Just Breathe Read online

  Just Breathe

  Tamara Mataya

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Copyright © 2014 by Tamara Mataya

  JUST BREATHE by Tamara Mataya

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Swoon Romance. Swoon Romance and its related logo are registered trademarks of Georgia McBride Media Group, LLC.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Published by Swoon Romance

  Cover designed by Gennifer Albin

  This book is dedicated to everyone who was there with me in the Den of Iniquity. It was heaven and hell and everything in between, and it wouldn’t have been the same without you. Genevieve “Navy Bean” Kennedy, Leanna “Butternut” Klyne, and Brett “Brett” Willisko, I love you more than all the moments we’ve collectively forgotten.

  P.S. Writing on the walls will NOT be tolerated.

  Just Breathe

  Tamara Mataya

  Chapter One

  Her voice has the timbre of someone chewing on a balloon. Her squeaky tones make me want to shake my head like a dog that has water in its ears. I appreciate her attempts to keep her voice down, but patrons don’t realize how pointed their voices can be—especially for someone with my condition. I’m having a hard time maintaining a pleasant facial expression, but I smile brightly and try again.

  “Okay, so it’s a book by Stephen King about a dog that’s really smart, but the dog isn’t the main character?”

  “Yes! And it isn’t new. But it’s not old. There are two in the series. I think there are monkeys. Most of the action happens at night.” Sigh. The glamours of being a librarian. Wait.

  “Did the main character have a skin condition where he couldn’t go out during the day?”

  “Yes! I think he was an albino.”

  I shake my head. “No. He had XP. I know the book you’re talking about, but it’s Dean Koontz, not Stephen King.” I check the computer to see if we have a copy available. We do.

  “Oh! I’ve never read anything by him before, Elle. I guess I thought they were the same,” she squeaks.

  “It’s a fairly common mistake. I’ll go grab the book, you wait here.” I smile and hightail it to the K section. It’s blissfully empty. Although I locate the book she wanted right away, I linger in the quiet for a minute feeling like a windblown bird. That patron’s voice is the worst I’ve felt in a while, and I need the quiet to soothe my senses before I go back.

  Because of my condition—synaesthesia—I spend most of my time trying to avoid noise. The library is an ideal place for my senses to feel safe from an onslaught of sounds, except for the odd patron with a voice that sends me into a sensory tailspin.

  Despite our “no cell phones” policy, a woman scurries down the aisle hissing into one with barely suppressed anger. Her tone sends a ribbon of discomfort threading itself through my spine. I twitch and fight the urge to cover my ears and curl into a ball. So much for letting the quiet soothe my senses.

  Walking briskly back to the counter, I take the patron’s card and scan it, and the computer pulls up her name. The book’s barcode is read and the transaction is done. Gone are the days of index cards and date stamps. That system was out before my time, and sometimes I wish it wasn’t. I think I’d have liked to stand around sedately stamping the card and tucking it into the book—leaving a tangible trail of its history. Sure I can look into the item record on the computer to see when it’s been taken out, but it’s not the same as friendly little stamps on an index card. I hand her the book and glance at her name on the screen.

  “I hope that’s the one you were looking for, Helen.”

  “This is it! You ladies are fabulous!” She waves at me and Mary-Margaret, the other librarian on duty. We exchange farewells, and off she goes, another happy patron. I have a lot of the patrons’ names memorized, but I see about four hundred people a day, and some of them I’ve never personally helped, so it’s not like I can remember everyone. Some days are just nuts. Not today. It’s fairly quiet. Friday evenings usually are, but that doesn’t mean we get to laze about in a charming manner. The shelving cart is jammed full of books, so I grab an armload.

  Some people think that librarians stand around behind the desk reading or shushing people most of the time, but it’s a surprisingly physical job. I worked for an arborist one summer, and didn’t get as good of a workout as I do at the library. Most of the time I’m walking around with armloads of books, reaching and squatting as I reshelve them. My arms and legs have gotten pretty muscular, though lean. I guess the moral of the story is don’t screw with librarians—our little sweaters hide an impressive gun show.

  I walk into the stacks and slide the books back into their homes on the shelves, correcting a few that are in the wrong place while I’m there. Patrons think they are helping by reshelving a book, but we’d rather they left them out so we can put them back correctly. A couple minutes go by as I fall into the relaxed routine. I’m squatting ever so glamorously, sliding the last book back in its proper place, when a man says, “You work here.”

  Mmm. Tingles slowly crawl up my back. His voice sounds like something strong and warm wrapped in something soft... like velvet wrapped around hot metal. He didn’t ask if I worked here, which gains him a few points. I hate when people ask super obvious questions. Like, no I’m not employed here, I just have a name tag and shelve books for shits and giggles. This guy’s voice is amazing and rubs me in all the right ways. I’d swoon if I lived a hundred and fifty years ago. As it is, I stand up and make direct eye contact.

  “Yes, I do.”

