Last Breath (6 page)

I pulled my arms across my chest, bitterness edging my voice. “You need to tell me about him. No excuses anymore. You and I are stuck here anyway, so we might as well talk.”

Mom made a sound in her throat. The glaze of pain in her eyes changed to grief. “I just … some things are hard to … But you're right. You deserve to know.”

All I could do was stare. Had I really heard that? After all my years of wanting to know, she was finally going to tell me?

Mom looked past me, into the distance. “Where to start? There's so much …”

I hurried to the corner of the room and dragged over one of the wooden chairs. Sat down by her bed. My heart picked up speed. This was really happening. I couldn't believe it.

“Start at the beginning.”

Part 2

Rayne 1991

10

H
e was the quiet guy who sat in front of me in French class, and was one year ahead of me in school. He didn't talk much and kept to himself.

Everything about him fascinated me.

It was October, the second month of my sophomore year. Our French teacher was horrible. Mrs. Wright would give us stupid little conversations to memorize and recite to each other. Whenever we had to do that, Gary Donovon would turn around to be my partner.

He had sandy-colored hair and large, almost translucent gray eyes. Long eyelashes. And a way of moving his mouth that was so expressive. He'd firm his lips, pulling them in at the corners whenever he forgot one of his French lines. If he thought something was funny, one corner of his mouth would turn up in this quirky smile. Gary had long fingers, like a pianist's. He was tall and muscled, but graceful, almost loping in his walk. In the crowded hallways, while everyone else jabbered and called out to friends, he'd walk by himself, head slightly tilted to one side, focused straight ahead. Like a rock in the middle of a stream, water flowing around it.

The guy was totally intriguing. And he didn't even know it.

“Hi, Veronique,” Gary said to me that Thursday as he turned around in his seat.

“Hi, Simon.”

Each of us had a French name we had to use in class. In the French pronunciation, Gary's name—Simon—sounded like SeeMOH.

Gary/Simon met my eyes for a split second, then looked away. Why did he always do that? Every other guy tended to stare me up and down. The popular, cocky ones all tried to impress me. The unpopular ones treated me like some princess on a pedestal. I didn't particularly care for any of that.

But Gary was different. He was good-looking, but not at all arrogant about it. Quiet, but not self-effacing. He didn't even seem to want many friends, as if his aloneness contented him.

How could anyone be content without tons of friends?

I knew lots of people at our large high school, plus many more at surrounding schools. My freshman yearbook was so marked up with written notes, you could hardly see half the pictures. While Gary obviously would hate the limelight, I sought it, singing to anybody who'd listen. In fact, one day I
knew
I was going to be lead singer in a band.

Nothing about us was the same. None of my friends would ever think of putting the two of us together.

So why did Gary Donovon pull at me so much?

“Hey, Simon.” I tapped my desk with a long red fingernail. My voice held a tinge of amusement. “I'm over here.”

His gray eyes scanned back to me.

I held his gaze, a little smile on my face. “You know the conversation?”

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

All around us buzzed fifteen versions of our French assignment for the day. Our teacher sat at her desk, reading a magazine. “Okay. You take the first line.”

Gary focused on my hands. “Aimes-tu les fleurs?”
Do you like flowers?

“Oui, très bien.”
Yes, I like them very much.

“Lequel est-ce que tu aimes le mieux?”
Which is your favorite?

“La rose blanche.”
A white rose.

Gary shifted in his chair. “Vraiment? Pourquoi?”
Really? Why?

The last line of Mrs. Wright's conversation was totally lame.

“Les roses blanches sont purs et frais. Je veux les toucher.”
White roses look pure and fresh. They make me want to touch them.

Gary's gaze rose again to my face. Long seconds passed as he looked at me, his lips pressing together. For the first time I noticed darker gray flecks around the outside of his irises.

Strange. It almost felt like he wanted to tell me something …

I waited.

His gaze fell away.

