The Upside of Falling

by Meghan Quinn

  He shakes his head and faces me. Distraught and confused, his shoulders tense, his lips press into a thin line. “What do you even want to do with me? I’ve barely been a decent human to you all night. You should be downstairs enjoying yourself, not up here with a guy closing himself off from you.”

  “I want to talk to you, Colby. I want to get to know you.”

  He laughs, but it’s not the kind of laugh that’s filled with humor; it’s more menacing, doubtful. “You want to get to know me? Fine.” He holds up his hand and starts ticking off his fingers. “I’m a senior at the Air Force Academy. I’m waiting for my acceptance into flight school, and once I get that, I’m out of here. I have one goal in life, and it’s to be a fighter pilot. I don’t have time for anything but school and my studies. Despite how goddamn beautiful you are, inside and out, I can’t let myself get distracted from my goal, and you’re a distraction. A huge distraction, the kind of distraction I know will turn my world upside down.” He shakes his head. “I can’t afford to be distracted, Rory.” His voice softens. “I can’t.”

  Stepping toward him, unable to stop myself, I press my hand against his chest. Sucking in a sharp breath of air, his eyes fall to mine, his body tensing, the beat of his heart running wild beneath my palm.

  “I just want to talk.”

  Holding his breath, he shakes his head. “Talking is what’s going to destroy me.” Taking my hand in his, he lowers it to my side and pushes past me. “I suggest you leave me alone, Rory. Trust me. Stay away.”

  Walking out of the bedroom, his shoulders slumped, his hand in his short hair, Colby leaves me. I have so many questions running through my head. The most prominent one is why? Why did he become so intense? Why does he believe he needs me to stay away? In many respects, I admire his resolve. But his words keep rattling around in my mind . . .

  Despite how goddamn beautiful you are, inside and out, I can’t let myself get distracted from my goal, and you’re a distraction. I can understand not wanting a distraction, but what I can’t understand is why I would be that to him.

  Unfortunately for him, I’m not done. He thinks I’m beautiful, and I’m far from done with him.

  Chapter Seven

  COLBY

  Ten years old . . .

  “Take this box to the curb, will you?” Mom places a box full of Dad’s clothes in my hands. This morning, she wandered around the house gathering all of Dad’s things, stuffing them in boxes. It feels like she’s clearing out every memory I have of him.

  It’s been a week since we buried him next to Grandma. Only a week. Gramps hasn’t been around. Mom says he’s sad and can’t bear to be around me since I look just like Dad.

  I called him yesterday, but he didn’t answer. I left him a message asking him to call me back, or come visit me.

  “Hurry up, Colby. I need all these boxes out of the house.”

  “Why are you getting rid of Dad’s things?” I ask, feeling a lump in my throat starting to form. “Don’t you miss him?”

  Frustrated, she huffs out a long breath and snaps at me. “Of course I miss him, but we have to say bye and move on. We’re moving on, Colby.”

  “But . . . I don’t want to move on, Mom. I don’t want to forget Dad.”

  “Colby, I don’t have time for this,” she yells. “Take the goddamn boxes to the curb or I’ll take all your planes and shove them in the trashcan along with your dad’s belongings.”

  Tears welling up in my eyes, my throat so tight I can’t breathe, I scurry out of my mom’s room before she can see how much I care about my planes. It’s not the first time she’s used them against me, that she’s punished me by taking them away, or threatened to throw them away. I’ve gotten smart now, and I hide some of them in the attic. She doesn’t know because she doesn’t go up there. When I told Dad about my little secret, he squeezed my hand and told me my secret was safe with him.

  Moving down the hallway, I look behind me to see if Mom is watching. The coast is clear, so I take the box into my room and start digging through it, like I did with the other boxes, only keeping some of the things that are most important to me.

  So far, I have Dad’s wallet, his Air Force sweatshirt he got from Gramps, and his watch. Scanning through the box, sifting through the clothes, I spot Dad’s old college gym shorts. I bring them close to my chest, remembering all the days before he got sick when he came home from racquetball wearing these bright red shorts and a huge smile on his face. After pressing a kiss to Mom’s lips, he then tackled me to the floor where he tickled me for what seemed liked forever.

