The Fall in Love Checklist

by Sarah Ready

  I stay still and let him explore the line of my jaw and the curve of my lips.

  “But we agree it was a bad idea,” he says.

  His thumb plays with my lower lip.

  “Terrible. Terrible idea,” I say.

  His fingers trace over my lips and up my cheek. I suppress a shudder.

  “Horrible,” he says.

  My lashes lower and brush against my skin. I turn my face into his palm. His warmth draws over me. I turn my gaze up to him. He’s watching my lips.

  They feel swollen and dry. I draw my tongue along them. He stops. Holds completely still.

  I let out a shuddery breath.

  The breeze ruffles over me, and I smell the crushed herbs beneath us. The soft chorus of morning crickets and birds fills the air.

  I let out a sigh.

  “I’d like you to kiss me,” I say.

  “Hell,” he breathes.

  Then, he rolls over. He puts one leg over me and his hands on either side of my head, until I’m caged beneath him. Cradled between the soft ground and his hard body.

  He presses himself lower, until there’s only a whisper separating us.

  We’re not touching, but I feel like we’re touching everywhere. I only need to arch up, to shift the slightest amount, and we’ll be connected.

  His warm wood and leather scent tickles my nose. His eyes crinkle and he leans down until his nose touches mine. I warm at the contact. More. I tilt my face up. My bottom lip brushes against his. Heat pulses through me and I raise my hips toward him.

  He growls and then catches my mouth in his.

  He tugs on my lip, sucks it and plays with it. I grab his hair and try to pull him in closer. But he keeps his body taut above mine, refusing to press against me. I bite at his lip. He growls and pushes me back to the ground. I tilt my hips up again, catching a little throb as I rub against him. He’s hard. Holy mackerel, he’s hard. There. Goodness. There.

  I drag myself against him and little sparks dance over me. I like that. No, I love that. He tastes like donuts, like apples, cinnamon and sugar and the word yes…

  “Yes, yes. More.” I whisper into his mouth.

  A low humming in his throat vibrates through me. I open wider to him. His tongue darts over my lips and I take it in my mouth and suck. I draw it in and move my hips in time to the push of his tongue. I rub up against the long hard column of him. He hits me perfectly, in that spot that shoots fire through my veins.

  “More,” I say. “More.”

  “Yes. More,” he agrees. He grabs my mouth again and swallows my pleas.

  He begins to drive against me. The length of him, the friction of the zipper, the wetness of my panties. My god. He…he’s…

  “More,” I cry.

  The swell is building. I arch against him. There. There.

  I grab his shoulders. Pull him to me.

  He buries his face in my shoulder.

  There.

  I convulse up against him. Everything building in me shoots to that spot and then explodes.

  Oh. Holy. Wow.

  I hold on to him and ride the wave.

  He’s breathing raggedly.

  My eyes fly open. Jack’s looking down at me. His eyes are open and vulnerable and I see him. I see him.

  Then I’m pulled out of it. That oneness. I hear the birds chirping and a lawn mower in the distance. I feel the spiky plants beneath my hips.

  I collapse back to the earth. My heart beats frantically in my chest. My breath is ragged.

  I blink and smile up at Jack.

  He looks down at me, his pupils dilated, his expression dazed. Because I’m watching, I catch the exact moment he moves from wonder and openness to shuttered and closed off. I close my eyes and blink back any telling emotion and bury any telling words. Jack isn’t here for a real relationship and neither am I.

  Who would I become if I let myself fall in love with another man? I can’t bear to put the mask back on. I grab at the grass. I can almost feel it growing. I can’t cut myself down again. I won’t. Not even for soul-shattering kisses. Goodness, I orgasmed from a kiss. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. Don’t want to open them.

  He rolls off me and lies back on the ground.

  I open my eyes when I’m certain that nothing in my face will give my feelings away.

  “Dany…” starts Jack. He’s going to give me the it’s not you, it’s me speech. I can tell by the tone. I don’t want to hear it. I can’t.

