by Cassia Leo
Still, even if Jamie’s tossing the word friend around to get me to do something for her, it does feel good to be needed.
“What do you need?”
She sighs with relief. “I have a meeting with a supplier today. He’s coming in to pitch, but Grandpa John’s coming. I don’t want him to see the guy.”
“Why? Isn’t he the one who said you needed to keep the selections fresh, or something like that?”
“It’s the guy from the beer company coming to discuss the joint venture for the wine bar. Grandpa is dead set against it, but the board is pushing for it.”
My heart thumps painfully as I realize what she’s asking me.
Management at Zucker’s markets has spent the past two years discussing a project to turn some of their in-store espresso cafés into bars that sell wine, beer, and coffee. They’ll do wine and beer tastings on Friday and Saturday nights. The bars are being opened only in the locations with a high walk score. A walk score is a rating given to a city based on how easy it is to get around without a car. Goose Hollow has a walk score of 90, which is higher even than New York City. All the board members agreed that the uptown shopping center in Goose Hollow is the perfect area to implement the wine bar idea. Then someone suggested they implement it across all their Portland stores and suddenly our store has been seeing a flurry of meetings over the past few weeks. Apparently, Grandpa John is not supposed to know about these meetings.
I want to get up from Jamie’s chair and leave. I didn’t realize how safe I felt in my cashier position until now.
“Jamie, I can’t pretend to be you. I don’t know anything about this wine bar deal.”
She holds out her hands to stop me when I attempt to stand. “You don’t have to know anything. And you don’t really have to pretend to be me. Just thank him for coming and ask him to take a seat. Then you can just sit there and nod and look pretty while he pitches you his beer. I’ll try to get Grandpa out of here as quickly as possible. As soon as he’s gone, I’ll come in and take over.”
My entire body tenses with nervous energy just imagining this scenario, but I can’t leave her hanging. She’s my boss. And it does seem like a fairly simple favor to grant.
I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Sure. I think I can handle that.”
“Thank you!” she shrieks as she leaps out of the chair. “You stay here. I’ll go out front and wait until the guy gets here, and hope he doesn’t get here at the same time as Grandpa.”
I lean forward in the leather swivel chair as I watch her leave. She closes the door behind her and my heart races at the thought of what will happen the next time that door opens. Will it be Jamie? Will it be the beer guy? Will it be Grandpa? How will I explain sitting on this side of the desk if it is Grandpa John?
Too many questions for too small of a task. This is nothing. It will be over in a few minutes and I’ll be able to get to work.
Leaning back in the chair, I close my eyes and take another deep breath. The knock at the door startles me. I almost trip and fall in my haste to get out of the chair and answer the door. I manage to catch myself by grabbing on to the edge of the desk, but the damage is done. My nerves are ratcheting up again.
I shake out my arms like a prizefighter getting ready to enter the ring. Reaching for the door handle, I force my lips into a smile, then I open the office door.
I’m frozen at the sight of him.
Houston Cavanaugh.
The first boy I ever loved. And boy, did I love him a long time. I loved him until he was a man. I loved him until he loved me back. At least, I thought he loved me.
His eyes narrow and he appears confused for a moment. “Jamie?”
My heart drops to my feet.
He doesn’t even remember me.
“No,” I say with far too much emotion.
“Oh, my God. I’m sorry. I… I know you.”
I clutch my chest, unable to breathe. Then his eyes widen with what can only be described as pure terror.
“Rory? Aurora?”
I let out a sharp puff of air. “Yeah.”
His lips are still moving. I want to hear what he’s saying, but my thoughts are pounding in time with my heart. Images flash in my mind: our bodies tangled in his sheets; the breakfast bar littered with sticky shot glasses and empty beer bottles; my empty dorm.
“Rory?”
I blink a few times to focus on his face and he looks at the floor, as if the weight of our history is pulling his head down.
“I’m sorry. Maybe I should come back later.”
“What? No!”
He looks up, startled by my outburst.
“I mean, you came to talk about the contract, so… let’s talk. I’m…” I nod toward the chair for him to sit down, then I close the office door behind him. “I’m sorry for spacing out. I was just a little surprised to see you.” I take a seat in Jamie’s chair and yelp as it begins to tip backward. “Shit!”
Houston laughs as I scoot forward and lean my elbows on the desk, hoping he doesn’t notice how the sound of his laughter makes the hairs on my arms stand up.
“Sorry. Obviously, I don’t sit on this side of the desk very often, but Jamie didn’t want to reschedule this appointment. She should be here shortly.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” The left corner of his mouth pulls up in his signature half smile and I grit my teeth against the surge of emotions welling up inside me. “I’m actually kind of glad we ran into each other.”
“Really? You hardly remembered me a minute ago.”
He chuckles again. “Yeah, sorry about that. I was just surprised.”
I can’t argue with this when I just used the same excuse. But it’s no more true coming from his lips than it is from mine. We’re not surprised to see each other. We’re terrified.
All the times I’ve imagined running into Houston, I never once imagined he wouldn’t recognize me. I haven’t changed much. I still have the same long auburn hair he used to bury his face in and twist around his fingers. I’m still carrying the extra ten pounds I put on my freshman year at UO, my softness, he used to call it. I still don’t wear a lot of makeup, though back then I avoided makeup because I never knew when I was going to burst into tears. Now I avoid it because I’m comfortable in my skin. This is who I am. If someone doesn’t like me—or recognize me—that’s their problem.
