Ten Tiny Breaths
Page 6
“Oh. I guess I can’t hear it in my room.” Her brow puckers as she studies the adjoining wall. “That’s dreadful.”
I give her a quirked brow. “Ya think? Especially when I worked until eleven last night!” I started my first shift at a Starbucks in a nearby neighborhood. They were desperate and I have a stellar reference letter thanks to my old manager, a twenty-four year old mama’s boy named Jake with a crush on the bad ass redhead. I was smart enough to play nice with him. It paid off.
With a pause and then a shrug, Livie shouts, “Dance party!” and cranks up the volume.
The two of us jump around my room in a giggling fit until we hear the pounding on our front door.
Livie’s face drains of all color. She’s like that—all bark, no bite. Me? I’m not worried. I throw on my ratty purple house coat and proudly strut over. Let’s see what he has to say about that.
My hand is on the lock, about to throw the door open, when Livie whispers harshly, “Wait!”
I pause and turn back to find Livie’s waggling index finger, like my mother used to do when she was scolding. “Remember, you promised! That was the deal. We’re starting fresh here, right? New life? New Kacey?”
“Yeah. And?”
“And, can you please try not to be an ice queen? Try to be more like the Before Kacey? You know, the one who doesn’t stone-wall everyone who comes close? Who knows, maybe we can make some friends here. Just try.”
“You want to make friends with old men, Livie? If that’s the case, we could have stayed home,” I say coolly. But her words sting like a long needle inserted straight into my heart. From anyone else, they would slide off my tough Teflon exterior. The problem is I don’t know who Before Kacey is. I don’t remember her. I hear her irises shined when she laughed, her rendition of “Stairway to Heaven” on the piano made her dad tear up. She had hordes of friends, and she snuck in hugs and kisses and handholding with her boyfriend whenever she could.
Before Kacey died four years ago and all that’s left is a mess. A mess who spent a year in physical rehabilitation to repair her shattered body, only to be released with a shattered soul. A mess whose grades did a nose dive into the bottom of the class. Who sunk into a world of drugs and alcohol for a year as a way of coping. After Kacey doesn’t cry, not a single tear. I’m not sure she knows how. She doesn’t open up about anything; she can’t stand the feel of hands because they remind her of death. She doesn’t let people in, because pain trails closely. The sight of a piano sends her into a dizzying haze. Her only solace is to beat the crap out of giant sand bags until her knuckles are red and her feet are raw and her body—held together with countless metal rods and pins—feels like it’s going to crumble. I know After Kacey well. For better or for worse, I’m sure I’m stuck with her.
But Livie remembers Before Kacey and for Livie, I’ll try anything. I push the corners of my mouth out to form a smile. It feels awkward and foreign and, by the wince on Livie’s face, probably looks a little bit menacing. “Okay.” I go to turn the handle.
“Wait!”
“God, Livie! What now?” I sigh with exasperation.
“Here.” She hands me her pink and black polka-dot umbrella. “He could be a serial killer.”
Now I tip my head back and laugh. Such an odd, rare sound because I don’t do it often but it’s genuine. “And what should I do with this? Poke him?”
She shrugs. “Better than beating the snot out of him like you’ll want to do.”
“Okay, okay, let’s see what we’re dealing with here.” I lean over to the window beside the door and push back the gossamer curtain, looking for a graying man with a faded too-small t-shirt and black socks. A tiny part of me sparks at the idea that it’s that Trent guy from the laundromat. Those smoldering eyes invaded my thoughts several times without invitation over the past few days, and I’ve had a hard time kicking him out when he’s there. I’ve even caught myself staring at the adjoining wall between our apartments like a creeper, wondering what he’s doing. But the music is coming from the other side so it can’t be him.
A corn silk blonde ponytail wags back and forth outside our door instead. “Seriously?” I snort, fumbling with the lock.
Barbie’s standing outside. No joke. A real life five-foot-nine, highly toned, blonde bombshell with plump lips and giant periwinkle blue irises. I find myself speechless, taking in her tiny cotton shorts and the way the “Play Boy” logo distorts as it stretches across the front of her tank top. Those are so not real. They’re the size of hot air balloons.
A soft drawl breaks my trance. “Hi, I’m Nora Matthews, from next door. Everyone calls me Storm.”
Storm? Storm from next door with giant balloons sewn on to her chest?
A throat clears and I realize I’m still staring at them. I quickly avert my gaze back to her face.
