Page 98 of Broken Breath
I whirl toward the sound, toward the back of the hotel, slowly registering what I’m hearing—Sum 41’s “Pieces,” and it’s coming from the hotel gym.
“I think I found her. I’ll call back soon.” I end the call and slip my phone into my pocket, my strides lengthening as I head toward the low pulse of music.
I glance through the glass door first, but from this angle, I can’t see anyone. Pushing against the handle, I step inside.
The smell of rubber mats and stale air hits me as I walk past the treadmills and toward the music. And there she is. The weight of an entire mountain lifts off my chest as I finally lay eyes on the woman I’ve been searching for.
Alaina.
Her back is to me, sweat shimmering along the curve of her spine, trailing from the base of her cropped hairline and disappearing between the muscles that shift beneath her skin as she moves. She’s in shorts and a sports bra, her hoodie tossed carelessly over the bench beside her phone.
She’s lifting a barbell, facing the mirror, so I see all of her at once. The strength in her shoulders. The tension in her jaw.
And the tears.
I forget how to breathe because for the first time, I reallyseeher.
Not the rookie she pretends to be.
Not my best friend’s little sister, who looked at me like I hung the moon.
Her.
Beautiful in a way that isn’t soft. Fierce in a way that isn’t loud.
Her tears cut lines through the grit on her face as she punishes her body, and I watch, mesmerized, before I take in the rest of her more closely.
Scars stretch across her skin, thin and pale against the sheen of sweat. Some are long, others jagged. I knew they were there, but seeing them now, written across her back and ribs like battle lines, hits me like a sucker punch to the gut.
I try to marry the scars against the footage seared into my brain, and it dawns on me that I didn’t understand what surviving meant until this moment, until I saw itcarvedinto her.
That is not the body of a kid. It’s the body of awarrior.
God, how hard must that have been for her?
Sweat drips down her neck, following the slope of her shoulder, and as much as I miss tugging her braid to get a rise out of her, the short hair suits her, suits who she is now.
I take a step toward her, and her eyes flick up to my reflection in the mirror.
“Fuck.” She jerks around and drops the barbell onto the rack with a loud clunk.
My eyes are glued to the scar running over her hipboneas I step even closer and reach for her on instinct. My hand settles on her waist, and when she doesn’t pull away, I let my thumb brush the edge of the scar. She shudders under my touch, and my heart races. I can feel her staring at me, but I keep my eyes on her jagged skin, keep my fingers moving, tracing. Mapping.
“I didn’t know it was that bad,” I murmur, my voice caught somewhere between apology and awe. “Not really.”
She huffs, the sound more exhaustion than sarcasm. “How would you? Nobody told you.”
“Tell me, then.” My gaze flicks up to hers, but I can’t seem to stop my fingers from tracing her skin. “I’ve been feeling guiltier every damn day since you two came back. I told myself for years that maybe it wasn’t as serious as everyone made it out to be. That maybe it hurt less because you were always so goddamn tough.”
But I can see now it did hurt, that it still does. And now that I’ve laid my hands on proof of everything she’s been holding together, I don’t know how to hold my own body upright.
“Tell me how wrong I was for not pushing more,” I add.
For not showing up, demanding to know. For being the coward who let time and distance make it convenient to forget.
“I think I needed to see this to understand what you and Dane went through without me.” My thumb brushes another one of the scars, lower this time, then I meet her eyes again. “Show me the truth of it.”
She searches my face, probably weighing whether I deserve to know, then she wordlessly reaches out and takes my wrist, guiding my hand upward, letting my fingertips ghost along the edge of her ribs.
