His eyes hold mine for what seems like forever.
“Hey, Sixteen,” he says, and his face breaks into the old grin. “It’s good to see you.”
“You, too, actually,” I say. “Now that I’ve recovered from the shock.”
“Sorry about that,” he says. “I could have warned you, but then you might have declined my offer.”
“Probably not,” I say.
“So, how has life treated you? You look wonderful—hardly a day over seventeen.”
“You got charming, huh?” I say. “That’s new.”
He chuckles, runs a hand over his hair.
“Life’s okay,” I say. “I keep learning, which must count for something. And I’ve tried to take your advice.”
“Ah?” he says.
“‘Work hard and become brilliant. Try to forget about me.’ You remember that?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I suppose you’ve looked back on me as a heartless bastard.”
“Sometimes.”
“But you did become brilliant, Sixteen,” he says.
“Don’t take too much credit,” I say, then soften it with a smile.
“I don’t,” he says. “And did you forget about me?”
I laugh. “Well, you made a strong impression.”
“You too, Sixteen, you too.”
He clears his throat, steps back and gestures at the walls where my paintings hang. “Do you like how we’ve hung them?”
I take a moment, then say, “Yes, it makes sense. I didn’t realize they were so...”
“Good?”
“No, I mean, thanks. I was going to say intense.”
“Ah.”
“But I don’t really look at anything again once it’s finished—I just move on.”
“Interesting,” he says.
“So, are you still painting, Caleb?”
“Of course. The gallery is Michelle’s mostly, except when I take an interest in someone.”
“Like me.”
“Yes, like you.”
I hesitate, then ask, “Did you know it was mine? That first one Sal brought?”
“Not until the day we sold it. But there was something in it—it spoke to me, gave me a déjà vu, you could say.”
“You did teach me a lot.”
“Good. Good luck tomorrow night, Mara. I hope you’ll allow me to feel just a little bit proud.”
***
Bernadette and Faith forced me to buy high heels and a new dress. It’s red, and very short, and I’m trying to ignore it. I am also trying to remember not to scrub my hands through my hair, which has been styled, with lots of product, to stand up on purpose.
Sal whistles when he comes to pick me up.
“You don’t think I look conspicuous?” I ask.
“Babe, you’re supposed to be conspicuous. You’re hot and scary looking at the same time.”
“Oh, yay.”
“It’s good, it’s good,” he says. “Now, let’s go.”
It’s not the entire art world of Toronto there, but still, the opening is surreal. Michelle and Caleb propel me around and I shake hands and smile and try to answer questions about my style, my techniques, and my influences.
“Vestiges of minimalism.”
“Interesting use of blue.”
“Obvious commentary on the politics of our time.”
“Gritty.”
“Rich.”
“Sparse.”
Can I be rich and sparse at the same time?
This crap cracks me up.
I also overhear the less positive comments and try to keep the same sense of humor.
“Gross.”
“It doesn’t speak to me.”
“Derivative.”
“Indecisive.”
“Inaccessible.”
“Melodramatic.”
“Cold.”
“Overwrought.”
And so on.
Bernadette, resplendent in pink vinyl and see-through knitwear, circles the gallery hand in hand with Faith. They walk up beside people and make loud, positive comments. I take them aside and ask them to stop, but Faith just giggles and Bernadette winks at me and wanders off.
“Can you do something?” I ask Faith.
She shakes her head.
Later someone asks me if it’s true that I’ve been contacted by the Whitney, and I see Bernadette giving me the thumbs up.
“No,” I say, and the poor guy walks off looking confused.
Mom comes, looks at the price list and nods her head in approval before taking a call on her cell and disappearing.
Dad and Shauna come later and, likely at Bernadette’s provocation, contribute further to the ridiculous Whitney rumor.
“Deny it all you want,” Bernadette says, “it’s all about spin—it’s marketing. And who knows, the Whitney might call you.”
“Sure.”
Sal keeps me in diet coke and I find myself glancing at the door and feeling disappointed as the hours pass and Hugo doesn’t come. Maybe I should have called him to invite him personally.
Should have, should have, should have. I have drunk too deeply of “should have.” Perhaps it is time to banish “should have.”
And there’s that stupid ache for Erik again.
The crowd, which seems large mostly because the gallery is small, thins eventually and I have time to breathe and be with my paintings. Not that I’ve ever found them great company, but these particular ones, and this particular night, are different.
I send my thoughts out to wherever Lucas may be. I wonder what he would think of me tonight, and whether he would see himself here, all over the walls. Perhaps he would be happy for me. Perhaps he would want me to let him go, to let time heal the mess we all made. Or perhaps he wouldn’t.
Perhaps I will accept that I’ll never know.
And I will start to think about what I want.
And then I can begin to deserve it.
***
Midnight: Michelle goes to lock the front door, but a last straggler is asking to come in.
“Sorry, you’ll have to come back tomorrow,” she says.
She’s about to shut the door when I see who it is.
“Wait,” I call out in a strangled voice. “I know him.”
She lets him in and goes back to join Caleb for more champagne.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he says.