“It’s okay. The doctor gave me a free upsize while I was asleep,” she jokes with a nervous giggle, earning a choking cough of shock from Livie.
Our new neighbor, Nora, a.k.a 'Storm,’ with giant, fake boobs. I wonder if Tanner gave her a “no orgies, keep thy peace” speech when he handed her the keys.
She extends a toned arm and I immediately tense up, fighting not to visibly recoil. This is why I hate meeting new people. In this diseased day and age, can’t we all just wave at each other and move along?
A raven black head pops into my view as Livie dives to grab Storm’s outstretched hand. “Hi, I’m Livie.” I silently thank my sister for saving me yet again. “This is my sister, Kacey. We’re new to Miami.”
Storm offers Livie a perfect smile and turns back to me. “Look, I’m so sorry about the music.” So she can tell I’m the instigator. “I had no idea someone moved in next door. I work nights and my five year old has me up early in the morning. It’s all I can do to stay awake.”
It’s then that I notice the whites of her eyes are bloodshot. Guilt stabs me, knowing there’s a kid involved. Dammit. I hate feeling guilt, especially for strangers.
Livie clears her throat and settles a “remember not to be a bitch,” gaze on me.
“No big deal. Just maybe, not quite so loud? Or so 1980’s?” I suggest.
“My dad got me hooked on AC/DC. I know, not cool.” She grins. “I’m taking requests. Anything but Hannah Montana, please!” She holds her hands in front of her in sign of surrender, earning a giggle from Livie.
“Mommy!” A tiny version of Storm in striped pajamas appears, tucking herself behind her mother’s shapely long legs as she peers up to examine us with her thumb in her mouth. She’s about the most gorgeous little kid I’ve ever seen.
“These are our new neighbors, Kacey and Livie. This is Mia,” Storm introduces, her hand stroking the little girl’s dark blonde waves.
“Hi!” Livie hollers with that tone reserved for little kids. “Pleased to meet you.”
No matter what kind of mess I’ve turned into, little kids have the power to temporarily melt the layer of protective ice coating my heart. Them and pot-bellied puppies. “Hello, Mia,” I offer softly.
Mia ducks back with hesitation, glancing up at Storm.
“She’s shy around strangers,” Storm apologizes then looks down to address Mia. “It’s okay. Maybe these girls will be your new friends.”
I give her a quirked brow. “Ya think? Especially when I worked until eleven last night!” I started my first shift at a Starbucks in a nearby neighborhood. They were desperate and I have a stellar reference letter thanks to my old manager, a twenty-four year old mama’s boy named Jake with a crush on the bad ass redhead. I was smart enough to play nice with him. It paid off.
With a pause and then a shrug, Livie shouts, “Dance party!” and cranks up the volume.
The two of us jump around my room in a giggling fit until we hear the pounding on our front door.
Livie’s face drains of all color. She’s like that—all bark, no bite. Me? I’m not worried. I throw on my ratty purple house coat and proudly strut over. Let’s see what he has to say about that.
My hand is on the lock, about to throw the door open, when Livie whispers harshly, “Wait!”
I pause and turn back to find Livie’s waggling index finger, like my mother used to do when she was scolding. “Remember, you promised! That was the deal. We’re starting fresh here, right? New life? New Kacey?”
“Yeah. And?”
“And, can you please try not to be an ice queen? Try to be more like the Before Kacey? You know, the one who doesn’t stone-wall everyone who comes close? Who knows, maybe we can make some friends here. Just try.”
“You want to make friends with old men, Livie? If that’s the case, we could have stayed home,” I say coolly. But her words sting like a long needle inserted straight into my heart. From anyone else, they would slide off my tough Teflon exterior. The problem is I don’t know who Before Kacey is. I don’t remember her. I hear her irises shined when she laughed, her rendition of “Stairway to Heaven” on the piano made her dad tear up. She had hordes of friends, and she snuck in hugs and kisses and handholding with her boyfriend whenever she could.
Before Kacey died four years ago and all that’s left is a mess. A mess who spent a year in physical rehabilitation to repair her shattered body, only to be released with a shattered soul. A mess whose grades did a nose dive into the bottom of the class. Who sunk into a world of drugs and alcohol for a year as a way of coping. After Kacey doesn’t cry, not a single tear. I’m not sure she knows how. She doesn’t open up about anything; she can’t stand the feel of hands because they remind her of death. She doesn’t let people in, because pain trails closely. The sight of a piano sends her into a dizzying haze. Her only solace is to beat the crap out of giant sand bags until her knuckles are red and her feet are raw and her body—held together with countless metal rods and pins—feels like it’s going to crumble. I know After Kacey well. For better or for worse, I’m sure I’m stuck with her.
