The Moment We Fell

by Kelli Warner

  “Nice to see you could squeeze us into your schedule today, Cade.”

  I cringe, hang the clipboard back on its hook and turn. Mac Williams stands behind me in his faded gray coveralls, wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag.

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  Mac’s in his midsixties and is built like a workhorse, which is pretty impressive. But all those decades of what I suspect involved some hard living—although he’s never talked about it in any confirmable detail—have definitely left their mark, visible in the rooted lines etched across his forehead and around his eyes and mouth. He looks worn, like a piece of leather that’s been left in the sun too long.

  “Walk with me,” Mac says, clapping a hand on my shoulder and steering me toward the side door of the shop. Once outside, Mac sits down on a wooden bench that rests alongside the building and faces out toward the massive dunes. He takes his smoke breaks out here every day, even on days he has to huddle under the awning to shield himself from the rain. Today, though, there’s some blue sky peeking through the gray clouds and a stiff breeze. Right on cue, Mac slides a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and taps it against his palm.

  “How come you’re late?” he asks, raising a cigarette to his lips. He gives his silver lighter a flick and shields the flame from the wind. Just before he touches it to the tip of the cigarette, he glances up at me and mumbles sternly between pinched lips, “Don’t you ever think about smoking or I’ll kick your butt.”

  He says that every time he lights up around me, but he does it anyway. Issuing that warning must make him feel a little less guilty about his addiction.

  Mac’s a good guy. And considering he took a risk eleven months ago and offered me a job when I wasn’t the most ideal employee, I owe him a lot. That’s putting it lightly. The truth is, Mac and I met when he was volunteering with the county’s youth corrections diversion program. It didn’t take long to discover that the guy with the grizzly, hard-nosed exterior was a softy at his core. And from time to time, when he made the right connection, he offered internships at his garage to kids who he felt were serious about getting their lives back on track. Why Mac took a liking to me, I’m not really sure. But he did, and it was part of what saved me from the hole I’d dug for myself after my dad went to prison. For one, I met Jared, Mac’s grandson, and we’ve become good friends. And as a mechanic in this town for over thirty-five years, Mac’s taught me a lot. He’s even helped me soup up my motorcycle and discounted the parts. So, as payback, I’ve come to accept that these weekly one-on-one chats are part of the deal. Usually, it’s just a lot of “How’re ya doing?” followed by “Not too bad” with an “Anything new?” and a “Nope, everything’s good” to wrap it all up. But today, Mac’s in for a treat.

  “I planned to call, but they confiscated my phone in detention,” I finally admit.

  Mac’s quiet for a few seconds as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Detention, huh?”

  “It’s no big deal. I got into a fight earlier this week. It wasn’t serious, and it wasn’t my fault.”

  “I never took you for a fighter,” Mac said. He scrubs a hand across the back of his neck. “But I suppose every man can be one, given the right circumstances.” His warm brown eyes settle on mine. “Find yourself in some circumstances, did ya?”

  “No,” I say. “Just a disagreement.”

  “Wouldn’t be over a young lady, would it?”

  “A friend,” I clarify. Mac nods, as if he’s somehow gathered some great knowledge from those two words. “It won’t happen again.”

  “The being late part or the detention?”

  “Both,” I quickly answer.

  Mac gestures to the empty space beside him on the bench. “Take a load off, Cade. This is the only break you’re going to get today.”

  “Fair enough.” I take a seat.

  “What gives, kid?” Mac asks.

  “I just told you.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. I had a chat with Shawn yesterday.”

  “Of course you did,” I mutter, shaking my head.

  “He brought one of the command rigs in for servicing, and we got to talking.” I can feel his eyes on me as I kick at a patch of dune grass. The silence between us grows thick until I realize he’s waiting for me to make the next move.

  At first, I refuse, squinting up at the sky and avoiding him with everything I can possibly muster. But then I break and say, “Do I have to open those stupid letters just because they want me to?”

  “Nope,” Mac says, exhaling curls of smoke. “That’s your business.”