A sigh puffed from my lips. “Forget the last line?”

His head pulled back. “No. I just …” He cleared his throat, then rattled off the sentence. “Ah, j'ai pensé que tu préférais les roses rouges.”
Oh. I thought you'd like red ones better.

I nodded. “Well. Very good. I give you an A.”

One half of his mouth curved. He still wouldn't look at me. “You get an A too.”

And with that, he turned around and faced the front.

I stared at the back of his head.
What was it with this guy?
Everybody else was still talking, and the teacher would read that magazine of hers for another good ten minutes.

An even bigger question filled my thoughts. Why was I afraid to ask him why he cut our conversation short—again? With any other guy I'd push it in a flirty way—“Hey, why won't you talk? Something wrong with me?”

Instead I sat back, arms folded, focusing on his neck just above the collar line of his blue shirt. The bottom of his hair looked a little ragged, like it needed trimming.

He was going to tell me something.
I felt it.

For two months I would wonder what it was.

11

O
ne day in early December I walked into French class and saw the school principal standing near Mrs. Wright's desk. I dropped my pink three-ring binder on my desk and plopped down. What was up?

As soon as the bell rang, the principal announced that Mrs. Wright had just gone home sick, and there was no one to take her place.

“You all need to stay in this room, understand? I don't want to find anyone walking the halls. And keep the noise down.”

With that, he left—and we had a free hour.

The room immediately hummed with conversation. In front of me, Gary sat unmoving, long legs stretched out, head tilted. From what I could tell, he was staring at the floor.

What on earth does he think about so much?

“Hey, Rayne,” Cindy called from two rows over.

I looked around. She was already forming a circle of desks with Crystal and Nikki. Normally I'd have been right there with them. But for over three months now, good-looking, quiet Gary Donovon had remained a puzzle to me. Here was my chance to figure him out.

I tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned around and looked at me, eyebrows raised. His face looked strained.

All the words that usually flowed off my tongue dried up. I gave him a tentative smile. “Hi, Gary.”

“Hi.” He smiled back.

“You look tired.”

He pulled in a deep breath. “Didn't sleep much last night. My grandma was sick.”

“Your grandma?”

“Yeah. I live with her.”

“Oh.” Usually it was the other way around. “You mean she moved into your parents' house?”

Gary gave me a long look. His expression whisked me back to that morning in October, when I'd sensed something behind his gray eyes. “No. I live with
her
. My parents are dead.”

My eyes widened. “Oh, wow. I'm so sorry.”

He looked away, his lips pressed. “It's okay. They were in a car accident when I was six. Grandma Helen raised me.”

I rubbed a finger across the bottom of my binder. What would that be like, being raised by someone so much older? And losing
both
your parents?

“I live with my mom,” I told him. “My parents divorced when I was three.”

His chin raised in a slight nod. “You ever see your father?”

I focused on a smudge in the upper corner of my notebook. Rubbed at it with my thumb. “Not anymore. I don't even try to.” My voice tinged with a bitterness I'd typically hold back. Only a few close friends knew my feelings about my father. “He only lives about an hour away. When I was a kid he used to call and say, ‘I'll come see you, and we'll do this or that'—all sorts of fun stuff. I'd count the days, all excited, and that morning be bouncing around, waiting for him. And then he wouldn't show.”

Gary's eyes held mine. I felt something connect between us.

He curled his left hand around the back of his desk. “That's hard.”

“Yeah.”

We fell silent for a moment. Gary's gaze dropped to the floor. I could hear Nikki jabbering away, telling some story. Crystal was laughing in that high-pitched giggle of hers.

I reached out and laid my fingers on the back of Gary's hand. His eyes snapped back to mine, surprised.

I eased away, resting my hand on my desk, not far from his. “What's wrong with your grandmother?”

“She's had heart trouble for a long time. Now she has the flu, and it just wears her out. Twice in the night she needed water and couldn't get out of bed, so she called for me. I worry about her, you know? I'm all she's got to take care of her.”