But Livie remembers Before Kacey and for Livie, I’ll try anything. I push the corners of my mouth out to form a smile. It feels awkward and foreign and, by the wince on Livie’s face, probably looks a little bit menacing. “Okay.” I go to turn the handle.
“Wait!”
“God, Livie! What now?” I sigh with exasperation.
“Here.” She hands me her pink and black polka-dot umbrella. “He could be a serial killer.”
Now I tip my head back and laugh. Such an odd, rare sound because I don’t do it often but it’s genuine. “And what should I do with this? Poke him?”
She shrugs. “Better than beating the snot out of him like you’ll want to do.”
“Okay, okay, let’s see what we’re dealing with here.” I lean over to the window beside the door and push back the gossamer curtain, looking for a graying man with a faded too-small t-shirt and black socks. A tiny part of me sparks at the idea that it’s that Trent guy from the laundromat. Those smoldering eyes invaded my thoughts several times without invitation over the past few days, and I’ve had a hard time kicking him out when he’s there. I’ve even caught myself staring at the adjoining wall between our apartments like a creeper, wondering what he’s doing. But the music is coming from the other side so it can’t be him.
A corn silk blonde ponytail wags back and forth outside our door instead. “Seriously?” I snort, fumbling with the lock.
Barbie’s standing outside. No joke. A real life five-foot-nine, highly toned, blonde bombshell with plump lips and giant periwinkle blue irises. I find myself speechless, taking in her tiny cotton shorts and the way the “Play Boy” logo distorts as it stretches across the front of her tank top. Those are so not real. They’re the size of hot air balloons.
A soft drawl breaks my trance. “Hi, I’m Nora Matthews, from next door. Everyone calls me Storm.”
Storm? Storm from next door with giant balloons sewn on to her chest?
A throat clears and I realize I’m still staring at them. I quickly avert my gaze back to her face.
“It’s okay. The doctor gave me a free upsize while I was asleep,” she jokes with a nervous giggle, earning a choking cough of shock from Livie.
Our new neighbor, Nora, a.k.a 'Storm,’ with giant, fake boobs. I wonder if Tanner gave her a “no orgies, keep thy peace” speech when he handed her the keys.
She extends a toned arm and I immediately tense up, fighting not to visibly recoil. This is why I hate meeting new people. In this diseased day and age, can’t we all just wave at each other and move along?
A raven black head pops into my view as Livie dives to grab Storm’s outstretched hand. “Hi, I’m Livie.” I silently thank my sister for saving me yet again. “This is my sister, Kacey. We’re new to Miami.”
Storm offers Livie a perfect smile and turns back to me. “Look, I’m so sorry about the music.” So she can tell I’m the instigator. “I had no idea someone moved in next door. I work nights and my five year old has me up early in the morning. It’s all I can do to stay awake.”
It’s then that I notice the whites of her eyes are bloodshot. Guilt stabs me, knowing there’s a kid involved. Dammit. I hate feeling guilt, especially for strangers.
Livie clears her throat and settles a “remember not to be a bitch,” gaze on me.
“No big deal. Just maybe, not quite so loud? Or so 1980’s?” I suggest.
“My dad got me hooked on AC/DC. I know, not cool.” She grins. “I’m taking requests. Anything but Hannah Montana, please!” She holds her hands in front of her in sign of surrender, earning a giggle from Livie.
“Mommy!” A tiny version of Storm in striped pajamas appears, tucking herself behind her mother’s shapely long legs as she peers up to examine us with her thumb in her mouth. She’s about the most gorgeous little kid I’ve ever seen.
“These are our new neighbors, Kacey and Livie. This is Mia,” Storm introduces, her hand stroking the little girl’s dark blonde waves.
“Hi!” Livie hollers with that tone reserved for little kids. “Pleased to meet you.”
No matter what kind of mess I’ve turned into, little kids have the power to temporarily melt the layer of protective ice coating my heart. Them and pot-bellied puppies. “Hello, Mia,” I offer softly.
Mia ducks back with hesitation, glancing up at Storm.
“She’s shy around strangers,” Storm apologizes then looks down to address Mia. “It’s okay. Maybe these girls will be your new friends.”
