Until the Last Breath

“Alright then. If that’s the case, get your shocked ass back in there and start serving up some drinks. We’ve got customers waiting.”

I grinned, lowering my head, my dark, unruly curls curtaining my face. Sighing, I rolled my window up and he stepped back as I pushed the car door open. “You didn’t have to do that, you know,” I murmured, stepping out of the car and shutting the door behind me.

“I know, but I wanted to. Consider it a favor.” He started walking backwards. “One day you’ll owe me and you can’t say no.” His smile grew bigger and then he turned around and jogged to the back door.

He glanced over his shoulder once before disappearing. I stared ahead, huffing a laugh in utter disbelief.

Max had just saved me from being jobless. Hell yeah I owed him a favor. I owed him a thousand favors. I loved working at Capri. I loved getting creative and making over five hundred dollars every night of the weekend. If we’re being honest, that was close to stripper money, only I didn’t have to take off my clothes in order to get paid. I could keep my pride and dignity and still make more than enough money to provide for myself and my sister. A job like this was rare for someone my age.

But that favor Max was asking for? It turned out it wasn’t a simple one. He really meant that I owed him, and not with work, or covering a shift for him one night so he could take his girlfriend or some random chick out on a date, but something else entirely.

Something that completely blindsided me.

THREE

The room door creaks open.

Light footsteps pad across the floor after the door shuts and I hear a long, weary sigh as the couch in the corner crunches beneath the weight of a body.

I wait for him to speak, but I know that he won’t. He probably thinks I’m asleep.

“John?” I call.

I can see him in my peripheral, just his silhouette. He perks up, his hair glistening from droplets of rain. “Yeah?”

Silence again. My mouth works hard to form words…an apology. I am sorry, but I also meant every word that I said. He has to move on sooner or later.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and my voice cracks. Tears immediately spring to my eyes.

John stands immediately and walks to my bed, sitting on the edge. The moonlight reveals his smooth face. “No. I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have stormed out like that.”

“No. I shouldn’t have said that to you.” I turn over a bit, grabbing his hand. “I just…I want you to understand where I’m coming from when I say that. You’re only thirty-one, John. You have so much ahead of you. It would hurt me as an angel, or a ghost, or whatever I turn out to be to see that you’re depressed and no longer doing what you love.” I force a smile and he laughs, and I’m so glad to see the smile actually touch his tired eyes.

“A ghost?” he repeats, teasing. He leans forward and kisses my forehead. “I’d prefer an angel over a ghost any day. Don’t need you haunting me.”

I giggle.

“You’re a goof, you know that?” he says, stroking the pad of his thumb over my cheek.

I grin. “I know.”

His mouth works hard to form the next set of words. “But you know how I am, Shannon. It’s not an easy pill for me to swallow, knowing there’s a chance of losing you.”

“I know.” I pause and twist my lips. “Just promise me you won’t be extremely depressed because I don’t want that,” I plead, still trying to keep the mood light.

“No way I can promise that. I’ll be in so much unbearable pain and heartache.”

“Well, promise me you won’t turn into an alcoholic or druggy or anything like that.”

“I can guarantee you that will never happen.” And I’m sure of it. John’s father was an alcoholic and, sadly, his mother used drugs and pills, which resulted in her spending countless months in rehab, demolishing her perfect career as a news anchor. She overdosed when John was fifteen. It destroyed him.

In high school he was teased and bullied about his mother, seeing as the whole town knew her, so he dropped out. Fortunately, he got his GED, went to a community college, and then decided to go to culinary school to do what he loved most. Cook.

He’s never wanted anything to do with drugs and to this day you’ll hardly ever catch him drinking hard liquor. He revolves around red and white wines and even a craft beer here and there.

Our pasts are very similar, which is why I think we connect so much. We can relate to one another and understand each other’s struggles and stubbornness, and yet when we’re together we are the most vulnerable.