I could picture it. Gary, bringing water to his grandmother, hanging around to make sure she was okay. No wonder I never saw him out partying or at football games. He had responsibilities at home.

All the guys I'd dated were so into their friends and having a good time. Come to think of it, so was I. Suddenly all that seemed shallow.

“Rayne!” Crystal called.

I turned and gave my three friends a grin.

Nikki gestured emphatically. “Come
over
here!”

“Go ahead,” Gary said. “It's okay.”

Later
, I mouthed to my friends. I rotated toward Gary. “I can see them anytime. I'd rather talk to you.”

His jaw worked back and forth as he looked at me. A tiny smile curved one side of his mouth. “That so.”

It was more of a statement than a question. I held his gaze, feeling a little tingle inside. Was Gary Donovon
flirting
with me?

“You ever go out at night?” I blurted.

He shrugged. “When I can. I work a lot of hours a week, helping this guy out with his moving company.”

Lifting furniture. So that's where his muscles came from.

“I never see you at football games or anything.”

There came that little smile again. “Didn't know you were looking for me.”

Okay, he
was
flirting. This I could handle. “Maybe I just notice things around me.”

“You'd have to look through a lot of people.”

“What's that mean?”

“You're usually surrounded by lots of friends. Girls
and
guys.”

I leaned forward, fixed him with a knowing smile of my own. “Sounds like you've been looking for me too.”

“Maybe I just notice things around me.” Gary looked straight into my eyes. As if daring me on.

Whoa. There was way more to this guy than I thought. I'd expected him to be all shy and everything. A flush crept into my cheeks. Before I could stop myself, my gaze fell to my binder.

Well, great. Now what?
And—wouldn't you know it—Gary was back to saying nothing. He just sat there watching me, waiting for me to find my tongue.

Fine then.

I raised my eyes to his. “You know Nikki over there?”

Gary glanced at her. “Yeah.”

“She's having a party at her house this Saturday night. Want to go with me?”

Gary didn't even blink. “I thought the guy was supposed to ask the girl out.”

“I'm not asking you out. It's just a party.”

“Could have fooled me.”

He said it teasingly enough, but it still ticked me off. I leaned back and shrugged. “Never mind then.”

“I didn't say I didn't want to go.”

My jaw firmed. “Could have fooled me.”

Both
sides of his mouth curved. Definitely the biggest smile I'd ever seen on his face. My irritation slid away.

He bounced a fist against the back of his chair. “Nikki won't mind?”

“No. She'll be glad you came.”

Listen to us now. Suddenly so polite. I felt that old distance between us edge back, and I didn't want it.

“Gary.”

“Huh?”

“You remember a couple months ago, when our French conversation was about white roses?”

A look came into his eyes. “Yeah.”

Something about his expression almost made me lose my nerve. I didn't want to ask the question and be refused an answer. “Your last line. You wanted to say something else. What was it?”

He pressed his lips and looked away. Ran a finger along his jaw. “What's your address?”

I gave him a look. “You mean you're not going to tell me?”

“What's your address?”

I sighed and told him. He wrote it down.

“What time should I pick you up for the party?”

“I don't know.” My voice sounded sullen. I was still fixed on the unanswered question. “Seven, I guess.”

He nodded. “I'll be there.”

I heard finality in his voice, like the conversation was over. He started to turn around.

I caught his hand. “Why won't you tell me?”

His gray eyes looked deeply into mine, as if trying to figure out if he could trust me. “Tell you what—I will. On Saturday.” He smiled. “Thanks for asking me.”

“Sure.”

He turned to face the front. Just like that.

I folded my arms, staring at the back of his head. Wondering what on earth had just happened.

The three days before the party passed so slowly. Mrs. Wright was out sick for all that week, and her sub didn't make us do the French conversations. Gary and I barely talked.