Just Breathe by Tamara Mataya Read Free Book Online Page B

don’t do crafts; I lack the patience, and probably the manual dexterity to do them. Sure, I get ideas, but then they go tits up because I suck at everything!
    Whoa. Break time for mental health. Standing and stretching helps a lot, my neck was in knots from sitting still for so long, and then the tension from freaking out.
    The number isn’t familiar when I check my phone, but there’s a new message. I hit play and wait. Maybe it’s someone telling me that a distant relative I never knew has passed away and left me a bunch of money or an old castle somewhere! Maybe I’ve won a trip to a quiet beach! Or maybe—no, it’s just a pocket dial. Pocket dials can be interesting, albeit somewhat voyeuristic. I always feel compelled to listen to the whole thing. Curiosity killed the cat.
    Switching to speakerphone, I crank the volume, set the phone back on the floor, and go back to cutting out pages. The recorded hisses and clicks, and sound of the phone rubbing against a pocket or purse, provide a strangely soothing background noise. A minute of this goes by, then it’s broken by a tiny, feminine sneeze followed by a muffled male voice that laughs and says, “I have a tissue in my pocket.” The rustling gets louder, the voice clearer as he realizes his phone is on. “Shit, my pocket wanted to talk to someone! Hope it didn’t pocket dial China!”
    Jason.
    Shock makes my fingers slip, and I nick my thumb with the scissors. Blood wells up from the cut. End of message. Jason? I clumsily fumble for the phone.
    That was Jason’s voice. That was what Jason used to say. “ My pocket wanted to talk to someone. Hope it didn’t pocket dial China. ” He said it all the time and always found it just as funny as the first. A thin trail of blood smears the screen of my phone as I select replay message . The cut on my thumb stings as I press the phone tightly against my ear, straining to hear every word, every sound of the call that I might have missed while it played in the background on speakerphone.
    I can hear his voice and hers, but not what is said. Their voices are too muffled by the pocket until she sneezes and they raise their voices, and what’s left of my heart clenches painfully. Who is she? Where is he? What does this mean?
    Has he already moved on? Of course he’s moved on dumbass, he moved on when he moved to a different city without telling you!
    But did he leave me for her? Pain in the hand that I didn’t cut makes me look down to see I’m gripping the scissors so hard the handle is digging into my claw-like fingers. I set the scissors down and move to the bed to think.
    It was a new number. He had to have manually entered my number into his new phone.
    What does that mean? He probably just transferred his contacts electronically. It’s meaningless. But what if—
    It was just a pocket dial. He’s moved on, and I have too. Have I? The hot tears that leak down my face disagree, but they stop within minutes. He sounded so carefree, using the same material he’s always used. Is she his new girlfriend?
    Does it matter?
    It doesn’t. Maybe not enough yet, but I have moved on too, at least from where I was even a couple weeks ago. I’m better, stronger than this! I wipe the tears from my face, and press delete message a bit harder than necessary, but it gets the job done.
    Fuck him. Fuck him! I’m not a weak little girl who drowns in sentimentality because of a pocket dial. He treated me terribly, and obviously didn’t give a crap about me if he could just leave me like I was nothing. That chick’s sneeze sounded fake as well, so whatever. Good riddance. Pretty soon he’ll just be someone I used to date.
    I wait for the wrenching emotions to rise at that thought, but can only summon a twinge. For the first time since Jason left, I feel...free. Well, freer. Sort of. The message is gone, but his new number is now in my phone. Sigh. I don’t know what to do. I need help. Having Jason’s new phone number is both