  So, I’ll treat this feeling, this something, like a weed and cut it down.

  “Dany…I…” Yes, he’s definitely about to give me another version of the that was a mistake talk.

  I can’t hear it, I can’t.

  “Well, that was pleasant,” I say in a breezy tone. “Glad we got that out of the way. Thank you.”

  Jack coughs. Then shoots up. His brow furrows. “Pleasant?” he asks in a dangerous tone.

  I shrug. “Sure.” The feigned nonchalance is killing me. The look on his face…I take the weed, the feeling, and cut harder. Slash it out.

  “Got it out of the way? So, what. Was that triple X? Just another check on your list?”

  That cuts. I flinch. “No. Not at all. Like I said before, it wasn’t a good idea. You agree, right?”

  Say you don’t, a small voice cries.

  His jaw clenches. Then he closes his eyes. When he opens them, the funny, joking Jack is back. “Right. Can’t let anything get in the way of our dreams. I’ve got my bid, you’ve got your list.”

  He agrees with me. So why does it hurt so much?

  “I’m going to get to work if you don’t mind,” I say.

  Jack stands. His hands clench and unclench. “Right,” he says. “Let me know if you need anything. The garden tools are in the shed.”

  “Okay.” I nod. “Thanks.”

  I watch as he strides back to the house.

  I stay sitting in the grass for a full five minutes. What the heck am I doing? I rub my hand over my face and lie down on my side. The angel mocks me from the ivy corner.

  “What? Like you would’ve done differently,” I call.

  We both stare at the sky. Her in longing reflection. Me with the dawning horror that I could give my heart to this man, and I might not be able to stop it, even if I want to.

  25

  Jack

  * * *

  “So, this is what Jack Jones does all day,” says Dany. I like her in her tight jeans, leather boots, and the Carhartt jacket she borrowed from Sissy. It’s Dany, construction style.

  “Yup. This is what I do all day,” I say. I clear my throat awkwardly.

  It’s been a few days since the kiss.

  An excruciating few days. She hasn’t mentioned what happened in the garden, so neither have I.

  But I keep thinking about it. Every time she comes into the same room I think about it. When I hear her working in the back garden I think about it.

  At night, when I’m tossing and turning, I think about it.

  All that thinking and not doing is making me cranky.

  “Impressive,” she says. “I never knew how much work went into this kind of thing. All the planning and organization, permits, codes, managing contractors. I mean, you have to do more and know more than any of the project managers at Drake International and I always thought their job was difficult.”

  We’re on site at one of my projects. It’s a 1950s Cape Cod that fell into disrepair. I purchased it because it’s on the border of one of the neighborhoods I concentrate on. Downtown areas that have fallen on hard times but still house working families. I want to make sure the people in these communities have safe homes.

  There are major foundation issues. I had a meeting with a structural engineer today about the repairs needed. Dany asked to come along. She said she wants to learn more about why I do this and see how she can help me with the committee.

  “To uphold our bargain,” she’d said. Which had me thinking again. About the kiss.

&nbs
p; So, I brought her. Because she’s right. I know she’s right. None of this is about feelings. It’s about her finishing her list, and me winning the Creston warehouses bid.

  “How many houses have you rehabbed?” she asks.

  We climb back into my truck. “This’ll be my sixty-third,” I say.

  “Wow,” she says. “That’s…that’s amazing.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I smile over at her. We’re cocooned in the small bubble of the truck’s cab. Just me and Dany. Dang.

  She reaches over and hesitantly puts her hand on my arm. A current jolts through me where her fingers press. I grit my teeth and try not to think about that kiss.

  “I could tell how much you cared about making that house safe, not cutting any corners. Your dedication is amazing. I already knew you could make a house beautiful, but this…I was really…I was impressed.”

  I do this because I care, and I know that the end product will be making people’s lives better. The fact that she’s impressed, though, it fills me with glowing pride.

  She pulls her hand away. I watch as she sets it in her lap, then twists her hands together. The air in the truck is thick with tension. The ease we had together before the kiss is gone. I need to do something to get it back.