  Stashing them away with my other things, I do another dig, wanting to keep it all but knowing I can’t. Mom will know and use Dad’s things against me as well. Only the most important items can stay with me.

  Closing the box, I peek out my door before hustling down the stairs, taking the box to the curb with the rest of his stuff. This feels so wrong. I want my dad to come back. Why do we have to throw his things away? Will they be buried with him? I hate this. I hate that he died and left me. I close my eyes, channeling my dad to the forefront of my mind, and tell him I’m sorry. A car suddenly pulls into the driveway, the sharp turn it made scaring me into the grass.

  From my perched position, music booms through the car, loud and obnoxious, the smooth-looking car unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The engine dies down, and a polished loafer steps onto the concrete of the driveway. Rounding the front of the car, Dr. Ted surveys the house, straightens his tie, and then tucks his sunglasses through his button-up shirt. His loafers clack along the sidewalk leading to the house. He doesn’t see me as he makes his way to the front, walking in without knocking or ringing the doorbell.

  What is he doing here?

  Last time I saw him was at Dad’s funeral, where his arm was wrapped around my mom, whispering into her ear every time she let out a loud cry.

  Getting to my feet, I brush off my pants, and quietly make my way toward the house. I stop halfway when I hear a booming voice come from the top of the stairs. Scurrying toward the door, I listen in.

  “I thought all this shit would be gone by the time I got here. What the hell have you been doing all day?” Dr. Ted’s voice rises. So angry. Scary. “If I go in the garage, am I going to find the same mess?”

  “I haven’t been able to go in there yet,” my mom’s weak voice answers.

  “It’s not that hard. You just trash everything.”

  Trash everything? Why would he trash everything of my dad’s?

  My mind quickly calculates what’s in the garage that I might want to keep.

  Dad’s baseball glove. It’s in the garage.

  Heart pounding, not wanting to get caught, I rush through the house, through the laundry room and into the garage, straight to the sports bin where we keep all our gear. Sweat starts to drip off my forehead as I dig, frantically searching for the glove. It’s not here. Ted’s voice grows stronger and stronger as he gets closer to the garage. Where is it?

  I have to find the glove before it’s thrown out with the rest of Dad’s things.

  Where could it be?

  Searching the space, my heart in my throat, I spot it on a shelf near the side door. As fast as I can, I run to the glove, bring it close to my chest, and slip out the side door just as I hear the garage door open and Ted begin to toss things around.

  Why does he care about Dad’s things in the garage? Or in the house? I don’t understand.

  Reaching into my pocket, I open up Mom’s cell phone. I stole it from her purse earlier when she started making me take boxes to the curb. Hiding behind a bush next to the house, I find Gramps’s number and dial him.

  It rings.

  And rings.

  And rings.

  When he doesn’t pick up, I listen to his voicemail and wait to leave him a message.

  Tears in my eyes, clutching my dad’s baseball glove, I speak. “Gramps, it’s Colby. I . . . uh, I was hoping you would answer. I’m scared. I don’t know wha
t to do. Dr. Ted is here, Mom is getting rid of everything Dad owned, and I . . . I miss you. I’m sorry if I look like Dad and make you sad, but I really need you. Please come get me. Please come play planes with me.”

  I miss Gramps. I miss his hugs, and the way he smells like mint and soap. Why won’t he come play with me? Why won’t he come and hug me? I’m so sad and need him so much. Please, Gramps. Don’t leave me too.

  Hanging up, I drop the phone in my lap and let the tears fall.

  Chapter Eight

  COLBY

  Forty.

  Forty-one.

  Forty-two.

  The door to the pool house swings open, and without even waiting for a welcome, Stryder strolls in, coffee mug in hand, hair disheveled, and wearing nothing but a pair of black sweat pants and moccasins. He shuts the door with a push of his foot, keeping the cold air from spilling into my small space.

  “Pushups? Don’t you think you should take a break?” Stryder steps on my ass as he passes by and takes a seat in a wingback chair in the corner of the room, legs spread, slouching.

