Breathe Me - C.R. Jane Page 0,37

always stay this close, just like we are now,” he adds, a small blush coloring his cheeks.

I throw him a smile, letting him know that’s what I want too, and then turn my attention to the green-eyed boy who looks oddly pensive.

“What about you, Quaid?” I ask softly, hoping to coax him out of his reverie.

“Hmm, I want us to be best friends forever, that’s a given,” he replies with a shrug, as if it would be impossible to ask for anything else. “And one day I want to play for the Dallas Cowboys, and after I’ve won a bunch of Super Bowl rings, I'd like to have my own family. Be the kind of dad I didn’t get.”

The last statement pulls at my heartstrings, and by the way he refuses to look at any of us in the eyes, I know that it was an admission he would have rather kept to himself. Not wanting to prolong his uncomfortable state, I look over at Carter, hoping he can lighten the heavy atmosphere.

“Carter, it's your turn.”

“This is stupid,” he grunts as he plucks out grass from its roots beside him.

“Stop being a dick, Carter, and just answer the damn question,” Logan reprimands.

“No. Wishes are stupid. They don't come true, no matter how much you want them to, so why even bother?”

“Jesus, asshole! Stop being on your period and just play the damn game,” Quaid howls, pissed his friend isn’t willing to play after he showed his own vulnerable underbelly.

“No!” Carter snaps at him.

“Fine! I'll answer for fuckface over here. He wants to bug us for the rest of his life because deep down, he loves the fuck out of us. Jerkoff also wants to be a big shot photographer one day, have his pictures on the cover of magazines and galleries and shit,” Quaid jokes, pretending to take pictures with an invisible camera.

“That still leaves one more wish,” Logan teases. “How about an unlimited supply of black t-shirts, leather jackets, and biker boots?”

“Oh, that’s a good one. But there’s got to be something better to go with his black heart,” Quaid says mockingly, pretending to think hard on what Carter could wish for. But before he’s able to come up with something equally funny, it’s Carter who responds.

“I wish my parents were still alive! Is that a good enough one for you, assholes?”

Everyone goes instantly silent, Carter’s outburst knocking the smiles off our faces.

“Told you this was a stupid game. No use in wishing for things you can't ever have,” he spits out.

“That’s not true, Carter. If you want it bad enough, you can have some of those wishes. We can’t change our past, but we can do something about our future.”

He turns his back to me and looks up at the sky, probably not believing a word I say. Determined to salvage this night and show Carter that even though our pasts aren’t filled with glorious rainbows, our futures shouldn’t feel as hopeless, I get up from the ground and march into the house, my father’s snores bouncing off the walls, telling me he’s out for the count. I go to his office and take four of his yellow notepads and some black point pens. When I return to the backyard, I see that Logan is trying to cheer Carter up with no real success by the glower on the dark eyed boy’s face.

“Here,” I tell them, handing one pad and pen to each of them while keeping one for myself.

“What's this?” Logan asks, curious.

“We are going to make a list. A real list this time, of everything we want to do from this day on out. It can be as big as you want or as small. The sky's the limit. Just write down whatever you want to accomplish in life, because take it from me, it is precious and it is fleeting. We shouldn't waste a single second of it, nor should we waste it feeling sorry for ourselves.”

“Writing a list feels pretty wasteful to me,” Carter mumbles, unconvinced.

“Carter Hayes! Just write the damn list!” I yell, frustrated that he can’t see beyond his grief long enough to appreciate what he has and could have in the future.

“What do I get in return?” he asks smugly, with a twinkle in his eyes that promises all sorts of trouble.

“What do you want?”

“A kiss,” he answers nonchalantly, making my cheeks blaze.

“What?” I stutter.

“You heard me. I want a kiss.”

“That's blackmail.” I scowl, crossing my arms.

“I see it as an