  “So…” I say. “Now you know.”

  She turns and looks at me. “Know what?”

  “That I really know how to screw,” I say. “My Phillips head gets lots of use.”

  “What?” Her eyes widen, she holds back a laugh, then she can’t anymore. “No way,” she laughs. “No way.”

  She punches my arm. I chuckle with her.

  The tension’s gone.

  For now.

  No more thinking. I turn on the engine and the radio starts to play a country music song.

  “Can I change this?” she asks.

  “Sure.”

  She twists the knob until it lands on a best hits from the eighties and nineties station.

  “Do you want to see some of my finished houses?” I ask.

  “I’d love to,” she says.

  I drive her through the neighborhoods that I work in and point out all the homes I’ve helped create. She likes the Edwardian style best. I try to take her by the houses I think she’ll like the most. Every time her eyes light up at one of my rehabs, I get a jolt of pleasure.

  “I liked the one with pink trim. Also, I can’t believe you painted with pink,” she says.

  “It’s a Victorian,” I argue. “And it’s salmon, not pink. It’s an architecturally appropriate color.”

  “Uh huh,” she says.

  I shrug. “No worries. I’m solid in my masculinity.”

  She laughs again.

  “One more,” I say. I’ve thought of another home, one of my favorites. I’m imagining the way her face will glow when she sees it.

  I pull down Oxford Street and follow it down. “I’ve done a few houses on this road. But this one up ahead is my favorite.”

  I pull to a stop.

  Dany lets out a short huff. “Wow. Just wow.” She lifts her hand to the window. “It’s gorgeous.”

  It’s a small English-style cottage, it has an arched doorway, two round windows, and a brick chimney. But the best part is the stone fence and the overflowing English garden full of spring blooms.

  “You did this?” she asks.

  I shift in my seat, embarrassed at the awe in her voice.

  She turns to me. “All this?”

  I nod. “When I first saw it, it was falling down. It was marked as a tear down. But I couldn’t let that happen. I saw the potential. It was a long road getting her here.” I shrug. “That was quite a few years ago.”

  I sit in watchful silence as she takes it in. The garden is bursting with spring blooms, a riot of color that spills over the stone wall.

  Finally, she turns to me, her face solemn.

  “So, you specialize in taking on projects that no one else wants? Rehabbing the broken and unwanted?”

  I nod, but it feels like a loaded question.

  She gestures to herself. “Is that what this is? You see yourself as my rescuer?”

  The pain on her face hits me in the gut.

  “No,” I say. “Not at all. Are you kidding?”

  She won’t look at me.

  “You said I wasn’t your pity project. But look at all this. I’m the human version of one of your houses,” she says.

  “No. Hey.” I rub my knuckles down her cheek. “Dany.”

  She looks at me.

  “You don’t need fixing,” I say.

  She tilts her chin down. Swipes at her eyes.

  “You don’t need fixing,” I say again. My hand lingers at her lower lip. I run my fingers over it and then use all my willpower to pull away.

  She takes a breath, then. “Sorry, I got a little emotional. I’m fine now. Forget about it. Okay?”

  I want to tell her again that she’s perfect the way she is, but I don’t think she wants to hear it.

  “Okay, alright,” I say.

  And because I think she needs a change of topic…”I’ll take you by the warehouses, show you my vision. Got to win my bid.”

  “Right. Exactly. You’ll win your bid and I’ll finish my list.”

  My gut clenches. I’m starting to dread that list, because when she’s done with it, is that the end of us too?

  “Yup,” I say. “Sure.”

  I drive us to the warehouses and share my dreams.

  26

  Dany

  * * *

  “My hair is falling out,” I say.

  I’m hooked up and receiving chemo. Everybody is here.

  Sylvie puts down her knitting. Matilda and Gerry stop their conversation.

  “Wait until your nails fall out. And the eyelashes,” says Gerry.

  “Humph,” says Cleopatra. “It’s called chemo. That’s what happens.”