  “Maybe you could tell Shawn and my sister that. Because apparently, when I say it, they can’t hear me.”

  “Look, Cade, I’m not one to even attempt to tell you that life is easy. Sometimes, son, it just stinks, and you have to deal with it the best way you can.”

  I wait for a few beats, but the only thing that passes between us is a gust of cold wind that ruffles my shirt collar. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

  Mac raises a thick eyebrow. “Were you expecting something else?”

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “Maybe some morsel of enlightenment? A tiny nugget of wisdom, if nothing else. What am I supposed to do with ‘Life stinks sometimes’?”

  He scratches his stubbled chin. “If you’re looking for wisdom, Cade, you picked the wrong guy. My enlightenment tank is a little low this afternoon.” He takes another drag from his cigarette, then flicks the butt into the patch of sand at his feet and squashes it with the toe of his heavy work boot. “The fact is, life does stink from time to time, and it can be that way for a while. I think you and I both know that.”

  “Well, that’s helpful,” I say, and I don’t even bother hiding the sarcasm in my voice.

  “But I will say this. And if you pay no attention to anything I say from here on out, hear me loud and clear on this one. Life is not something you want to handle alone, Cade.” Mac stands and places a firm hand on my shoulder, and a serious expression crosses his face. “Disagree with the people you love all you want. But don’t shut them out. You know good and well what happens when you try to teach them a lesson.”

  Classic Mac. He manages to come off like some run-of-the-mill guy with no real agenda, and then he proceeds to nail me with a zinger that hits dead center.

  “Now, get back in there. I need you to clean the front office today.”

  I nod, and with his words still lingering, I head back inside, but I stop short at the sight of the customer waiting at the front desk. She’s nibbling on her thumbnail, her head cocked so that she can get a look through the open doorway to the automotive bay.

  “Can I help you?” I ask, stepping up to the desk.

  Principal Chapman’s daughter whips around, her eyes wide when she meets mine. “Oh! Um, hi.”

  “Hey.”

  “I didn’t know you worked here.”

  I tap in my password on the computer, and the screen comes to life. “What can I do for you?” I repeat.

  “Oh, um, I brought my car.” She gestures behind her, and I see a maroon Camry parked in one of the front stalls. “It needs a tune-up. I think Jay, um—I have an appointment. For a tune-up. I think.” Something has her flustered. I locate the appointment in the schedule and grab a clipboard from under the desk.

  “Can I have your key?”

  She stares at me blankly, as if my words are on a two-second delay, then snaps to attention. “My key? Yes, here. Here it is.” She slides the key across the counter.

  “I’m gonna grab an odometer reading. I’ll be right back.” She nods, and I head out the front door, chuckling a little to myself. When I return, she’s got her nose buried in her phone. She glances up, and even with a look of unease returning to her face, she’s stunning. I thought that the minute she nearly tackled me at the airport in defense of her luggage. Shifting quickly, I refocus on the computer screen before she catches me checking her out and thinks I’m some kind of perv.
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  “Hey, you aren’t by any chance looking for an office clerk or know of someone else who’s hiring, do you?” Paige asks, leaning a little closer to the counter with anticipation.

  “Not unless you’ve got experience as a diesel mechanic,” I say dryly, adding the odometer information into the computer. My attempt at humor falls flat when she frowns.

  “Nope,” she sighs. “Not in my skill set.”

  As she scrolls once more through her phone, I have an undeniable urge to help this girl, and I have no idea why. “You should check out the waterfront,” I offer. “There are a few businesses down there that are looking for holiday help.”

  Her eyes instantly lift and a small smile, although fleeting, flashes across her lips. “Really?”

  “Yeah, there’s a bookstore on Marina Drive that has a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window. At least they did yesterday.”

  “Thanks.” She leans to her left to get a better glimpse of something behind me. When surprise registers on her face, I turn to see Jared pass by the doorway.

