Ten Tiny Breaths (21 page)

None of it.

With a hand against my back, Trent gently
prods my stiff body forward and I feel the air shift as I move
closer. It thickens in my lungs, until I have to work to draw it in
and push it out. When the man standing in the center looks up at me
and smiles, the air gets even thicker. It’s a warm enough smile,
but I don’t return it. I can’t. I don’t want to. I don’t know
how.

“Welcome,” he says, pro-offering two empty
chairs to our right.

“Thanks,” Trent murmurs behind me, shaking
the guy’s hand as I somehow get my body to bend into the frame. I
nudge it back a bit and stare straight ahead, distancing myself
from the circle. So I’m not part of it. Exactly how I prefer
things. And I avoid all eye contact. People think they’re allowed
to talk to you and ask who died when you make eye contact.

Outside the circle is a sign that reads,
“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder—therapy session.” I sigh. Good ol’
P.T.S.D. It’s not the first time I’ve heard that term. The doctors
in the hospital warned my aunt and uncle about it, saying they
thought I suffered from it. Saying it would likely work itself out
with time and counseling. I never understood how they believed that
night could ever possibly
work itself out
of my thoughts, my
memories, and my nightmares.

The man in the circle claps his hands.
“Everyone, let’s get started. For those of you who don’t know me,
my name is Mark. I’m sharing my name, but there’s no need for you
to share yours. Names are not important. What’s important is that
you all know you’re not alone in the world with your grief, and
that talking about it, when you’re ready, will help you heal.”

Heal
. There’s another word I never
understood as it related to the accident.

I can’t help but peer around the group now,
careful that I don’t seem interested as I take in their faces.
Luckily, all eyes are riveted to Mark, watching him with
fascination, like he’s a god with curative powers. There’s a mix of
people—old, young, female, male, the well-dressed, the disheveled.
If it tells me anything, it’s that suffering knows no
boundaries.

“I’ll share my story,” Mark begins, pulling
his chair forward as he sits down. “Ten years ago I was driving
home from work with my girlfriend. It was raining hard and we got
T-boned in an intersection. Beth died in my arms before the
ambulance came.”

Like a vacuous pull, my lungs constrict. I
see, rather than feel, Trent’s hand on my knee, squeezing gently. I
can’t feel anything.

Mark continues, but I struggle to focus on
his words, my heart rate climbing like it’s on its way to Mount
Everest. I fight the urge to stand and run, to leave Trent here.
Let him listen to this horror. Let him see the kind of pain these
people have experienced. I have enough of my own to deal with.

Maybe he gets some sick fascination with this
shit.

I barely hear Mark as he talks about drugs
and rehab, as words like “depression” and “suicide” float around.
Mark’s so calm and collected as he lists the after affects. How?
How is he so calm? How can he throw out his own personal tragedy in
front of these people like he’s talking about the weather?

“… Tonya and I just celebrated our second
wedding anniversary, but I still think about Beth every day. I
still suffer through moments of sadness. But I’ve learned to
cherish the happy memories. I’ve learned to move on. Beth would
have wanted me to live my life.”

One by one, they go around the circle, airing
their dirty laundry to all as if it takes no effort to talk about
it. I pull short, hard breaths through the second tale—one of a man
who lost his four year old son to a freak farming accident. By the
fourth, the coils around my insides have stopped tightening. By the
fifth, all the emotions that Trent has managed to coax out from
hiding over the last few weeks have fled back as tragedy upon
tragedy beats me over the head. All I can do to avoid reliving the
pain of that night four years ago, right here in this church
basement, is to bottle everything human inside of me up.

I’m dead inside.

Not everyone shares their stories, but most
do. No one pressures me to speak. I don’t offer, even when Mark
asks if anyone else wants to share and Trent squeezes my knee. I
make not a sound. I stare straight forward, anesthetized.

I hear murmurs of “goodbye” and I stand. With
robotic movements, I climb the stairs and walk out to the
street.

“Hey,” Trent calls out from behind. I don’t
answer. I don’t stop. I just start walking down the street toward
my apartment.

“Hey! Wait up!” Trent jumps in front of me,
forcing me to stop. “Look at me, Kacey!”

