Barely Breathing (The Breathing #2)(72)

"Mom, I mean, Rachel." She looked up at me with her lips pressed together. "It was fine. I promise."

"You didn't look fine," she recalled, eyeing me nervously. "You looked mortified."

"I wasn't." I smiled in attempt to make her feel better.

Her nervous guilt got the better of her, so she questioned, "Are you sure?"



       
         
       
        

I didn't know how else to convince her, so I just nodded.

"I'm sorry I can't make it to your game this afternoon."

"I understand. You have to work."

"Do you mind that I invited myself to Evan's game? Was that a bad idea? I really want to see him play. I was honest about that."

"It's okay," I laughed, wanting her to take a breath before she fell over. "You were great. Really. And I don't mind if you go to his game on Saturday. You can bring Jonathan too, if you want."

Her eyes shifted away from me and fell to her coffee cup.

"What?" I pushed, noticing the pinch between her brows.

"I'm not sure what's going on with him," she murmured. "I think he's keeping something from me." My chest panged to see her so distraught. "Does he say anything to you, you know, when you're up at night?"

I shook my head, not confident that I could answer her. After all, I would be lying.

"What do you talk about?" She asked it like she was being left out of a secret club or something.

"Not much really," I offered. "Sports, commercials, how we wish we could sleep."

"Do you know why he can't sleep?" She watched me closely. I shrugged and looked away. "He doesn't tell me anything. We don't really talk about our pasts. It's good, you know, because it hurts me to think about it, but I wish he could trust me enough to tell me something."

I nodded, my voice paralyzed with guilt. I felt like the worst daughter in the world. I should have told her that he was moving to California. That he had a painful past too that was hard for him to share. I should have let her know that it had nothing to do with her and that he really cared about her. But she'd probably wonder why he was telling me all this and not her. And then I wouldn't know what to say―especially since I wasn't sure how to explain why I've talked with him about things I've been avoiding with anyone else in my life. So I stayed silent, watching her face twist with uncertainty and doubt.

"When do you see him again?"

"Friday," she answered with a sigh. "I'll ask him about the game then."

"I'm sure it's nothing," I finally said, feeling even more horrible for trying to comfort her with a lie.

"Well, I should go," she acknowledged, looking at the microwave clock. "Text me the score, okay?"

I nodded, and as I watched her walk out of the kitchen, I could feel the heat turning in my gut. I was angry with Jonathan. Angry that he put me in this situation. Angry that my mother was being tormented by his inability to just tell her the truth.

I pulled out my phone and texted him, You have to tell her! 

I received a response when I arrived at school, In NYC til Friday―I will, promise!

Friday couldn't come fast enough.



"Hey!" I heard when I opened the door that night. "So happy you won!" I found my mother on the couch, curled up with a wine glass in her hand, still in her work clothes.

"Hi," I responded solemnly, dropping my things by the stairs.

"That's an excited face," she noted sarcastically, leaning forward to pick up the wine bottle and empty it into her glass. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," I replied unconvincingly. I wasn't up for talking about seeing Analise by Evan's side after the game tonight, and how miserable I was that he'd offered to drive her home when I was hoping to spend some time with him. I didn't want to feel this way... jealous. And there wasn't any reason I should. But the rationale didn't relieve the slithering in my stomach every time she looked up at him with her big Bambi eyes. So, I deflected, "How are you doing?"

My mother laughed humorlessly. "I'm fucking great."

She couldn't see my face as I closed my eyes and grit my teeth, picking up the intonation in her voice. She was drunk.

Instead of going to my room to work on my English paper as I had intended, I joined her on the couch, hoping to comfort her enough so she wouldn't keep drinking.

"It was my highest scoring game," I told her, trying to assess just how far over the edge she was. Her head swiveled toward me, rocking slightly. She smiled lazily, the effort pushing her eyes into slits. She was pretty far gone.