  “Was that guy carrying a guitar?” Paige asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “The owner lets our band rehearse here a few times a week after closing.” That’s another thing about Mac that makes him a cool guy. He even rearranged the staff room to give us a place to store our instruments and equipment in between gigs. All he asks in return is that we not invite people into the garage after hours and make sure everything is locked up tight when we leave. It’s a rule we’ve never broken.

  “You’re in a band?” Curiosity lightens her eyes. “Where do you play?”

  “Kind of all over the place. Mostly parties. We’re playing at a college house party near the north jetty next week.”

  “I think I’m going to that one,” she says. “Miranda Campbell, right?”

  Is she serious? “You know Miranda?”

  “Not really,” she admits. “But my friends do. Why are you looking at me like that?”

  I straighten. “Sorry,” I offer. “I never pegged you for that kind of party.”

  Her eyebrows arch. “A sorority party?”

  I scratch the back of my head and hit

on the computer. The gears of the printer under the counter come to life. “It’s not a school-sanctioned event, that’s all,” I clarify. “Your pops might not approve.” I can’t keep the mockery out of my voice.

  “Well—I’ll be there,” she says airily, but I can see her brain is working overtime to decipher my words, and a hint of concern inches its way across her brow.

  A horn honks. Over Paige’s shoulder, I see a Prius out front.

  “That’s my ride,” she volunteers. “When do you think the car will be done?”

  I pull the work order off the printer and slide it across the top of the counter toward her, along with a pen. “Sign here. You should be able to pick it up tomorrow after school unless there are additional repairs that need to be made. We’ll let you know.”

  She slides the paper and the pen back to me. “Okay, thanks.” My eyes follow her to the door.

  “Hey,” I call after her, then mentally kick myself when the question that’s been gnawing at me for days makes its way past my good sense and onto my lips. I should just shut up and let her go, but instead, I ask, “Why did you stick up for me? After the cafeteria thing. Why’d you do it?”

  Paige’s eyes sweep the floor. “Because it was the right thing to do.”

  “And do you always do the right thing?” I ask.

  She bites her lower lip, and when she lifts her eyes to meet mine, there’s an unmistakable sadness in them. Shaking her head, she answers, “No, I don’t. But I’m trying to change that.” And with that simple response, she leaves, closing the door behind her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Paige

  I return to the mechanic’s the following day to pick up my car, and I’m thankful that Cade isn’t behind the front counter. From the minute we crossed paths, I’ve been nothing but a bumbling idiot around that guy, and I’m half embarrassed and half annoyed that I can’t seem to pull myself together.

  When I get back to the house, I quickly change my clothes and scoop up a few more résumés to drop off downtown. I need to focus on more important things than Cade Matthews. I’m heading out the door when Connie stops me in the kitchen.

  “Paige! I’m glad I caught you. I need a favor.”

  “What is it?”

  “Could you take Lily to ballet this afternoon? I wouldn’t ask, but it’s an emergency. I’ve got to show a house at four thirty and Jay’s tied up in a staff meeting.”

  Lily tugs on my forearm. “I’m a ballerina,” she proudly announces. I blink hard and stare down at her as she twirls at my side in her pink leotard.

  “Paige? Are you all right?” Connie asks.

  My head snaps up. “What? Yeah, ballet class. Got it. No problem.”

  Relief floods her face. “Her class is at the Gold Coast Dance Academy on Front Street. Here’s the address.” She scribbles the information on a scratch pad on the counter and hastily hands it to me. “Lily can show you how to get there. I’ll put her booster seat in your car.” She slides a small stack of papers into her bag. “You know,” she adds lightly, “they have a full schedule of classes. It’s quite a prestigious program, actually. You might want to check in to it.”

  “No,” I say, too quickly and too loudly. Connie’s mouth forms a small “o” of surprise as she realizes she’s overstepped, which is odd because we haven’t figured out yet where exactly the boundaries between us are.

  “I’m not interested,” I manage, fingering a strand of hair and avoiding her eyes. “I’m still trying to settle into school.” My attempt to sound nonchalant misses its target miserably, but I can’t have this conversation with her. When Connie smiles apologetically beneath concerned eyes, I turn my attention to the cute little blonde holding my hand. “Okay, Lil, let’s get you to ballet!” She claps and jumps up and down.

