Just Breathe (8 page)

I’m just putting away another armload of books when Jan calls my name and rings the bell. We have a bell for patrons to ring when they can’t see us. We hear it and come running. In theory. We’ve all become a bit immune to the bell, especially since parents will get to the desk and let their child shake the shit out of it while one of us is already helping them at the desk. Sometimes if it gets busy, one of us will ring the bell and call out the other librarian’s name so we know it’s deliberate and not a child shaking it.

I quickly return the last book to its place on the shelf and walk back to the desk. When I get there, Jan and Mary-Margaret are standing there alone, except for a giant bouquet of flowers.

“Ooo, who got flowers?”

Jan and Mary-Margaret smile at each other.

“Looks like
you
have an admirer,” Jan says.

“What! Me?” What the hell? The only person who has sent me flowers is... Jason. “Is there a card?” Numbness deadens my limbs. Why would Jason buy me flowers? Did he realize that he pocket dialled me and it got him thinking about old times. About how badly he treated me, and how much he misses me and wants me back?

Mary-Margaret hands me the card and I get a closer look at the bouquet. Deep red roses and flawless Asiatic Lilies; my favourite flower. I can’t believe Jason remembered; he’d never gotten it right while we were together, always defaulting to yellow roses. Yellow is my least favourite colour, and yellow roses mean jealousy or infidelity, or they did in Victorian times. But he’s nailed it this time. It’s the most beautiful bouquet I’ve seen, and it’s for me. I softly stroke a silky rose petal between my thumb and forefinger, the delicate texture soothes my anxiety.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, open the card!” Mary-Margaret exclaims impatiently, which breaks the tension a bit. I slide a finger underneath a corner of the envelope’s flap and tear it open. Taking a deep breath to steel myself for Jason’s message, I pull out the card and read it.

To my favourite library ninja. It was nice
not
bumping into you again. Dominic.

The momentary disappointment of the card not being from Jason is quickly overshadowed by Dominic’s message. I feel a grin highlight my face and don’t try to stop it; until I notice Dominic leaning just inside the door with a shy expression. Biting the insides of my cheeks, I clear my throat. “Haven’t you already been helped today, sir?”

He steps forward. “Yes, but there was one more thing I needed help with.”

“And what was that?”

“I need to know how to ask this amazing woman out.” Dominic stops as he reaches the counter. Mary-Margaret and Jan have put two and two together at this point. Jan elbows Mary-Margaret, and Mary-Margaret grabs Jan’s arm in suspense. Filthy voyeurs.

“She’s amazing?” The butterflies move from my stomach to my chest.

He nods.

“Have you tried sending her flowers?” I subdue a smile.

“Yeah, but I’m worried she might think it’s lame, and I’m not sure what to do next. I don’t even know if she’s single—”

“She’s single!” Mary-Margaret exclaims. Jan nods emphatically.

Dominic’s relieved smile says it all. “So, Elle, what do you think I should do? Do you think she’d even be interested in a guy like me?”

“Well.” I swallow. “It couldn’t hurt to give it a shot.”

“For crying out loud, just ask her!” Jan exclaims. I laugh and blush.

“Elle, would you like to go out with me tomorrow night?” Dominic turns a little pink himself. Mary-Margaret and Jan lean toward us, straining to hear my answer, like flowers reaching for the sun. I smell the bouquet and take my time answering, just to torture the girls, then abandon the pretence of nonchalance.

“I’d love to.”

“Great! Pick you up at eight?”

“Sure.” I scribble my number and address on a slip of paper. “Here’s my info.”

He takes the paper and carefully folds it. “See you tomorrow, Elle.” He walks out, and Jan and Mary-Margaret start in with the questions, clucking over me like a couple overwrought hens. I soak it all in. I can’t wait until tomorrow night.

Chapter Eight

Damn. Damn, damn, damn.
Why
did I agree to go on a date? This is
insane.
I’m not ready to date yet. I’ll just call him and explain that, what, that I had a mutual split that I was okay with but all of a sudden I’m not ready to date? No. Can I justify an illness? No, he could always stop by my work and witness my miraculous recovery. And what the hell, he’s a nice guy—more than nice. And his voice is epic, and he liked the books I recommended and damn it, I’m going out with him!

