Breathe Me (A 'Me' Novel) by Jeri Williams Page A

to respond, so I didn’t. Instead, I looked down at my worn sneakers and stubbed my toes in the concrete, playing with some loose bits.
    “Okay, so we are playing this game, cool. Let’s go finish our meal, then I’ll walk you home.” He motioned for me to walk, which I did, and he followed. He seemed—I don’t know—not angry, just annoyed. It was something I was used to being; I was a constant annoyance.
    “I’m sorry,” I said as he opened the door for me to go back into the diner. The surly waitress who was just placing down our food gave us a double take, then shook her head and walked back into the kitchen. I guess she was trusting that we hadn’t skipped out on our meal.
    “Why are you apologizing? Do you feel you did something wrong?” We slid into our seats, and I avoided his gaze. His tone was accusatory, like he knew exactly what I was apologizing for and he just want me to say it too.
    “Yes,” I said meekly. I stared at my food, still steaming in front of me, taking up my natural response when I knew I had fucked up. Silence and avoidance. I had to show I was the weaker person so the other person didn’t pounce harder.
    He sighed and leaned over the table, tilting my chin with his finger until I our eyes met.
    “You don’t have to do that,” he said. “I was only trying to make you see that you don’t have shit to apologize for.” He met my gaze and dared me to look away. I wanted to look away. I felt that if I didn’t, I would crumble in his arms and tell him everything. It took everything in me not to call upon that version of myself that I let everyone believe was the real me, if only for a minute, and boldly stare him down until he released my chin.
    When he finally did release me, it wasn’t with a satisfied look, more like contemplative, like he was thinking about something. There was no way I was going to be able to have a meal with him after what just happened. None.
    I only nibbled my food, because really, I wasn’t hungry anymore. Sometimes people stress eat; well, I stress starved. When I was consumed by thoughts of either survival or kill or be killed, I didn’t really think about eating a balanced meal. I suppose it’s why I was so skinny, thus my mother telling me I was fat, and we’d come full circle. I was focused on my thoughts of escaping and jetting back to my room and forgetting about all things Deklan, as I assumed he would forget all things me, when his voice broke through my thoughts.
    “What are you thinking about?”
    I hadn’t realized I’d been sitting there zoned out. I did that a lot, zoned out, especially after an attack. I was smart enough to know that it was my mind’s way of protecting itself from all the horror. Only it never did. I remembered all the horror. All of it.
    There are books and shows on TV that explain that when a person disassociates or zones out, they usually do it when what’s going on around them is too much for them to handle. I knew why I started, knew when I was about to. It had happened so much it was a normal response for me, but my mind, it always remembered what it was trying to protect me from. That’s what that was in the bathroom. But I didn’t tell him any of that. Instead, I shrugged and gave a weak, “Nothing.”
    He huffed out an annoyed burst of air and just stared at me. I couldn’t take it. I could almost see him with the flashlight searching for that same girl who was huddled in his arms no less than twenty minutes ago. But he didn’t say anything. He just stared. I was hyperaware of him and everything I did, how I picked up my fork, how I drank my rapidly cooling milk, and how my pulse jumped every time I met his eyes.
    “I’m done,” I announced and pushed my plate away. He frowned, looking at the barely touched meal, but still said nothing. He signaled for the check, and Surly must have been waiting because she was at our table in a flash and took his money.
    “No change,” he said, getting up, then