The Upside of Falling

by Meghan Quinn

  Rolling my eyes, I stand up and push past her.

  “You know, just because he hasn’t texted you, doesn’t mean you need to be bitter toward everyone around you.”

  “I’m not bitter, just irritated.” I toss my purse on my table, hearing my keys jingle in the bag. I give it one more search, and my fingers connect with them in one of the side pockets. Ugh, built-in side pockets. They are only good for holding ChapStick and making you think you’ve lost your keys.

  Ryan has already discarded a few of my dresses onto my unmade bed, and is currently standing in front of the mirror, trying to envision herself in my velvety green dress with long sleeves and an impossibly low back.

  “Too fancy.” She chucks it to the side with the rest of the discarded dresses.

  “You’ll be hanging those back up, you know.”

  She makes a non-committal sound and says, “It’s been a little over a week since you sent that letter. Have you ever thought that maybe instead of texting or calling you, he wrote you back?”

  “He wouldn’t—” I pause and think about it for a second. “Well, I guess maybe he could have written back. I just thought he’d go the easy route and text.”

  “Oh my God, Rory. The guy has old-fashioned written all over him. Do you really not think he’d write you back? When was the last time you checked your mail?”

  “Uh, maybe a few days ago.” My legs start to itch to run down to my mailbox, my heart constricting in my chest. What if he wrote back?

  “I’d go check if I were you because he might have written you, and that letter might have been sitting in your mailbox, unread, for days.”

  She paints a pretty annoying picture. Without another word, I snag my mail key and jog down the steps to the mailbox that hangs on the side of the wall. With a deep breath, I twist the key inside and open the red door. Peeking inside, I pull out a few days’ worth of advertisements, some envelopes, and a catalogue for workout clothes, which I usually spend far too much time looking through.

  Trying not to get my hopes up, I start sifting through the mail, through the bills and coupon collections that only ever offer discounts for AC units and window cleanings. Not interested. When I get to the last envelope and see nothing from him, I let out a long, unhappy sigh. Yeah, getting a letter would have been too good to be true.

  My cheeks start to flame red, heating up from embarrassment. He must think I’m such a dweeb for writing him, for putting myself out there. Again. I wonder if he’s laughing at me with all his buddies, passing my perfume-scented, lipstick-stained letter around for everyone to read.

  Look at pathetic Rory, when is she going to get it? Not interested.

  No. He’s not like that. When I consider what I know about Colby, that isn’t the behavior I’d really expect. After my scheme to find out more about him at the bowling alley backfired . . . publicly, he could have left me high and dry. But he didn’t. He approached me and quietly provided me a chance to talk to him. So if he didn’t want to write back, I needed to accept that he is being kind and not stringing me along. “You don’t want to go out on a date with me, Rory. I’m not dating material.” Still . . .

  Dejected, I reach for my keys. And that’s when I notice a white envelope in the back of my mailbox, tucked away. Letting the rest of my mail fall to the ground in dramatic fashion, I reach for the envelope, taking in the square and precise handwriting.

  C. Brooks.

  The return address reads C. Brooks and everything in me takes flight, nerves and excitement washing over me, as I sit on the stairs and open the envelope, wondering how long it’s been in there.

  Unfolding the letter, I can’t contain the smile plastered across my face.

  Dear Rory,

  To say your letter was unexpected is an understatement. I’m assuming you and Stryder were in cahoots, because unfortunately, I don’t check my mailbox often. There isn’t anyone in my life who would care enough to send me anything. However, the fool checks his mail every day, so it’s a good thing you sent it to him.

  I don’t really know what to write, because I’m not good at stuff like this. I’d be lying if I said I never thought about not writing you back. Because I did. I thought about tucking the letter you sent me away and never responding. I would also be lying if I told you this was my first draft. As I write this, there are scrunched-up balls of unsatisfactory letters in my trashcan, words and sentences just not good enough to send to you.

  As much as I would like to say that you haven’t affected me, I can’t.

  I think about you all the time.

  And I can’t stop.

  Remember when I said I didn’t want a distraction in my life? Well, here you are, fifteen miles away like you said, and you’re always on my mind, distracting me anyway.

  I want to tell you to run away, to leave me alone, to forget about me, but for the life of me, I can’t.

  So instead of throwing your letter away, I tucked it into my security box, keeping it safe, hoping there is another one to follow. I can’t forget you.

  Thank you for being persistent.

  Colby

  Hugging the letter to my chest, so freaking happy, I think about the strength and come-to-Jesus moment he must have had in order to write me back.

  He wrote me back.

  He took the time to push through that brick wall of his and give me a little piece of him. It’s tiny, but it’s something.

  Each time I see him, he gives me another small piece to his puzzle, and with each piece I lock in, I want him more and more. I want to know this sensitive, weathered man.

  And it starts with his letter. I will not take this for granted. I will not drop the ball. I will make sure Colby has someone to receive mail from, because if anything, I want to be the person who puts a smile on his face at the end of his long days.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dear Colby,

  I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. Hopefully Colorado Springs mail travels fast. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting you to write back. I thought, if anything, you’d text me, so to find your letter waiting for me in my mailbox shot all kinds of fluttering butterflies through my stomach.