I will not sit around waiting for Jason, no matter how many pocket dials I get. Not that I was pining for him to come back to me. I’m waiting for him to come to his senses and come crawling back, wherein I will scoff so loud I hurt my throat and thoroughly reject his pathetic ass. So there.

Dominic doesn’t even really know me and he managed to buy me my favourite flowers. Jason couldn’t even do that when I told him what they were! It’s a sign. Well, I’m taking it as a sign. I’m so nervous. I hate first dates more than most people because of my synaesthesia. It limits the things I can do. Movies and concerts are generally out, I hate clubbing because the music is torturous, dinner’s okay, but can be boring if that’s the entire date. Dominic doesn’t even know about my condition so this should be interesting. Interesting and awkward.

My dating history has been pretty crappy. Most guys tend to throw up their hands in frustration and just decide I’m not worth the hassle after a couple dates. I can’t say that I really blame them all that much. But I’m not the type to say that my boyfriend can’t go somewhere if I can’t.

My reaction to sound can be positive or negative, sometimes benign; a song may just sound and feel mildly swirly. If I don’t like a type of music, country and punk are the worst, I physically can’t listen to the song, I have to get away or it gets worse and worse until the rest of my senses short circuit. Bad music makes me feel physically uncomfortable to the point it effects my emotions and frustrates me until I want to squirm inside out.

Dominic seems like a decent guy but my Synaesthesia is a giant pain. I’ll have to see how he handles it. He may not handle it at all. No sense freaking out about it getting serious if he doesn’t last past the first date. If he even shows up.

Oh my god, what if he stands me up? I don’t think I can take being abandoned again. I need to get high. I need to get high enough to function on our date, but not so high that I’m in a stupor. I’d be smoking to try to be functional, not to obliterate reality. My nerves are shot. What if I’m getting my hopes up for nothing and he doesn’t even show up?

No! I can’t go back to that smoky haze no matter how nervous I am.

Should I get a glass of wine to calm my nerves? No. Replacing one addiction for another isn’t the way to go. And I want to remember this date. These are, or should be, good nerves. A hot guy got me flowers and asked me out! This is a
good
thing!

Keeping this in mind, I truck along getting ready. Makeup and hair done, I fuss with my outfit and change my shirt for the fourth time tonight. The doorbell rings. A glance at my alarm clock shows that it is indeed Dominic, right on time for our date. I’m in a pair of inky blue jeans that Kennedy made that make my ass look twelve kinds of sexy and a silky dark silver tank top with soft, stretchy, lace trim. I grab a black suede wrap-top to go over it—another of Kennedy’s creations, and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. There isn’t time for another wardrobe change.

Kennedy answers the front door as I walk out of my room. Damn! It’s not that I don’t want her and Nick to know about Dominic; I didn’t want them to have the opportunity to give him the third degree before I get to know him at all, outside of my face meeting his chest. I didn’t tell Kennedy about my date as I didn’t think she’d be here. Nick’s still at work and Kennedy’s supposed to be having drinks with someone. I hear Dominic ask if I’m home.

“I’m here, just a sec.” I stop to put my sexy stompy boots on. They give me a few inches of height, and are comfortable enough that I am pretty much covered for whatever the date throws at me, while also being stylish. Kennedy murmurs something and giggles, and I hear but can’t make out Dominic’s response. Interesting. Kennedy isn’t generally so friendly with my dates, preferring instead to play bad cop until she gets to know them. Not that I’ve had many. I grab my purse and stride to the front door.

“You look fabulous!” Kennedy’s gaze sweeps me head to toe.

“I think that’s my line,” Dominic replies.

“You two seem friendly,” I comment mildly. “Do you know each other?”

“Not really,” Kennedy says. “But I like this one. Have a great night, Elle. Take care of my girl, Dominic.” She pats him on the shoulder and walks into the kitchen. Strange.

“So, I’m ready to go.”

“You really do look amazing.”

“Thanks. So do you.” He’s wearing some jeans, boots, and a fitted, deep cranberry coloured sweater, almost a turtleneck, but it folds down with a cool asymmetrical button detail down one side from the neck to the collarbone. Very put together and sexy, and I like what I can see of his body.