I follow his order and look up at him.
“You’re scaring me, Kace. Please talk to me.”

“I’m scaring you?” The protective numbing
coat I pulled over my body for the session falls away as rage
suddenly fires through. “Why would you do that to me, Trent? Why?
Why do I have to sit and listen to ten people recant their horror
stories? How does that help?”

Trent’s hands push through his hair. “Calm
down, Kace. I just thought—”

“What? What did you think? You don’t know the
first thing about what I’ve gone through and you … what, think you
can swoop in, give me an orgasm, and follow it up with a survivor’s
group full of fucking cyborgs who talk about their supposed loved
ones like everything’s alright?” I’m screaming on the side of the
street now and I don’t care.

Trent’s hands move to touch my arms as he
shushes me, glancing around. “You think that wasn’t hard for them,
Kacey? Can’t you see the torture in their faces as they relive
their stories?”

I’m not listening to him anymore. I throw his
hands away with a shove and take a step back. “You think you can
fix me? What am I to you, some pet project?”

He flinches as if I slapped him across the
face and I grit my teeth. He has no right to be hurt. He made me
sit through that.
He
hurt
me
. “Stay away from me.” I
spin around and stalk down the sidewalk.

I don’t look back.

Trent doesn’t chase.

Storm’s hands fidget with a bead bracelet as seven o’clock rolls
around. It’s bizarre that she’s so nervous considering she can
swing over a stage topless in front of a room full of strangers. I
don’t remind her of that though. I just help her pick out a classy
yellow dress that flatters her skin tone and accentuates her curves
but not too much. I help her clasp her necklace and pin her hair
back on one side. Mainly, I try my damndest to smile when all I
want to do is curl up into a ball and hide under my covers,
alone.

“Ten tiny breaths,” I murmur.

She frowns into her mirror. “What?”

“Take ten tiny breaths. Seize them. Feel
them. Love them.” My mother’s voice rings in my ear as I repeat her
words and fight off a choke. That stupid session today has left me
bothered, my defenses wavering, my ability to bury the pain
challenged.

Storm’s frown dips further.

I shrug. “I dunno. That’s what my mom always
used to say. If you figure it out, let me know, okay?”

She nods slowly and then I watch as she
breathes in and out slowly, and I imagine she’s counting in her
head. That makes me smile. Like I’m passing on a little bit of my
mother to Storm.

We hear the knock on the new front door and,
a moment later, Mia’s little hands fumbling with the lock. All is
quiet, and then Mia approaches, her bare feet slapping hard against
the floor as she runs down the hall, yelling, “Mommy! The police
officer is here to take you away!”

I snort and shove Storm toward the door.
“Stop fussing. You look great.”

Officer Dan is in the living room, putting
his hands into his jean pockets and pulling them out, and then
putting one in, and taking it out. I can’t help but smile just a
bit as I watch him. He’s as uneasy as Storm. Though when he sees
her, his face brightens.

“Hi, Nora.”

Nora?
His blond hair is styled in that
messy, spiky way. He’s wearing a fitted black golf shirt that shows
off a solid body. I catch a faint whiff of men’s cologne. Not too
much. Just enough. All in all, Officer Dan cleans up
really
well.

She smiles back politely. “Hi, Officer
Dan.”

He clears his throat. “Just Dan is fine.”

“Okay, Just Dan,” she repeats and then the
room fills with awkward silence.

“Officer Dan brought you flowers, Mommy!
Tigers!” Mia runs to the kitchen where Livie is arranging a
beautiful bouquet of deep red Tiger Lilies in a milk jug. Mia
reaches up to grab one and knocks the jug over. Water and flowers
splash everywhere. “Shit!” She exclaims.

“Mia!” Storm and Livie scold at the same time
through gasps.

Mia’s eyes turn big and round as she looks
between the two, realizing what she’s done. “I get one. Right,
Kacey?”

My hand flies to my mouth to contain my
laughter as Livie’s eyes shoot daggers at me.

“They’re beautiful, Dan.” Storm rushes over
and scrambles to pick them all up. I take this as my chance to wave
down his attention. “She’s really nervous,” I mouth without making
a sound.

Surprise flashes in his eyes. He knows what
she does for a living. He’s likely made the same wrong assumption
as me—that Storm is made of steel. That’s not the case though. Far
from it.