  I read your letter at least ten times, memorizing your words, your confession, studying your handwriting, seeing your personality in the straight and precise lines. So controlled, so definitive.

  And the words you chose: I can’t stop. I don’t know if you realize how much that feeling resonates with me, because it’s the same three words that played on repeat every time you were near.

  I can’t stop. I can’t stop. I can’t stop.

  I didn’t want to give up or give in to your demands. I wanted to continue this connection. I wanted to see where it went and I’m so glad I did, because receiving your letter put such a bright spot on my crappy day. It made me realize that in an age where I could communicate with you by pressing a few buttons, the sheer magnitude of receiving a letter in the mail from you is unbeatable.

  I hope you continue to write me, because knowing that you are actually thinking about me puts some much-needed pep in my step.

  Wildly in lust,

  Rory

  P.S. I hope you don’t mind the red lips and perfume again. It just feels like it’s necessary at this point.

  Dear Rory,

  The red lips and perfume are necessary. I crave them. Love knowing your lips have been on that paper, that your addicting scent is easily accessible whenever I want to remember sitting next to you when you were wrapped up in a blanket, as the stars danced above us. I’d be greatly disappointed if I got a letter without them.

  I think a lot about that night, the night we first met. I think about the moment I first saw you, how it felt like the world stopped spinning. It was only you and me on the back deck, everyone else fading into the distance. I immediately knew you were going to be trouble, that I was in for a world of hurt if your beautiful green eyes connected with mine.

  And they did.

 
I became lost, uncertain, and infatuated.

  From a distance, I watched you play pool, studied your laugh, memorized the movements of your body, and when you came over to talk to me? That one little greeting falling from your lips—hi—was all it took. I was gone.

  I keep telling myself I shouldn’t write these letters, that I should continue to trash them (five in the trash this time) but my pen refuses to stop. Instead it reveals the truth through my scrolls, a truth only you are privy to.

  I like you, Rory, and that terrifies me.

  Colby

  Dear Colby,

  When I first wrote to you, I never thought I’d receive such poetic responses from you, and I apologize for that, for underestimating you.

  Your letters . . . they move me in a way I’ve never been moved before. Knowing you take your time to find the right words to say to me, it makes me want to make sure I do the same. Instead of writing something just to write it, I want to have purpose behind my words.

  If we’re talking about the first night we met, I have to admit, I noticed you the moment you walked out on the deck. You were unmistakable, unmissable. You commanded the attention of everyone around you but not with your attitude or showboating, because that’s not the man you are. It was your thoughtful gaze, the way you surveyed the area, and the swagger in every step you took.

  I was enamored. I remember leaning over to Ryan and telling her I had to meet you. There was no doubt in my mind at that moment that I wanted to figure out who you were and why I had a strong urge to bury my body behind your protective shield, wrapped in your arms.

  Unfortunately I didn’t get that opportunity, but the little stolen moments I had with you, catching the tiny lift of the corner of your mouth, that was enough for me at the time.

  Now, I want more.

  Give me more. Tell me something you wouldn’t normally tell anyone. Enlighten me so I understand why I’m bursting at the seams every time I’m around you. And now it feels the same with every word of yours I read.

  Wildly in lust,

  Rory

  Dear Rory,

  There is a common saying around here with the cadet wing: Act in spite of your fear.

  Fear lives in every one of us, but how we experience that fear lies with us. Talking to my cadets over the years, their biggest fear is dying, but like the saying, in spite of their fear they continue on, they push forward. At some point, they decided to sacrifice themselves and protect our country by choosing to be an airman.

  I don’t have a fear of death. It doesn’t physically exist inside me. Fear of death is something that’s never plagued me, never held me back, and to date, never even crossed my mind.

  I’ve seen death firsthand. I’ve seen how it can take someone from this world and yet, that’s not what drains me. That’s not what churns my stomach late at night or causes anxiety.

  Death will happen. No one can control that.

  What I can control is the person I am, the person I will become.

  I might not harbor the fear of death, but I do harbor a different fear, the kind of fear that causes me to wake in the middle of the night and break out in a cold sweat. It’s the kind of fear that’s consumed me, eaten me alive, torn me apart, and the reason I’ve tried so desperately to stay away from you. It’s why I can’t afford any distractions.

  Throughout life, you run into people who either have a positive influence or a negative influence on who you become. It’s your job to decide whether you keep them at your side, or move on. Unfortunately, there are some negative people in your life that you can’t move on from, not until you’re free of their grasp. And you might never be.

  I have someone so negative, so egocentric, in my life, that all he’s done since he met me was try to hold me back, try to tell me how worthless I am, how I will never amount to anything, that flying is a pipe dream I’ll never obtain.

  My fear, the one that hollows out a hole in the pit of my stomach every time I think about it, is proving HIM right.