  Hazel eyes framed in thick black lashes. Jason’s eyes are the lightest green I’ve ever seen, minty and cold. Damn! I kick Jason from my mind and focus on the stranger. His eyes are pretty but that’s where the femininity ends. The rest of his features are strong but angular, pleasant-looking in a European sort of way. Longish dark hair pulled back into a short ponytail. He’s about five inches taller than my five foot six. Jason is six foot three, which was good for making me feel tiny, but bad logistically when we did anything. I felt like I had to climb him for a kiss. Fuck Jason! Forget about him, Elle! He’s certainly forgotten about you. Mister Hazel Eyes is dressed well, but not fussily, in a nice pair of dark jeans and a cable knit sweater.

  “Great!” He smiles. “Could you recommend some books for me?”

  Can I ever! These are the best days at work; I love finding a book for someone that they are going to love, thinking I might be the one to hand them a book that changes their literary life. Maybe that’s a bit grandiose. Maybe the book I recommend just makes them forget their troubles for an hour or two, or discover an author they will love that they hadn’t heard of before. Either way, I get to be a little ripple in their literary lives, and that is an amazing feeling. Plus I can recommend books I love, and then have someone to talk to about them.

  “Yes! Is there a certain genre you’re into, or are you open to anything?”

  “I’m open.”

  “Okay. How many are we looking for?” I hold my breath. Please be a few. It’s harder to choose one as there’s more pressure on that single book to be the winner. If I get to suggest a few, I’ll select some from different genres and authors, which usually ensures they like at leas
t one book.

  “Five or six?”

  Yes! “Awesome! Okay.” He strikes me as intelligent, so I want to give him a book with some meat to it. But if he’s doing cerebral things all day he might want to read for escape. “Are you into science fiction or fantasy?” Some people aren’t.

  “More science fiction than fantasy.”

  “Is urban fantasy out as well as high fantasy?”

  He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Urban, as in urban sprawl? In a city?”

  “Yes.” His ability to infer is delightful. “Most people equate fantasy with elves and hobbits. Lord Of The Rings. That’s high or epic fantasy. Urban fantasy is when those same kinds of characters, and new ones, are in the modern human world.”

  “That sounds like an interesting premise.”

  “Follow me.” I lead him to the W’s. I’ll give him one of the Bordertown books, edited by Terri Windling. I found many of my favourite urban fantasy authors by reading these anthologies of a shared world. It’s a great place to start, though technically the world is in between the human world and Faerie, he’ll get a taste for a few different writers, and maybe find a favourite.

  But like old Mother Hubbard, when we get there, the shelf is bare. Someone else has checked the book out. I narrowly avoid swearing. “It’s gone. Someone else has it.” I feel like the shelves have betrayed me for not saving the book for me. Not that they could have launched a paper cut attack at the person who took the book, but it’s still disappointing.

  “Well, we could—”

  “de Lint!” I interrupt.

  He looks a little confused, but triumph fills my limbs, and I tug on Hazel Eyes’ sleeve, and lead us to the D’s. Charles de Lint is a pioneer of urban fantasy, and one of my favourite writers period. The Bordertown books are where I discovered him, his stories always stood out as some of my favourites. The shelf doesn’t disappoint, and I grab Forests of the Heart and hand it to him.

  “This is one of my favourites by de Lint. It blends Celtic, First Nations, and Mexican mythology together.”

  He reads the blurb. “I’m not even sure how that would work. My curiosity is piqued.”

  One down.

  “How’s your sense of humour?”

  “Fair to middling?” His serious expression is countered by the laughter in his eyes.

  “Then to M we go.”

  “M for Middling?”

  “M for Moore.” The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove by Christopher Moore, to be precise. I love this so much. No one’s given me full reign with their book selection for a while. Hazel Eyes seems bemused, but up for it, and laughs at the title as he takes the book from me.

  I haul him two aisles over and give him Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons, because it’s one of my top five favourite books of all time. He hurries after me as I jump to the next aisle for Stupid And Contagious by Caprice Crane and Syrup by Maxx Barry. That should do him.

  Maybe not. “One more.” I decide.

  Back a few aisles, I throw River God by Wilbur Smith on top of the stack in his hands for good measure. I glare at the pile critically, then nod, satisfied that he’ll like something.

  “Thank you for the recommendations.”

  “You’re welcome.” Despite wanting to spend more time with him, I set a brisk pace back to the counter. Mary-Margaret’s been alone for a while, and I’ve been having a great time selecting his books, which isn’t fair on her. She looks a little harried as I step behind the desk and up to the computer. Hazel Eyes digs in his wallet for his card. Before he finds it, the phone rings.

  Mary-Margaret hates the phone with a fiery passion and gives me The Look. Glancing from Hazel Eyes, then back to her, I shrug and answer it. He mouths thanks and I nod at him. Mary-Margaret helps with his books and of course that’s when everyone and their neighbour swarm us. A small crowd gathers at the counter. As soon as I’m done with the call I’m elbow deep in other people’s check outs, ear deep in their reference questions, and unable to talk about the books I recommended for Him. By the time the rush is over, he’s gone.

  He wasn’t the last patron Mary-Margaret helped either, so his information is gone from the computer screen when I check it. I didn’t even get his name. Not that I care. It’s for the best I suppose. He’s probably in a relationship anyways, or gay. Or in a gay relationship.

