Just Breathe by Tamara Mataya Read Free Book Online Page A

love.
    It was an amazing gesture, he must have dropped me off, gone and bought the rose, and brought it there. It somehow made it special and cuter than if he’d just brought me a rose after work. It was premeditated and adorable. I was a goner. He didn’t do many things like that, but the few he did were special.
    Of course, it wasn’t all post coital roses. I did catch him out in a few lies. Most were minor. He’d say a girl on his Facebook was just a friend, but then later admit that they had dated and were still in contact. They weren’t cheating or anything, but it bothered me that he had lied to me about it. Little things like that shouldn’t matter, but they do. Who knows how much of what Jason said to me was bullshit anyway.
    This one night, Marie and I were at his place for a party. He had the whole room captivated by his tale of a time in high school when he was high on mushrooms and had a trippy conversation with his mom. Even I was captivated by the drama unfolding in the story. So much so that it was Marie who nudged me to point out the bullshit flying around.
    Two months or so before, we were all going to do mushrooms, but Jason claimed he had never done them before. It was a big deal at the time considering his age, so we’d pretty much catered to him that night. So if he had told the truth then, he was lying at the party. And if he was telling the truth at the party, he’d lied to me when we’d done mushrooms his “first” time. Either way he was a liar and for what? To play the ingénue with my friends and I back then, or to impress a room full of acquaintances at his party. Neither made sense to me—why lie about something so insignificant? What was the payoff? I was understandably pissed, so was Marie. We left the party about ten minutes later.
    Except someone had stolen my boots. It just topped off the night. I wasn’t going home barefooted, but a quick getaway was needed, so I stole someone else’s boots. I took a pair that were comparable to mine, not the fanciest pair there, and I didn’t feel bad about it at all. At that moment I was disgusted to be dating a petty liar and disgusted with everyone associated with him. I wonder who took my boots though, and if they did it out of mistaken drunkenness or on purpose. I wonder if it was their boots I ended up taking. I never wore them again.
    Screw Jason. I sit up and get to work on my project. The other day I saw this show where they decoupaged sheet music to an old chest of drawers, and it looked awesome. In my case it’s old books that were going to be recycled, rather than sheet music. I’m not up to the chest of drawers; I want to try something smaller first, so I’ve grabbed a blank journal with a lame cover and an old binder that I keep photos in. They make for an easier revamp, and it won’t be as big a deal if I give up—or suck too badly to continue. I’ve seen some work where fabric was used, but I think I’d only do that if I made something for Kennedy.
    I won’t actually varnish the sheets to the journal and binder tonight; I’ll just cut pieces of the book pages out and work out placement. It’s relaxing, and I enjoy this working of the hands. Dominic had very nice hands. And that smile! He is all kinds of sexy. I’m glad he read the books I recommended. I gently poke my lip with my fingertip. His body felt solid as hell when we collided.
    My cell phone rings, and of course it’s at the moment where I need both hands. Screw it, it can wait—that’s what voicemail is for. At first, I feel a bit bad about cutting pages from the books, but they would have been recycled. This way some of their content will remain. Plus it will look really cool... If these pieces would sit together and stop sticking to my hands because of static electricity... Shaking my hands doesn’t work.
    Annoyed, I toss the scissors and glue which creates a wind that blows the pages about, and knocks the pieces from my hands. See, this is why I