We stand by the door. He shuffles his feet, I pull at my dress.
“I’m not too late?” he says.
“Probably not,” I say. “Why don’t you come in?”
“All right.”
I would have been fine to do this alone.
But perhaps I won’t have to.
The End
Acknowledgments
Endless thanks to:
My agent, Emmanuelle Alspaugh, for falling in love with Falling Under in the first place and going on to be the most dedicated, hardworking agent I could wish for;
My Plume editor, Alexis Washam who has such clear vision and was a total joy to work with;
Marie Coolman, Mary Pomponio and everyone at Plume, plus Melanie Storaschuk and the wonderful people at Penguin Canada;
Louisa McFarlane, for the stunning cover image, Adrienne Kress, for endless patience and coming through with a great cover design, and Jing-Ling Kao for her lending her sharp eye and creativity to the cover-conceiving process way back at the beginning when I had no idea what I wanted;
Rob Mayette, my go-to guy for formatting, converting and uploading;
Eileen Cruz Coleman for Smashwords formatting assistance;
Early readers and critique partners: Joel Hechter, Shelley Saville, Stephanie Saville, Edna Saville, Laura Adamo, Suzanne Fitzpatrick, Patrice Latka, Lori Delorme, Maia Caron, Heather Wardell, Joanne Levy, Bev Katz Rosenbaum and Maureen McGowan;
Kristy Kiernan, Tish Cohen and the other founding members of www.thedebutanteball.com and my fellow Debutantes, in particular: Gail Konop Baker
, Jenny Gardiner, Lisa Daily, Jess Riley, Eileen Cook, Meredith Cole, Katie Alender, Tiffany Baker, Eve Brown Waite and Kristina Riggle;
The many talented writers at Backspace, The Writer’s Place, and all my other writing buddies, online and off, including (but not restricted to, as many have been mentioned above) Lesley Livingston, Caitlin Sweet, Keith Cronin, Karen Dionne, Lauren Baratz-Logsted...oh this is terrible, there are too many to mention and I know I’m forgetting some, but please, all of you, consider yourselves thanked!
My fellow authors who generously endorsed the book, and the many fantastic reviewers and book bloggers who have helped to spread the word;
The wonderful book clubs who continue to invite me to join their lively discussions;
Stephanie Saville for sending me off to my first writing class and forever being my expert on all things psychological;
Jay Mitchell and Renee Beneteau for expertise on art and the lives and training of artists;
My friends and family from whom I have had immeasurable support and inspiration: Cindy and Gary Ullman, Brett Younge, the Saville and Ullman families, Brian Younge, my wonderful Wacholtz in-laws, Kimber Stevens, Nicholle Russell, Laura Adamo, Gillian Stecyk, Miranda
Stecyk, Leslie Zacks, the Kleinberg family and the McGill Girls;
David Rennie for setting me on the path;
Michael Wacholtz and my two little girls, for whom I live and breathe.
Author Information
Danielle Younge-Ullman is a novelist, playwright and freelance writer. She studied English and Theater at McGill University, then returned to her hometown of Toronto to work as professional actor for ten years. Her one-act play, 7 Acts of Intercourse, debuted at Toronto’s SummerWorks Festival in 2005. Danielle lives in Toronto with her husband, two daughters, and their dog, Finny. Falling Under is her first novel.
For more information including updates, a book club reading guide and links to interviews and podcasts, visit the author’s website: www.danielleyoungeullman.com
Author Endorsements for Falling Under
“A fearless, penetrating debut.” Tish Cohen, author of Town House
“Mara’s journey is a wild ride, back toward the harrowing story of her first love and forward toward the possibility of new love. Danielle Younge-Ullman writes about human connections with thrilling energy, honesty, and fury. And her sex scenes are as raw and gutsy as any I’ve ever read.” Ellen Sussman, NYT bestselling author of French Lessons
“Sleek, erotic, wry and poignant.” Karen Karbo, author of The Gospel According to Coco Chanel
“Captivating, cutting edge, and not easily forgotten.” Eileen Cook, author of Unpredictable.
“Heartwrenching and provocative all at once. With crisp, polished prose and a fearless narrative style, Younge-Ullman creates a spellbinding journey through young adulthood.” Martha O'Connor, author of The Bitch Posse.
“Brave, bold and absolutely brilliant.” Lisa Daily, author of Fifteen Minutes of Shame
“Falling Under is astonishing, one of the finest debuts I’ve read this year.” Lauren Baratz-Logsted, multi-published author, Lauren Baratz-Logsted.
“Younge-Ullman redefines modern fiction with this finely wrought, edgy debut. With her crisp dialogue, precisely drawn characters, and heartrending prose, Stephen Elliot and Heather O’Neill fans will have a new literary crush to thrill them. Younge-Ullman is the best kind of new author– enormously talented and utterly unafraid.” Kristy Kiernan, author of Matters of Faith.
“Brimming with raw emotion and intensity and peppered with damaged souls you want so much to root for.” Jenny Gardiner, author of Sleeping With Ward Cleaver.
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