Hold Me Like a Breath by Tiffany Schmidt Read Free Book Online Page B

door.”
    â€œOkay, wee impatient one. Sit. Eat. We’ll fill you in.”
    â€œIs this a hold-your-questions-till-the-end type of presentation? Or am I allowed to interrupt?” I asked. Garrett was pulling the pizza out of the bag, so to him I said, “Mine’s the pepperoni.”
    â€œDoes that work for Nolan? Because I didn’t think you werecapable of not interrupting.” Carter laughed, and I knew I was forgiven.
    I reached for the plate Garrett was holding out to me, but he froze. Then flung the pizza on the coffee table. He stepped toward me, eyes narrowing, mouth tightening. “What happened to your hand?”
    â€œWhat?” I glanced at my fingers, then curled them toward my palm, hid them behind my back. My bracelet slid down my wrist to land just above them and mock my next words, “It’s nothing.”
    â€œYou didn’t have those bruises earlier. What happened?”
    Carter’s smile was gone now too. Erased by the purple stains on the inside of my fingers. “How bad is it, Pen?”
    â€œI’m fine. It’s really no big deal, just from …” I mentally connected some dots. “From the car door earlier.” Except that made it sound worse—like my counts were so low, closing a door could cause this. “
Normal
people bruise too. I might have gone a bit ballistic when I heard the gunshots and tried to claw my way out. Which reminds me, child-locking my door is not cool, Carter.”
    â€œNeither is leaving the car after I told you to stay put.” There was no joking warmth in his eyes. “You couldn’t even follow that simple request?”
    â€œI-I was worried about you. I heard the gunshots. Is that really a bad thing?”
    â€œYes,” they snapped simultaneously.
    â€œHow can I trust you?” asked Carter with a shake of his head. “You really would’ve disobeyed and run directly
toward
gunshots?”
    â€œGarrett, back me up, please?” I reached a hand for his arm, but all he did was gently flip my palm and sigh over the purple lines that marred my fingers.
    â€œPrincess, you don’t get it, do you? And you got
hurt
. You can’t—” He turned to Carter. “We can’t. Don’t you see that? We can’t involve her in this.”
    I snatched my hand away. “These are just regular bruises. The kind
anyone
could get. My counts are
good
.” That was supposed to be the magic sentence that unlocked all the doors in my life.
    â€œAre they?” asked Carter, pointing to my purple fingers, pointing to the inscription on the bracelet right above them:
    PENELOPE LANDLOW
BLEEDING DISORDER/LOW PLATELETS/ITP
    His question shattered every one of my arguments and retorts, replaced them with all-consuming doubt. Were they? They could flip in an instant, my body suddenly deciding it liked destroying platelets more than being healthy. Maybe this wasn’t the cusp of a remission, but a lull before a big crash. Was he thinking of my worst periods? When I was ten and my counts had been so low we could draw smiley faces on my skin, the lines we traced showing up immediately in purple? Dr. Castillo had
not
been amused by our ingenuity. Neither had my parents. At the time, my platelet counts were below a thousand. Not much had broken through their wild terror, but I can stillremember the way they’d yelled at him, the way he’d radiated guilt and apologies and “I just wanted to make her smile.”
    The expression Carter wore now wasn’t much different. He studied me as if he was in pain, as if looking at me was painful. “Eat your pizza, Pen, then we’ll head home. Unless … do we need to leave now? Take you right to the clinic? Let me see your hand again.” Garrett exhaled a sound of relief and palmed Carter’s keys off the counter.
    â€œI’m really okay.” I bit back tears and retrieved my plate from the coffee