  I’m way happier by myself. Single. A lone wolf. A Lone. Yup. I drum my fingernails on the desktop. I could use a drink. Shift’s over in an hour and seven minutes, not that I’m counting down or anything.

  Chapter Two

  I love reading after a few glasses of wine. A nice buzz makes everything condense and thicken to a syrupy pace where my focus can make a sentence last forever. I find sub-sub-plots, characters become transparent while their actions become infinitely more complex. The publisher’s choice of font can be mulled over, contemplating hidden meanings even in something that prosaic. A paragraph is a galaxy and a page is a universe.

  Snuggled down under my blanket I stretch my legs out on the bed. With a wiggle and a happy sigh, I open the Coupland I haven’t yet read. I love this moment, before I read a book. It’s something new and fresh, and it might become my favourite book of all time! It’s pure anticipation that only lasts a few minutes. Very few books end up trumping a number one all time go-to book. Some may rank top ten, or edge out number five, but for the most part they end up just being okay.

  But for this moment, after the dedication, before the first paragraph—there’s magic. I have quite a few of these moments as a librarian, and a book slut—I’ll read anything. Twice. Reading is sort of an unspoken responsibility at work, the more we read the more knowledgeable we are about our materials and are better able to help the patrons. Works for me, I’d read the same amount anyway.

  My eyes and mind devour the first three pages of magical prose. Something inside me swells and I know that this book is going to rank high on my all time list. A little zing that increases the wine’s buzz fills me, and I flip the page and read the words so greedily that I half expect them to be sucked from the paper into my eyes and lodge deep inside my brain. This book is a revelation.

  And then I see it.

  Third paragraph down, the second sentence has been underlined. And the page across from it has three different passages underlined as well! My lungs squeak out an offended gasp, and I flip furiously through half the book. The underlining doesn’t end!

  It. Doesn’t. End.

  This offends me not just because I’m a librarian and a fierce book lover. No. This is also a visceral cling to originality.

  I’m well aware of the fact that I’m not the only one who’s read this book, nor will I be the last. But I, like most people, like to think of myself as unique, discerning. But now, someone has underlined passages in a book I was going to love and it just ruins it! Even if I had read those same lines and they had resonated with me, I can’t like them now. I can’t like them because someone else liked them enough to underline them! And I cannot like the same things as someone who writes in library books! It’s not a textbook, or a personal reference book, it’s public fucking property and someone has defaced it.

  And yeah, it’s underlined faintly in pencil, not pen, but how dare they? Now, even when there aren’t any underlined bits, I see them there; the ghosts of douchebaggery past. Damn it, now it’s ruined. I needed this book. I needed an amazing book for a distraction and it’s been snatched away from me. I set the book down—even this mad I won’t throw it, because unlike some people, I respect public property.

  I flounce out of my room and head for the bottle of wine in the fridge. Refilling my glass, I stomp to the living room and flop onto the couch. There’s half a joint left sitting on the coffee table. My mouth waters as I imagine lighting up and breathing deeply until all the smoke is gone. It would tear at my throat, and I’d choke a little on the smoke, but savagely suck it deeper into my lungs. But halfway through my second imaginary toke, the reason for nee
ding a distraction so badly invades my mind. Jason.

  I’d only been a social smoker until his actions turned me into a full blown pothead as I turned to smoking weed to cope when we broke up. A week ago I switched to wine to give my lungs a break. Also, because I no longer had control over the amount I was smoking—and worst of all, I didn’t care. Luckily self-preservation showed up in the nick of time.

  I can’t ever do that again; lose myself at the bottom of a bong for a few weeks. If I do that again, I might not emerge. I have no trouble limiting myself to two or three glasses of wine. So instead of lighting up the joint like I want to, I gulp back another mouthful of wine.

  There. Now my eyes tear up from the alcohol burn—not emotion. I exhale. Fucking Jason. I haven’t seen him in over two months. Technically he’s still my boyfriend, but only because he hasn’t broken up with me, and I haven’t been able to get a hold of him. He’d gone on a business trip that was only supposed to last a few days. He called me when he got there and told me that he’d be home on Sunday. Then he called me on Thursday saying he was going to be a few more days, and he’d be home on Saturday.

  I haven’t heard from him since.

  It’s clearly over between us, I’m not a moron. I just wish I knew why. What happened. Why, despite having a seemingly perfect relationship, he didn’t think I deserved an explanation, or even a goodbye. It’s not like I’ve been waiting for him to come back and explain what happened. Last week I decided that I didn’t care anymore, even if he came back tomorrow. Two months and seventeen days is the absolute limit to wait on an errant boyfriend, and I was—am over him.

  And I no longer worry about whether or not something has happened to him. Not after a casual call to his roommate last week inviting him to my housewarming party, which he didn’t show up for, revealed that Jason had in fact moved to that other city. I acted like I knew he’d moved, but it was news to me. His old roommate, Skeeter, had chatted, and I’d laughed along, and shrivelled up and died a little more inside.