  Pushing up from my position, I lean back and start doing crunches. “What do you want?”

  “Come on, are you still salty about the other night?”

  It’s been two days since the night we went to the party. Wednesday and Thursday were filled with Sheppard family Thanksgiving rituals, long meals, conversations with relatives about the Air Force Academy, and story after story of the many years Stryder’s family spent in the clouds, from his grandpa to his dad, to his uncles.

  Unlike Stryder, who’s heard the same stories over and over again, I welcome them. They’re a distant reminder of what I’m striving for every day, the person I want to become.

  But because we’ve been so busy, I haven’t spent much time with Stryder. Until now.

  “I’m not fucking salty.”

  “Really? Could have fooled me. Tell me about the friend you made at Tom’s party.”

  “She’s not my friend,” I bite out, lifting up and down, my stomach starting to burn.

  “That’s kind of dickish, man. She was just trying to get to know you.”

  “And I told her not to waste her time. There’s no point in starting anything up with a girl when I have a few months left at the academy and an undetermined future. You know better than anyone that we have no idea what we’ll be doing after graduation. I don’t want to complicate that.”

  “Dude, she’s just a girl. Have a little fun. You don’t have to date her, but you can sure as hell have a good time until we graduate.”

  “She’s not that kind of girl.” I sit all the way up and wrap my arms around my legs. Staring at the floor, I say, “She’s the kind of girl that buries herself deep inside your bones, makes you ache for her touch, for the sound of her voice. She’s different, and I knew it the minute I looked her in the eyes.”

  Silent, Stryder sips his coffee. “You’re such a damn romantic, man. No wonder all the female cadets are desperate for you to look their way.”

  Rolling my eyes, I stand and head toward the bathroom to turn the shower on. “They’re not desperate.” Stryder gives me a pointed look. “Okay, maybe a little.” I inwardly roll my eyes. Stryder knows I avoid those girls as well. I refuse to jeopardize my future.

  Chuckling, he turns in his seat, legs hanging over the arm of the chair. “Bowling tonight?”

  I put a dollop of toothpaste on my toothbrush and stick my head out of the bathroom door. “So just like that, we’re done fighting?”

  “You know I can’t have you mad at me forever, sweetheart.” Stryder holds his heart. “The quicker we can kiss and make up, the better. And for the record, I’m not quite sure why you were mad at me in the first place.”

  I spit in the sink. “For taking me to the party.”

  “Oh, well get the fuck over it because we’re going bowling tonight. Cosmic bowling.”

  “What are we, twelve?”

  “Only if we wear white shirts so the black lights reflect off us.”

  I rinse my mouth and ask, “Hardie and Joey going to be there?”

  “Yeah, of course. Think I just want to date it up with you by myself at cosmic bowling? Come on, dude. I like you, but not that much.”

  Leaning past the wall that separates the bathroom from the bedroom, I say, “I’m about to take a shower and you’re still here. You tell me how much you like me.”

  Chuckling, Stryder stands. “Fuck off, man.”

  “Why am I the only one who got the clown-looking bowling shoes?” Hardie asks, staring down at his multi-colored bowling shoes sporting hues of red and olive green.

  Stryder and I both rented straight black bowling shoes that look more like Vans than anything.

  “It’s because you have tiny-ass feet,” Stryder says, slapping Hardie on the back.

  “Fuck you, I don’t have tiny feet. We wear the same size shoe, asshole.”

  “Oh killer shoes, Bambi,” Joey says, sitting next to Hardie, a giant, teasing smile on her face.

  Bambi is the name Joey gave Hardie during our first year at the academy. It was after his first flight in the glider. He stepped out of the plane, knees wobbling, legs shaking, looking like a brand new baby fawn learning how to walk. He blamed it on the wind whipping off the Front Range, but we knew better. He was terrified. He’s much better now, but Bambi has been his nickname ever since. Poor bastard.

  “You need to get a bowling ball?” Stryder asks me.

  I finish tying my shoe and stand to join Stryder. “Why did we get two lanes?”

  “So we can bowl more,” Stryder answers as if I’m stupid. “And don’t think I didn’t notice the shirt you wore tonight.”