  Connie scoops Lily’s dance bag off the center island and hands it to me. “I’ll pick her up at five thirty. Oh, and this evening, we’ve got Tanner’s soccer game, so we won’t be back until about eight. There are leftovers in the fridge when you get hungry.” She kisses Lily on the forehead, then, to my surprise, leans in and kisses my cheek. She grabs her car keys and disappears through the door, calling out, “Thanks so much, Paige!”

  “Anytime,” I answer.

  The Gold Coast Dance Academy is housed in what looks like an old warehouse, right next to a mixed martial arts gym. When we step inside, there’s a large lobby and a crowd of girls in leotards and ballet slippers bustling about. An equal-size crowd of mothers occupy the bank of chairs scattered along the perimeter; some are on their phones, while others are engaged in conversation as their children scamper about. Lily nudges me forward, and I come to a dead stop in the doorway of a spacious room that’s lined with mirrors on three sides.

  “This is my class, Paige!”

  Something strange happens at that moment. Weightlessness envelops me, but my feet are somehow anchored to the floor, refusing to allow me to take another step, as if they’re mired in mud. Thoughts of my recent nightmare come rushing back. I wipe clammy palms on the hips of my slacks, and there’s a dull ache in my stomach that matches the sensation pulsing behind my temples.

  “Come watch me!” Lily says, her little hand tugging at my own, urging me farther into the room. I resist, my breathing growing shallow and stunted. I manage to swallow, a frantic attempt to open my airway for a cleansing breath, but it doesn’t work. My head is swimming like I’m encased in glass and everything around me has morphed into slow motion.

  A large group of girls, all several years older than Lily by the looks of it, are lined up at the barre along the far wall. Their attention is scattered, but one by one, at the teacher’s repeated command, they fall into sync and begin their warmup. It’s a routine I could do with my eyes closed.

  First position. Demi-plié. Tendu front. Back
to first. My throat tightens and sweat beads along my upper lip.

  Tendu side. Back to first. My short, quick attempts to gather air into my lungs are audible.

  Tendu back. Back to first. Demi-plié.

  My hands twitch at my sides as the throbbing of my heart grows thunderous against my rib cage, panic welling into a tight ball lodged at the base of my throat. I can’t for the life of me understand what is happening, why my body is reacting the way it is, only that I have to lean against the wall to steady myself. Frantically, I search the room for something that can draw my focus until this light-headedness passes.

  A peal of laughter immediately draws my eyes to the instructor across the room. The woman is tall and statuesque and—familiar. I’m so stunned at the sight of her, an invisible force takes hold of my heart and squeezes the life out of it. The woman’s long, dark hair is pulled back into a tight chignon, and she releases another laugh across the space that pierces my consciousness like an arrow dead center against its target, sharp and quick, unleashing a memory so vivid, I gasp. Her infectious laughter swirls amid girlish squeals and fills the studio from wall to wall, stabbing right to the nucleus of my existence.

  Mom?

  The spinning that’s taken my brain hostage intensifies as my mother—my mother!—executes a flawless pirouette for Lily and her young classmates, who’ve managed to form a mismatched line near the doorway. She’s right here in front of me, and she’s vibrant and mesmerizing—and alive!

  No. No, no, no! Pressing my hands to my eyes, I silently order them to refocus, to regain some measure of control over this madness.

  It can’t be her. It can’t be her. It cannot. Be. Her. I chant the words silently over and over to myself, willing, no, begging my mind to believe them.

  But I want it to be her. So badly, I would trade my soul for it. I scrunch my eyes tight, warning my conscience that it’s a twisted deception, an unhinged illusion. Swaying under the weight of it all, rationality spars with desperation. Music bleeds from speakers somewhere in the room, but it’s disjointed to my ears. The sounds of childhood echo off the walls, the walls that are now closing in around me and sucking what feels like the last of the air from my lungs.