Breathe

Chapter 7

Lucie

Cian hadn't given me much information, just a brisk phone call in which all he said was that "we need to talk." From further pestering I'd learned that it was not about us but rather about Vinny, which did little to calm my nerves. This had been what we'd all been afraid of, that something was wrong with him, some annoying complication beyond our comprehension.

What were we supposed to do if we lost him again?

No. I refused to think that way.

I stepped into the foyer, slipping my key into my back pocket as I shut the door behind me. The television was on in the living room, warbled and unclear voices getting louder as I trailed down the hall. I saw the TV screen first: a broadcast of some heavily biased political news program, on the subject of nothing interesting. Then I saw him-Mr. Horne, reclined back on the couch, still dressed in his neatly pressed work clothes, hair slick and clean. His eyes met mine as I entered, and as there always was with him, I got the feeling he was examining me, watching my every move and listening to my every word. Almost as if he was asking himself, Why would my son choose you?

I tried not to squirm. "Hey, Mr. Horne," I managed around the dryness of my throat. I had to fight to keep any accusation out of my tone. I already hadn't put all of my trust into him, as there seemed to be too much lurking underneath his skin, where no one could see. After seeing him outside the coffee shop, however, my trust sunk even deeper, threatening to never resurface.

"Hello, Lucie," he said, forcing a smile. I returned the favor. "Something I can help you with?"

"Oh, you know..." I began awkwardly, clearing my throat. Gesturing, I waved my phone in the air. "Cian called me, so. Do you know where I could find him?"

"Ah," Mr. Horne responded. "He and Vincent are outside."
I sputtered. There were only two things outside could mean. One, outside as in the front yard-which I had just crossed, and they weren't there-and two, outside as in the backyard. The Hornes' backyard was a dock, from which Vinny had stayed far away since his unintentional resurrection. Going outside was one thing, but going near water? What was he thinking?

I realized too much time had passed since I'd said anything, and that Mr. Horne was watching me with cold eyes, frozen versions of Cian's. "Uh...like the backyard, outside? The...the dock?"

Mr. Horne arched an eyebrow. "Yes, that's what I mean."

"Oh," I murmured, my eyes sliding to the ground. I tugged on a curl of my hair, trying to fight images of Vinny's terrified expression, lips quivering and eyes widening, when he'd visited the place he'd died, back when he'd been a ghost. He hadn't wanted to go; Cian had forced him. It did not end well. Had the same thing happened here, now? "Oh. I should...go, then. He's waiting for me. Thanks. Bye."

I didn't hear Mr. Horne utter a farewell, but felt his gaze following me all the way to the back door. God. How was I ever going to tell Cian what I'd seen? What if he already knew?

I shook my head, deciding it was best not to think about it. We had to focus on Vinny right now; if he wasn't okay, nothing was. I stepped out into the thick air, warm breezes caressing me as I hop-skipped down the grassy slope and to the Horne's dock. The wood was painted a bright white, a beauteous accent against the clear azure of the bay's water, miniature waves lapping rhythmically against the dock's feet. The smell of salt and sunbaked sand carried in the wind.

Cian and Vinny sat beside each other, pantlegs rolled up to their knees, feet dangling over the water. From here, they were the picture of ideal youth: wind in their hair and playing with their clothes, sun-kissed skin, faint smiles on their faces as they exchanged playful words with each other. They were the way brothers were supposed to be.