Breathing by Cheryl Renee Herbsman

coursing down my face.
    There he is. My heart does a funny little leap in my chest. I drop my bike and run straight for him. We kiss, and he feels all warm and strong.
    I shake my head, trying to find the words. “You just can’t go,” I tell him. And his eyes are all glassy in the moonlight like he’s wanting to cry, too. “Ain’t there any way we can change their minds?” I beg.
    He shakes his head. “Already tried.”
    “But you’re eighteen,” I remind him. “Can’t you just refuse to leave? Maybe you could stay with us.”
    He sighs and turns to look out to sea, just like he used to when we first met, which, in truth, was only a matter of weeks, even though it feels like I’ve known him my whole life. “You know your mama wouldn’t stand for that. Plus, it ain’t just about them kicking me out. My ma regrets sending me off. She needs my help. You know how it is,” he says, “my daddy up and dying and all. She can’t handle Carter and Tyler on her own. And I can earn a living working some job or another.”
    “But your painting!” I cry, knowing he was meant for better than working in some factory or convenience store.
    He just shrugs. “It’ll have to wait, I reckon.”
    We sit down on the cool sand in the dark and hold hands, not saying a word.
    “My asthma’s been so much better,” I whisper, wondering if Jackson’s being here has somehow broken the spell of my daddy being gone.
    “It’s that new medicine you been taking every day. Fixed you right up.”
    “I reckon,” I reply, though I ain’t at all convinced. “Can’t you get a job here and send the money back home?” I ask, knowing his answer before he even thinks it himself.
    He shakes his head. “You know I done wore out my welcome with my kin, and like it or not, ain’t no way your mama’s gonn’ let me stay with you. I got nowhere else to go.”
    “You didn’t do nothing!” I argue.
    “Not accordin’ to Junior and Billy Jo.”
    I can’t stand thinking of him taking the blame when those boys threw that wild bash and Billy Jo brought that broken nose on his own dang self.
    “What if I can’t breathe without you?” I whisper ever so quiet.
    Everything inside me seems to be closing in on itself. I can already picture all those little bronchiolies in my lungs getting small.
    He hears the shift in my breathing as I start to cry and turns to face me. “Use your inhaler,” he says.
    I breathe in the mist, but I know it ain’t what I need.
    He takes my hands and looks into my eyes. I see the moonlight reflected in his.
    “I don’t want to go,” he croaks out. “I hate the idea of leaving you.” He looks right frantic. “Don’t go thinking I’m like your daddy, taking off and unreliable. I ain’t like that, y’hear?”
    “I know,” I say, stroking his soft hair. And we both of us know there ain’t a damn thing we can do to change the situation. So we just lay back on the sand, listen to the surf, and stare up at the stars. I got my head on his chest and our legs are all intertwined and I wish this moment wouldn’t never end. And one of my feelings comes over me—one of those itty bitty moments when time seems to freeze—just for a breath. And I get the feeling that this moment fits, matches somehow, with something from the future. And I know this ain’t the last I’m going to see of Jackson Channing.
    “It’s gonn’ be okay,” I tell him. “This ain’t the end.”
    “You sure?” he asks, sounding like a scared little kid.
    “Yeah,” I tell him. “You ain’t rid of me yet.”
    And he leans in and gives me a kiss that reaches right down inside of me and stirs something I never even knew was there. I’m about ready to jump his bones when I see the headlights in the parking lot. And I ain’t got a speck of uncertainty about whose car it is.
    “That’ll be Mama,” I say, getting choked up.
    “I love you, girl,” he says, all breathless.
    “Good Lord, Jackson,” I say, fanning myself. “I