Breathe

Chapter 22 - What You Are

 And so, we started walking away. Of course, Phil was spilling some retorts and such while we did, but she didn't turn around. I didn't, either—it was too much of a bother. Phil was only being typical Phil—nothing new to look at here.

Once we were a hallway away from them, we went into one of the rooms. She let go of my arm and left a more comfortable amount of space between us by bolting to a drawer far, far away from me. As she scavenged through the drawer, her smile dropped; now, it was in between her natural face and her serious face. Neither one or the other in my opinion.

Noticing my gaze, she looked back at me, her eyes half-closed with her forest green eyes hiding behind dark lashes. Softly, she asked, "Are you disappointed?"

"Why would I be disappointed?"

She opened the book in her hand and flipped through its pages. "You're always with Phil. Isn't there something going on between you two?"

"No, of course not."

She stopped and looked at me. "Really?"

"Honest."

She laughed. "That's hard to believe. You're always with him, after all. Thought that something had to be going on." In a sing-song voice, she added with a sigh and a grin, "And I was going to give you my blessing!"

"For what?"

She shot me a deadpan look. "Seriously? You're asking me that question?"

"Yes."

She sighed. "Never mind. It's better that you don't know, anyway... we won't get awkward tension in the group."

Awkward tension? Doesn't she already have tension with Luckas? I looked forward. Of all people in the group, those two were the ones with the most tension between them. Whether we were eating, walking, talking, it was always those two who were talking or complaining to each other. Isn't that tension?

Deciding to not move the conversation, I started to look through my dresser. Inside, there were just photos—photos of a man around our age or older, wearing a military suit. He was a rather good-looking man and had exotic or foreign features similar to Phillip's father. Except, he wasn't as finely built and looked more shaggy and young. He did have almond eyes, however—honestly, that was the only foreign-looking part of him. Or at least, based on the black and white photo, that was all I could link. He did have a nice smile, however. His smiles were always big and wide, showing off his bright teeth and making his youthfulness shine, especially compared to the other people in the photo.

"Anyway..." I looked back at her. She continued but didn't look back.

"I think that you should start spending less time with him. It's fine to be close to someone, but your closeness with Phil... it's a little weird. Not because you spend so much time with him, but because of the amount of time he spends with you. He shuts everyone else out but you. Sometimes, when I'm with him, he's dead quiet. I almost wonder if he's struggling to reboot or something because he's that quiet. Then, when you get into the picture, he's suddenly real loud and energetic. I can't tell if he's just not comfortable with me or he likes you too much but either way, it's pretty weird."

Finally, she looked at me. She continued:

"Maybe, if you put some space between the two of you, he'll open up more. Broaden his horizons, you know? It'll be good for you, too, since you won't feel so trapped. Not saying that you do, but I know I would if I were you. Can't promise that it'll help, but I'm pretty sure it'll be good for both of you."

"I'll consider it."

She didn't respond. Instead, she went back to her photos and textbooks. Suddenly, she smiled. Lifting the book up, she showed me what caught her eye. It was the man I saw before, except he was goofily smiling. "Look at this guy!" Looking at it, she remarked, "Kinda looks like you, doesn't he?"

Rolling my eyes, I went back to the prior topic. "Although, I have to admit that I don't understand your reasoning behind it. How would separating myself from him be better for both of us?"

"Didn't I already tell you?" she asked, looking up. "He'll get out of his shell 'cause he won't have a choice, and you won't feel trapped. Sounds like a good deal if I say so myself, and I do say that it's good."

Closing the album, she put it down and then threw a leather book at me. Rolling to the side, I escaped just in time before it hit me. She laughed, and I threw her a dirty look. "God, Al, you look like I just tried to kill you."

"You threw a book at me for no reason."

"I threw it at you 'cause I knew that you of all people would be able to read it." She went back to her drawer. "I could read the first quarter or so of it, but after that, it randomly switches languages. You seem like the type who'd know a ton of languages, so you should take a crack at it."

I opened it. Eyes glazing over the pages, I concluded that it was a journal, likely of the man who used to live here. But as I read on and on, I realized that there was more to this man. More like, a connection that he held that caught my interest. Could he be...?

Standing up, I began to walk over to her. "'I have been meeting with Her regularly after mealtime lately. I don't know why, but I feel like there's something there between us. And no, I don't mean like a bad thing, like I goofed up again and made another girl hate me. No, I mean that I feel something between us. And honestly, by the way She looks at me, I think She feels something, too. Maybe I'll bring it up tomorrow. Maybe. Who knows? All I know is that even after an hour, this beating in my chest just won't go away.'"

"What's with this weird monologue?"

"It's what this man wrote."

"No, it's not. He didn't write about meeting with a girl anywhere in it."

"It's in that foreign language that you didn't understand," I said, closing the book. "It's in English, which is odd."

She cocked her head. "Why is that weird? I mean, don't people usually write those types of things in their journals?"

"Not in a foreign language that's different from the other text. For some reason, he decided to change the language he was writing in. It's as though he had something to hide...like he didn't want anyone, if they were searching his belongings, to know about his meetings with this woman. Even then, he didn't say her name—he wanted to protect her identity enough that he just wrote it as 'Her' or 'She' with a capital 'H' or 'S'. Don't you think that's odd?"

"It doesn't seem like it's weird. People give other people nicknames all the time—tell me somethin' I don't know, Alastair."

I flipped through the pages. "I think it is odd. Maybe there's something—"

I saw a familiar name flash on the page. Quickly, I stopped. Turning back, frantically, I searched for the name.

There.

There it was.

But why was his name there? His name isn't common.

Noticing my silence, she asked, "Is something wrong?"

Without saying a word, I started to head out the door. From behind, I could hear her call me. Instead of waiting for her, I pulled out my walkie-talkie and pressed the button. Then, as calmly as I could, I said, "Esmae, tell the others to come back to the living room. I found important information."

Within seconds, I heard the static crack and a familiar voice say, "Okay."

I put it down. Soon, my mind was running with thoughts and theories, especially about the reason why his name was in a journal of a man from thirty years ago.

Under my breath, I cursed at the thought of him being a spy. Still, I couldn't be sure. Ben was a spy, and we never predicted that. No one can be sure of who someone really is—that's why we have to ask him. His face flashed in my brain.

"Newvy," I murmured, my eyes narrowing, "who are you?"