  “I know that,” I say. Annoyed. Then I feel tears. I blink as hard as I can but they won’t go away. They start to fall.

  “What’s wrong?” cries Matilda. “Oh no. Don’t cry.”

  “She can cry if she wants,” snaps Cleopatra.

  “There there, dear,” says Sylvie.

  “I’m sorry,” I say between hiccups. I sniff and wipe at the tears and my running nose. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  I swipe my hair back from the wetness on my face and another handful falls out.

  “Oh!” I cry. I push at my hair and long strands stick to my hands.

  This makes me cry even harder. I look down at my fallen hair and sob.

  “S-so-sorry,” I cry.

  “Bah. Sorry is for losers and wusses,” says Cleopatra.

  I cry harder.

  “Mine’s been falling out, too,” says Sylvie. “Not in big clumps like yours. More slowly. But I thought about collecting it and knitting a hat.”

  “A hat,” cries Gerry.

  I choke on a surprised laugh and start to cough.

  “You’ve lost your marbles,” says Cleopatra.

  I beat on my chest and try to suck in air.

  “Oh no, Dany, are you okay?” asks Matilda.

  “Of course she’s not. Hannibal Lecter over here just offered to sew her a hat from her own hair. What’s wrong with you?” Cleopatra is in a real lather.

  “Not her hair. My hair,” says Sylvie. She throws her hands in the air.

  “Excuse me. It wasn’t Hannibal Lecter. I think you mean Buffalo Bill,” says Matilda. “It was Steve’s favorite movie. And Buffalo Bill sewed with skin, not hair.” She shrugs.

  Everyone is silent a moment. I stare at Matilda’s apologetic expression.

  Then Gerry turns on Sylvie. “Why in the world would Dany want to wear your hair? It’s gray. It would make her look old. Dany has straw-colored hair. She doesn’t want a geezer hat.”

  “Straw?” I ask.

  “She doesn’t want your creepy hair hat at all,” says Cleopatra. She bangs on the side of her chair.<
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  “The hat is for me,” says Sylvie. She glares at Cleopatra, then at Gerry. “Me.”

  “Humph. Then don’t offer it to Dany and then quick as a blink take the offer back. Rude.” says Cleopatra. “Rude and off your rocker.”

  “What’s wrong with a hair hat?” says Sylvie.

  “Same as what’s wrong with a skin suit, I’d say,” offers Matilda.

  I cough and beat at my chest until finally I can breathe again. Then I swipe at my eyes.

  Everyone watches me. I look down at the shed hair on my cardigan and pants and a small bubble of laughter bursts from me.

  “A hat?” I hoot. “A hat?”

  Then Sylvie starts laughing and Gerry and Matilda and even Cleopatra join in.

  Finally, we settle into short bursts of mirth and then a happy, comfortable silence.

  “Thank you,” I say. I smile at each of them.

  Matilda reaches over and squeezes my hand.

  She has a wrap around her head. Maybe she’s started losing her hair too.

  “I don’t know why it hit me so hard.” I twirl a strand. “Losing my hair feels worse than losing my breasts.”

  “That’s because hair is a woman’s identity. Her power,” says Gerry.

  I look at her in surprise.

  “Really?” I ask.

  Gerry nods. “That’s why through history woman have covered their heads. Sometimes all day, every day. Sometimes only in holy places. A woman’s hair is her source of strength, her power, her identity as a woman. Think of all that medieval erotica written about hair.”

  “Bah,” says Cleopatra. “Ridiculous.”

  “If it falls out, does that mean I’m losing my power?” I ask. It feels that way. I feels…awful.

  “No,” cries Matilda.

  “Of course not, dear,” says Sylvie.

  “Do I look powerless?” asks Cleopatra. She yanks off her knitted hat to reveal her gleaming head, covered with only the finest wisps of jet black fuzz.

  “Well?” she asks.

  I stare. Cleo doesn’t look powerless. She looks like a five foot nothing, ninety pound giant that could whoop butt every day of the week from sunup to sundown.

  “Well, do I?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. “Not at all.”