to my assignment, but kept finding myself checking my phone―begging it to light up with a message from Evan.

About an hour later, it did. Sorry I missed your call. I'm okay. Pick you up in the morning?

Yes, I texted back. I knew I wouldn't find the relief that his text was supposed to provide until I actually saw him.



Falling asleep in the restless house was never easy. Staying asleep was virtually impossible. I flipped on the light next to my bed with my heart thumping. I stared at the door. A moment ago I could have sworn it had a hammer driving through it, trying to shatter it to pieces so she could get to me. In the light, the black door was intact and still. 

I got out of bed and pulled on a sweatshirt before quietly tiptoeing downstairs to escape the panic that still shot around inside of me. Exhausted, but knowing sleep was probably a good hour away, I settled on the couch with a blanket covering me. I found a movie that had more dialogue than action, the perfect plot to drone me to sleep.

About a half hour later, the creak of a step drew my attention. Jonathan cringed at the sound with a slight pause before continuing down the stairs.

"Hey," he greeted wearily, pulling the blanket off the back of the loveseat and sitting next to me on the couch. "What did you find?" He motioned toward the television.

"Not sure," I whispered, not completely surprised to see him up. "I have no idea what's going on."

After watching the underwhelming drama on the screen for a few minutes, he asked without looking over, "Do you always have the same nightmare or is it different each time?"

"It's different each time," I answered, with my head pressed against the pillow. "But they usually end right when I'm about to die."

Jonathan was quiet.

I turned my head to find him appraising me, his mouth bowed in sympathy. "I take it yours aren't like that, huh?"

He shook his head, redirecting his gaze toward the TV. "Mine are always the same," he answered lowly, his jaw tightening as he stared straight ahead. His eyes hardened as he muttered, barely audible, "They won't let me forget." The features of his face looked carved from stone as he pressed his lips together in a tight line. The dim light glinted off his dark, pupilless eyes. A chill ran through me.