We make our way to his car. It’s actually a mid-size SUV, and an expensive one if looks are anything to go by. He opens my door for me and waits until I’m settled before shutting the door and walking around to his side. Jason never used to do that for me. In fact, he stopped even coming to the door—though we were in the apartment then. He’d just park outside and honk or send me a text.

Soft leather seats, spacious interior, this is a seriously expensive car. I gasp at the word above the radio. Maserati. Holy shit. What does Dominic do for a living? It’s not that I haven’t dated wealthy guys before, but this is next level wealth. The clothes, the car, the flowers he sent... what does he do? What if he’s a drug dealer? He’s too young to have amassed a fortune legally. I hope he’s not in the mob. Is there even a mob anymore? Do they call it the mob? He looks European; maybe it’s the Russian Mafia.

“Are you Russian?” I ask him as he opens the door.

Not having been part of my inner dialogue, my question must seem a bit out of left field, but he rolls with it.

“My grandmother on my dad’s side was Russian and French.”

“Ah.” KGB isn’t ruled out then. Kidding. Mostly. I don’t even want to know what he does, just in case it’s a deal breaker.

“And you?”

“Mostly Swedish and Irish. So, about tonight. I should let you know before we get too far into this date that I have a condition, and then you can decide if you still want to date me.” I keep it matter of fact—I’ve had to give this speech a few times, but it doesn’t hurt any less the more I tell it. Best to tear right into it, like removing a bandage.

“I have a condition called—”

“Synaesthesia.” Dominic finishes my sentence. Psychic KGB? What the hell?

“How do you know?”

“Well.” He looks a bit uncomfortable. “I sort of asked one of your coworkers for a couple things you might like to do on a date, and they told me about your condition and gave me Kennedy’s number. So I called her and found out some more specifics.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure how I feel about this. Relieved that him and Kennedy bonding wasn’t because they were into each other or because they had previous history. A bit uncomfortable at the thought of him going behind my back and talking to my friends and coworkers about me for, what, tips? But I also feel a bit, I don’t know, touched? Impressed? This obviously means a lot to him for him to go out of his way and talk to my friends to see what I like. “So you still want to go out?” Relief trickles through me.

He frowns. “Of course I do! Why would it change my mind?”

“It’s happened.” This is so embarrassing to admit. “It can be limiting for my date.”

“Leave that up to me.” He starts the car. “Dinner first, and then a surprise later.”

“I hate surprises,” I grumble. “They’re never good.”

“This one is. I talked to Kennedy about it at length, and she assures me that your ears and brain will be safe.”

I’m not sure I like all this planning without me, but I’m going to go with it. He gets points for winning Kennedy over; she’s not one to trust someone so quickly. I can imagine her face as he called her and had to persuade her. She’d have told him what I like and... wait. The flowers. That’s how he knew what my favourite flowers are. Damn, that was part of what made up my mind to go out with him.

“So,” I force my tone to be casual, “that’s how you knew to get my favourite flowers.”

“They’re your favourite?” He shoots me a pleased grin. “I chose those on my own before talking to anyone. They just seemed to suit you—the lilies, not the roses. Roses are a bit... Wait, you meant the lilies right?” He looks uncomfortable, like I may have been talking about the roses and he’s just stepped in it.

He chose my favourite flowers by himself. “Yes, the lilies are my favourite. The roses were pretty and everything, but by themselves they’re just so...”

“Tired?”

“Yes! Well, maybe not so much tired as they are automatic.”

“They are quite the go-to flower.”

“I still like them in a bouquet, but alone, it feels like there’s less thought behind them,” I muse.

“I think so too.”

“So where are we headed for supper?”

“Do you like sushi?”

“No.” I wrinkle my nose.

“Me neither. But I thought I’d ask you, as it seems to be the trendy thing to eat. I prefer my food cooked.”

I laugh with him, relieved. “I tried it once, but it was awful! I thought I was being punked, like people actually eat this?”

“Big time! I tried octopus. It tastes how the inside of an aquarium smells.” He curls his lip. “Never again.”

“So no sushi then, thankfully.”

“Nope. I know this little Italian place, if that works for you?”

“Definitely.”

***