  “It’s the only thing I had left.”

  “It’s white.” He gives me a pointed look.

  My voice turns gritty as I repeat, “It was all I had left unless you wanted me to wear PT gear.”

  “You’re going to be so goddamn pretty under the black lights tonight; you very well might get lucky.”

  “In your fucking dreams.” Pulling out the bowling balls, I test the weight and thumbholes. The fourteen feels like a good fit for me.

  Stryder eyes my ball and shakes his head. “You couldn’t have picked a more boring ball. It’s black. That shit isn’t going to glow under the lights. Grab that neon orange one.”

  “It’s a seven. No way in hell my finger will fit in that thing.”

  “Roll it granny style.”

  Shaking my head, I walk past him with my size fourteen in hand. “There is something seriously wrong with—”

  I don’t finish my sentence. I’m brought to a dead stop. The sounds of pins being reset and bowling balls traveling down the slippery lanes fade out when I spot two very familiar girls standing at the shoe desk, laughing and looking around, both dressed casually. One has blonde hair piled on top of her head, the other has brown waves cascading down her back. Fuck.

  Stryder comes up behind me and pats me on the back. “Uh, did I forget to tell you that Ryan and Rory were going to be here too?”

  Just from the mere sight of her again, my heart pounds erratically—thumping, palpitating—sending my lungs into a frenzy. Gasping for air. Every night she’s been in my dreams, that sweet voice rolling over me, comforting me. Her tiny hand pressed against my chest, wandering up my neck, playing with the short strands of my hair. Those mossy-green eyes connecting with mine, pleading with me to stay, to talk, to spend a few more minutes with her.

  She’s haunted me.

  She’s imprinted herself in my mind, despite how many times I’ve chastised myself to let go, to forget her.

  And now she’s here. Only a few feet away, looking fine as fuck in a pair of tight-fitted black jeans and a bright red, long-sleeved shirt. From her side profile, the swell of her breast peaks past the low V of her shirt, and the color painted on her lips rivals the red on her chest. Oh fuck.

  “Your girl is looking hot as fuck, man.” Stryder pats my back. “Good
luck saying no to that.”

  Before Stryder can get too far away, I say, “I’m leaving.”

  Sighing, Stryder turns in my direction, his face inches from mine. “Don’t be a dick, Colby. You’re here. Just have fun. Sorry, but I’m not giving you a ride home and no one else is either. Deal with it.”

  Fucking Stryder. Doesn’t he get it? It’s not that I don’t want to see Rory. It’s that I can’t see her. The other night when we were together, I had this overwhelming sense of calm, and that terrified me. I haven’t felt calm since before my dad was diagnosed with mantel-cell lymphoma.

  I don’t deal well with calm.

  I like the pressure. I thrive off the storm raging inside me, because it pushes me to achieve my dreams, to get out of here, to make something of myself.

  The calm. When you give in to the calm, you lose track of what matters the most. That’s when you settle. And it’s when your hopes and dreams are put on hold.

  I can’t give in to the calm.

  I need the turbulence.

  “Colby, are you okay?” Startled, I scoot back, drawing a frown from Rory. Folding her arms over her chest, propping up her breasts, she says, “I don’t bite, you know.”

  Shit.

  She might not bite but she sure as hell isn’t innocent either.

  “Yeah, okay.” Stepping to the side, I try to make my way to our lanes, but Rory must have another idea because she stops me, hand to my arm, her pull tougher than I expected.

  “You don’t have to be rude. You can say things like hi, how are you? How was your Thanksgiving?”

  Relenting—because she’s right, I don’t have to be a dick—I face her and ask, “How was your Thanksgiving?” It might sound a little forced, a little robotic, but I’m hanging on by a thread here. Being close to her again, hearing the softness in her honey-like voice, spreads goose bumps over my skin; it’s almost too much to bear. Why does she affect me like this?

  And my robotic voice doesn’t even deter her, because she puts on a happy face and answers me. “It was okay. Family came in from out of town, Fort Collins actually. Spent the day stuffing myself, and worked it all off this morning at my classes—at least I hope I did. Did you have a good Thanksgiving?”