He nods and gives me a wink. Clearing his
throat, he says, “I’ve made reservations for seven-thirty.”
Stepping forward, he offers Storm his arm. “We should head out now,
Nora. The place is down by the water. It’ll take a while to get
there with traffic.”

She looks up at him and smiles, all fuss over
flowers vanishing.

Good. Take the lead. Smart, Dan. Two
points.

“Have fun. We won’t wait up!” I catch a flash
of Storm’s crimson cheeks before the door is shut and locked,
bringing back my dour mood.

***

I end up working that night without Storm. I
need the distraction. When last call sounds and Trent doesn’t show
up or text, my disappointment is paralyzing. Why would he come,
though, I remind myself. I screamed like a lunatic at him on the
sidewalk and told him to stay away.

Trent doesn’t come visit me at Penny’s the
next night. Or the night after that. Three days later, I think I
might lose my mind. Whatever rage coursed through me the day of the
grief session is overshadowed by a new void. A Trent void. It
throbs like a deep ache through every fiber of my being. I crave
his presence, his body, his voice, his laugh, his touch, his
everything.

I need him.

I need Trent.

***

On Thursday at noon, I sit at our kitchenette
in my short shorts and tank, shoveling Cheerios into my mouth and
staring at my phone as if willing a text to come through. Finally,
I suck back a mouths’ worth of air and force my thumbs to work out
a message.

Me:
Any interest in a matinee?

I sit at my table and gawk at the stupid
thing, wondering if he’s already deleted my text, or if he’s even
bothered to read it. I consider pressing my ear up against the wall
between our apartments to see if I can catch any “crazy bitch”
comments out of him. But that doesn’t sound like something Trent
would say, even if it were true. Which is it.

A whole five minutes later, after sinking
every last one of my Cheerios into my milk, my phone beeps. I drop
everything and grab it.

Trent:
What do you have in mind?

Flutters stir in my chest. Damn flutters! I
hadn’t thought that far ahead. I have no idea what’s playing. I
decide to be lighthearted.

Me:
Depends. You okay with nudity?

This time, Trent’s response comes right
away.

Trent:
Define nudity.

Okay, good. He’s playing along.

Me:
Well … first I take my top off
…

I nibble on my fingernail, waiting to see
what he comes back with. I don’t get a response. Maybe I went too
far, too soon. Maybe he’s still annoyed with me. Maybe … I hear a
door slam shut. A shadow passes by our window and a second later,
someone is pounding on my apartment door.

It has to be Trent.

I run to the door and throw it open,
struggling to conceal my eagerness. There he is, in a pair of jeans
and a loose t-shirt, his hair slightly mussed, bright blue eyes
spilling over my body, settling on my chest for a long moment. I’m
not wearing a bra and there's no doubt he can see my nipples’
reaction to him. When that gaze lifts back to my face …
whoa
… it’s just the right mixture of anger, frustration, and smoldering
hot to make me bite my bottom lip. And that’s all it takes to push
him over the brink.

“God, Kacey,” he growls and takes two quick
steps in to slam against my body, his hands quickly seizing my
biceps as his mouth claims mine. Dipping my head back, he forces
his tongue into my mouth, demolishing me with a depth of need I’ve
never experienced before.
This is the real Trent
, I
realize.

Unleashed.

I struggle to stay upright as my body
slackens under his intensity. Leading me backward, Trent sandwiches
me between himself and the back of the couch and I quickly become
aware of how turned on he is.

Suddenly I’m off my feet and perched on the
headrest, Trent’s hips fitting snug between my thighs. His arms
fold around me. One hand clutches the back of my neck, while the
other sweeps my hair to the side to expose my neck. His lips slide
first to my throat, and then along my jaw line, up to my ear.

“You enjoy torturing me, sending mixed
messages, don’t you, Kacey?” It comes out in a growl, pulsating
through every single one of my nerves. Then his mouth is back on
mine, this time even hungrier, more insistent, and it’s all I can
do to get a breath in. He presses harder against me as a hand slips
under the hem of my shirt and climbs to cup the swell of my breast,
his thumb stroking my nipple, shooting a current through to my
depths.