Free Hold My Breath by Ginger Scott Page A

falls to the side against my window and my eyes glance out to see everyone finding their way to their own vehicles. He won’t show up, and we’ll be gone from here before he sees us. I’ll just tell her he changed his mind.
    I text her nine and tell her to meet me at the club, then toss my phone in the center console before clicking my belt and staring long and hard at the back of the black sedan parked in front of me. My stomach hurts like I’m guilty of something, and the more seconds that tick by, the more symptoms I seem to come down with—my head hurts, my eyelid twitches, palms are sweating.
    I pull my phone out to confess, to tell Holly never mind before I chase after Amber and make up a different lie for why I have to cancel, when the tapping on my window makes me jump in my seat, clutching my phone and both palms against my chest. Will winces, squinting one eye in apology as I slowly roll down my window.
    “I thought you saw me, sorry,” he says.
    I shake my head no, my heart still pounding too hard for me to talk.
    “I…” he stops, his eyes locked on mine while he sucks in his top lip. He shifts his weight and looks down, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. When the wet strands of his hair fall forward into his eyes, he pushes them back, leaving his hand on his head for a few seconds while his focus remains on his feet.
    “It’s okay, Will,” I step in for him.
    His head lifts and his eyes meet mine, his smile crooked. He nods slightly, then looks down again, a sad laugh escaping his throat.
    “You know it’s not,” he says, only glancing up to me for a beat before looking down again.
    I watch him wrestle with himself, with the demons in his own heart and mind. He shakes his head and draws his mouth in tight again before pulling his hands from his pockets and resting them on the edge of my window.
    “I’m just sorry, Maddy. Last night…I wanted to tell you that,” he says, his fingers sliding from their grip and falling back to his sides as he takes a step backward.
    This time, I’m the one who can’t look up all the way. My mouth works independent of my best judgment.
    “I’m meeting Amber here at nine. In the lobby. I’m taking her to the Mill. You…” I swallow once, fast. “You should come.”
    I peer up, somehow not surprised when my eyes meet the perfect blue of his. A second or two passes before he smiles faintly.
    “Probably not a good idea,” he says, turning his wrist over and tapping along a small tattoo. From here it looks like a series of lines, almost like a sketch-drawn barcode. I don’t know what it means, but I understand enough from his tone that it’s probably a symbol that reminds him of his worst self, avoiding that self.
    “Right,” I say. “Bars probably aren’t a great idea.”
    His lip ticks up in a silent laugh.
    “Like a sparkler at a gas station,” he says.
    I laugh quietly with him, nothing about any of it really funny. It’s the sad kind of truthful laugh that fades away with regrets and weakness.
    “I’ve got some things I need to do, anyway. I’m not sure I’d make it back in time,” he says.
    “More estate things?” I ask.
    My question is innocuous but there’s something about the way his eyes snap to mine. His mouth parts, but he doesn’t speak right away. When he finally does, it’s strange, like he’s repeating some line he knows will work and not beg for questions. He sounds like he’s lying.
    “Just more papers.”
    He shrugs, his mouth shut tight. His eyes dare mine for a few seconds, a half smile plays out on his lips, and I feel questions swirling around my head. This estate should have been settled four years ago. Even things that could come up—the unexpected, like debts—would be dealt with by now. Four tax cycles have passed. Either something else has gone wrong with it, like maybe Will drained it all in a few short years, partying hard and driving fast, or he’s not dealing with his family’s estate at