  Your turn. Tell me something no one knows about you.

  Colby

  Dear Colby,

  How do I respond to your letter appropriately? How do I come up with the perfect words to exemplify the feelings flowing through me? I can’t.

  I can’t possibly tell you how touched I am that you shared such an intimate detail with me. I can’t tell you how much I itch to see you, to hug you, to hold you, to tell you that you won’t prove HIM right.

  You are a man of drive and ambition. It vibrates off you. Just being near you, I know you are bound for great things. That fear you have? Don’t give in to it, because I know deep in my bones that you will be going places. You will achieve your dreams.

  And it’s funny you talk about fear, because it’s the one thing that held me back from moving forward in my life. It’s what held me back from going to New York. Fear that something will happen to my brother and I won’t be here. Fear that when my parents need my help, I won’t be there to assist them. Fear of not being present. It tears away at me every day.

  My brother is my world. He’s my best friend, and the guy who will always be a constant in my life. A lot of people see him as difficult, as strange, or different.

  I don’t. I see him as perfect.

  Bryan is autistic. And when people see a thirty-year-old man rocking back and forth in a restaurant because the music is too loud, when they see him physically harm himself because his anxiety is on high alert, they scoff, they talk, and they judge.

  But they don’t know the beautiful human he is. The joyful spirit that lives inside of him, and the smallest smiles he gives when I walk in the room. He’s everything to me, and I put my life on hold for him. I fear the unknown of what might happen if I take a step away, if I’m not there to calm him down, if I’m too far away to comfort him.

  I don’t ever want to give in to that fear. I don’t want him to ever feel like I abandoned him, because it feels like everyone else, beside my parents, has.

  And that right there is a truth I’ve never spoken to anyone.

  Now, I’m going to tuck myself in bed and try to calm my racing heart. I’m going to envision what it would be like to lay next to you, to have your arms wrapped around me, to have someone protect me for once, instead of having to do all the protecting.

  Wildly in lust,

  Rory

  Dear Rory,

  Fuck . . .

  I don’t know what to say, other than this. I need to see you. We finish classes this week with finals, we have our assembly to see if we got into flight school, and then we’re out for winter break. I’m staying with Stryder and his family, but I want to make time for you. My number is 719-555-2417. Text me when you’re available.

  Fuck distractions.

  Fuck my fear.

  Fuck HIM.

  That hug you’ve been wanting? Craving? I want the same damn thing.

  Text me.

  Colby

  Chapter Thirteen

  COLBY

  11 years old . . .

  Pounding footsteps make their way down the hall, my nerves jumping back and forth, the fresh shirt I put on for school already absorbing a coat of sweat that’s slowly dripping down my back.

  I scan my room. Everything is out of sight, either in the attic or tucked away nicely. Bed is made. Clothes are folded and hung in the closet. All planes and toys are nowhere in sight.

  It’s the way he likes it.

  It’s the way he demands it to be.

  Heavy footstep after footstep draw near, my heart pounds rapidly, my lungs constrict, and my hands fidget at my side.

  I did everything right, I know I did. I double-checked.

  The feet stop at my door, and I hold my breath as it’s flung open. Ted stands on the other side, coffee in hand, business shirt pristinely pressed, his tie expertly tied around his neck. The shoes I shined for an hour last night are on his feet, the lights glaring off them.

  He doesn’t say a word when he does his check in
the morning; he doesn’t even look at me. Instead, he travels around the room his eyes roaming, looking for any form of indiscretion.

  There shouldn’t be any. I made sure of it. Stopping at my bed, he eyes it up and down, taking a sip of his coffee. From his pocket, he pulls out a coin and flips it up in the air.

  On bated breath, I watch as it falls to the mattress, barely bouncing up.

  Eyes squeezed shut I say an oath, just as the coffee cup is set down on my dresser. Ripping the blankets back, he inspects my tuck job on the sheets, his eyes narrowing in on the corners. Once upright, he circles around me, the hairs on the back of my neck at full attention.

  Standing behind me, towering over me, I wait for the moment that he—

  His large hand grips the back of my neck, pushes me down, shoving my face inches from the mattress.

  “What the fuck is this?” he sneers. “Do you call this a properly executed corner?” I don’t answer as he squeezes his hands around my neck. His fingers dig in as my shoulders tense around him, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. “How the fuck do you expect to get anywhere in the Air Force if you can’t make your goddamn bed correctly?”

  Forcefully, he pushes me forward, my forehead hitting the edge of the bed before I topple to the floor. Grabbing the mattress from the bottom, he flips it over, scattering my nightstand and covers all over my room. It’s not the first time he’s done it. Knowing his tendencies, I’ve become wise about where I store my things and know where to keep them out of harm’s way.

  Head pounding, I lift off the floor and stand, going to pick up my mattress. The back of Ted’s hand connects with my face, catching me off balance, and sends me flying into my dresser.

  “I expect better tomorrow.” Picking up his coffee, he adjusts his tie, steps over me and heads out of my room, slamming my door.