Barely Breathing (The Breathing #2)(79)

"She's drunk," Jonathan confirmed from the dark of the living room. "She's probably passed out already."

"Great," I grumbled, wanting to slide down to the floor―emotionally drained from my mother's tirade. I pulled off my shoes. "I'm going to bed." I had a thousand questions for him about what had happened tonight, but I was too deflated to talk about it. Whatever happened, it brought out a side in her that was angry and spiteful. A side that made my insides shudder. All I wanted was to shut it out with the blanket pulled up over my head.

"She told me she loved me," Jonathan's voice broke through the stillness. I turned toward him. "She told me she loved me, and I told her I was leaving."

I sunk onto the bottom step, absorbing what he'd just said. He walked over and sat next to me. I continued to stare at the floor.

"She was upset at first. She wanted to know how long I'd kept if from her, if I was just using her. She started drinking... a lot. Then she started to cry." He paused. "When she calmed down, we talked and decided that we still wanted to see each other, and would try it until I had to leave."

I turned toward him. "Why did you do that?" My voice was sharp and angry.

"What do you mean?" His face twisted in confusion.

"You're only making it worse by leading her on," I accused harshly.

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are," I countered in agitation. "Can't you see how messed up she is? You can't give her something and then tell her she can't really have it."

"That's not what's going on," he defended, his voice growing stronger.

I shook my head, then dropped it to my chest.

"I'm sorry, Emma," Jonathan offered softly.

I was too angry to hear him. I stood up and climbed the stairs to my room without looking back. I turned on the light, and my stomach clenched at the sight of my green sweater lying on my bed, cut up and mangled into shreds.





21. Drama



Jonathan wasn't around in the morning. Neither was my mother. I was still too upset to face either of them. 

My mother returned around noon with a shopping bag in her hand.

"I'm really sorry," she said unable to meet my eyes as she set the shopping bag on the couch next to me. She hesitated a moment, fidgeting with her hands and shifting uncomfortably. Without saying anything more, she turned and went up to her room.

I watched after her until she disappeared, then opened the bag and pulled out a green sweater. It wasn't the same one. But that wasn't the point.

"Thanks," I said from the entrance of her bedroom as she folded clothes from the laundry basket and stuffed them into her drawers.

"Are you mad at me?" She sounded small and fragile.

"No," I returned with a small smile.

"Can I still go to the game tonight?" Her blue eyes were big and sorrowful; her lower lip stuck out in an exaggerated pout.

"Yes," I laughed lightly at her comical expression―reminiscent of a child getting caught for coloring on the walls.

"Great! What are you doing after the game tonight?" My mother asked, her voice suddenly peppy and excited.

"Uh, I'm not sure," I fumbled, still not used to the quick flip of her moods. "Jill and Casey were talking about going to a party; Sarah's at Cornell again visiting Jared. But Evan and I haven't made any commitments."

I leaned against the door frame.

"You can come in," my mother encouraged, hanging up her clothes in the closet.

I hadn't really seen my mother's room before. It was always dark when I'd entered to help her to bed. It was simply decorated with white curtains hanging on the windows. The leaf patterned comforter splayed across her bed was still rumpled, as if she'd made it by pulling the comforter over the distressed sheets.

A dresser with a mirror sat across from the bed with necklaces dangling from the mirror's edges. Perfume bottles and rings were scattered on its scratched surface. A framed picture caught my eye.

"I'm not sure what to wear tonight," she sighed.

"It's just a basketball game, so jeans work," I advised, picking up the frame to examine it more closely. It wasn't a picture at all, but a drawing done in pencil. The shading and detailing were phenomenal. I brought it closer to inspect the strokes of the artist's work.

"Yeah, but I'm hoping―" She stopped to watch me. I quickly set the portrait down, afraid that I'd upset her by touching her things.

"You can look at it," she encouraged.

I picked up the frame again and looked from the drawing to her, realizing it was my mother captured in a laugh, done before the stress around her eyes and lines around her mouth had formed. Her happiness was evident. I couldn't help but smile looking at it.