A Breath Too Late - Rocky Callen Page 0,29

you.

For our birds.

For the hand that reached over cut tablecloths.

And when my fingers slip through yours, earthquakes of pain and sorrow erupt inside of me. I shake in the dark so far away from you, yet I’m right here with the house as our only witness.

“I am sorry too, Momma. I am so sorry.”

We are daughters of regret and shame and secrets, and we cry together until the clock chimes six a.m.

22

August,

I leave Momma’s side and return to yours. The sky has started to bleed out its colors into the night. You are staggering with a beer in your hand. It pains me to see you so unsteady. I remember when we ran these same streets as children, every step purposeful and sure. We would always run to our sanctuary or to our bridge that went high over the river.

That is where you are walking now. I move in lockstep with you, wishing I were solid so I could grasp your hand and hold it in mine. But I can’t, so I settle for staying close by your side. Minutes pass in solemn silence and then we step over the boundary between the Real world and the one we created together.

* * *

“Hurry up!” I yelled over my scrawny twelve-year-old shoulder. You were a few yards behind and I grinned like a wild woman at you. “Slowpoke! I win!” I drew out the I so that it would last. I drew it out until I crossed the threshold of the barn bridge and halted, my belly heaving in huge breaths. Sweaty and reddening, you slowed down to a walk before getting to me.

“You are a cheetah.”

“And you’re a … what? A sloth?”

You glared at me with your customary I-am-pretending-to-be-offended glare. I smiled back with my I-know-I-whipped-your-butt smile.

It took you longer to recover your breath.

Mondays. I loved Mondays. Father worked late, which meant I could pretend with you longer. I could run and be wild and free. We walked over to the barn bridge window and peered over the edge. “Ever think about jumping?” I asked.

You reeled. “From up here? Don’t be ridiculous! See those rocks? That current? You jump from here and you’re practically asking to kick the bucket.”

“I guess I am just too reckless,” I said, turning away from the window and toward the wood planks.

“Uh, yeah,” you said as we both pressed our backs to the barn wall and slid to the ground.

“August?” I asked.

“Uh-huh?”

“We are … good … friends, right?” I asked, hesitation in my voice. I didn’t want to go home, but I had to soon. I didn’t like leaving you in the woods alone.

“The best,” you said, and that made me grin.

“The best,” I repeated under my breath.

“Yeah.” You shifted and pointed to a wooden beam. “See, I’ll show you.” You took your Swiss Army knife out of your pocket—the one you were grounded for having a month ago—and started carving into the wood. A&E BFFS.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel very official.”

You blinked at me and then shifted onto one scraped knee. You winced a little before smiling. “Ellie Walker, I, August Matthews, ask for your hand in holy best friendship.”

I laughed and lightly punched you on the shoulder. “I accept. Gotta settle down some time or another.”

You fake-glared again with your saucer eyes. “Settle? Excuse me, I am top-grade material. You should be so lucky. I think I deserve a better acceptance speech than that.”

“Okay.” I got on my knee. “My dear August Matthews, despite your sloth-like running skills that could never rescue me from a burning building, I accept your offer of holy best friendship because despite everything, you are, in fact, my best friend.”

“I do,” you proclaimed, chest puffed out.

“I do,” I said reverently.

I leaned on a beam while you wrote Till death do us part underneath our names. I smiled as you carved the wood. With the last letter, you suddenly swiveled back toward me, looking mischievous. “Now, I can kiss the bride—I mean friend.”

And you quickly leaned forward and did.

It felt funny to feel lips on mine. I hadn’t thought about it before. Lips were for smiling and talking and making faces … but for kissing?

You leaned away, redder than when you were running, and jumped to your feet. “Race you to the houses?”

I cocked my head up at you. I wanted to ask about the kiss. Also, I wanted to ask how you knew I had to go home. And why you weren’t making me feel bad about