I swallow the lump in my throat and force a smile. “So, Houston—would you rather I call you Hugh?”
He flashes me an uncomfortable smile, but it takes him a moment to respond. “Houston is fine.”
His family always called him Hugh, but he hated it. I always made it a point to call him Houston. Every time I said his name it was like a promise to be true to him. The real Houston. I wish I had known then that you can’t promise to be true to a ghost. Ghosts aren’t real.
“So… you’re the beer guy?” I say, trying to break the awkward silence.
“The beer guy? Is that how I’m referred to around here?”
Houston’s gaze is focused on the desk so he doesn’t have to look me in the eye. His elbows rest on the arms of the chair and his hands are clasped in front of him. That’s when I notice the wedding ring.
“You’re married,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He looks up, his eyes locking on mine, then nods just enough for me to notice.
My eyes and sinuses sting and I blink a few times. “What’s her name? I mean, that’s… that’s great.”
Shit. What is wrong with me?
He stares at the desk again, unsure how to respond to this. “Yeah, I guess. Um… Are you married?”
For some reason, I glance down at my hands where they rest on top of a stack of invoices on Jamie’s desk, as if I’ll suddenly find a wedding ring on my finger, too.
“No, I’m not married.” I draw in another breath and let it out slowly as I try to think of a new topic. “You’re still making beer?”
In college, Houston mad
e his own line of homemade ale, which he called Barley Legal, since barely anyone who drank it was over twenty-one. It was very popular with the frats. I still remember the way our apartment would smell like yeast and alcohol after his weekend “tasting” parties. I’m surprised I still remember the name of the beer and the smell, considering I was pretty wasted through the last six months of my freshman year, the months we were together.
“Yep. And it’s still Barley Legal.”
“You kept the name?”
“Couldn’t let it go.”
My breath hitches at these words. They’re so similar to the last words he whispered in my ear five years ago as I lay in bed pretending to sleep. I love you, but we need to let it go.
He doesn’t seem to catch the similarity. Maybe he doesn’t even remember the last words he spoke to me. How can he be so different when he looks exactly the same? The shock of caramel-brown hair on his head still has the natural ribbons of sandy blond running through it. His blue eyes still sparkle when he talks about his homemade creations, though they’re probably not homemade anymore. He still looks like the guy who took my mind and body to places they’d never been. But there’s something very different about him. He seems subdued. Defeated.
“Rory,” he says, just loud enough to break through my thoughts. “How have you been?”
I don’t know why he’s asking this question ten minutes into our conversation, so I shrug. “Fine. I graduated two years ago. I changed my major after… Anyway, I got my degree in English—minor in creative writing. I’ve been working on a book in my spare time.”
His face lights up at this news. “A book? That’s awesome. You were always a great writer.”
“Well, probably not great, but I graduated.”
He smiles at my modesty. “You were great. I’m sure you’re even better now.”
My smile fades. Is it okay to accept praise from him now that he’s married? Is it okay to want his praise when I’ve lived without it for five years?
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out to see who it is. My mom’s cell number flashes on the screen. I usually send her calls to voicemail while I’m at work and check them on my lunch break, but I did ask her to check on Skippy today.
I contemplate answering her call, if only to escape the awkwardness of my conversation with Houston, but I hit the reject button. If it’s an emergency, she’ll send me a text. I’ve told her multiple times to text me in the case of an emergency, since I’m almost always with a customer when she gets the urge to call.
I look up and Houston’s jaw is clenched as he stares at the food-handling certificates hanging on the wall of the office.
“It was my mom,” I say, not sure why I feel the need to mention this. “Probably just wants to tell me I’m out of coffee or something.”
“You still live with your mom and dad?”
“No. God, no. My parents divorced two weeks after… we broke up. My mom and I moved to Portland two years ago. She has her own apartment now, but she checks on my dog while I’m at work.”
He smiles at my reaction and my stomach flutters. Then, I find myself wondering what shifted between us in the last minute or two, because I’m beginning to wish we could sit here talking like this forever. But any minute now Jamie is going to walk through that office door and relieve me of this meeting.
“How long have you worked here?” Houston asks as he leans back in his chair, getting a bit more comfortable.
He’s dressed in jeans and a brown T-shirt bearing the logo of his company. The shirt clings to his biceps and pectoral muscles. I try not to think of the nights I fell asleep with his arms around me and my cheek pressed against his solid chest. The fact that he wore a T-shirt and jeans to a pitch meeting proves he hasn’t changed. He’s still the laid-back guy everyone wants to share a beer with. And if he hasn’t changed, I should stop letting my mind wander to our past.
“I’ve worked here a little more than a year,” I reply. “I interned at the Oregonian for a while after graduation, but I got tired of living with my mom and never having money. I applied for this job on a whim, but it ended up working out. I’m union, so I make enough to live in a one-bedroom nearby and still feed myself and Skippy.”
“Skippy?”
“My dog.”
“Oh.”
The desk phone rings and I contemplate not answering it, but it could be Jamie calling me from somewhere else in the store. “Jamie Zucker’s office. How may I help you?”
“Rory! Skip passed out and I can’t wake him up.” My mom is frantic and I can tell by the thickness in her throat that she’s crying. My mom never cries, and the mere sound of it makes my heart race.
“What? What’s going on? What happened?” I stand suddenly and Houston’s smile disappears as he stands, too.
“I don’t know. The apartment was pretty warm when I came inside. I don’t think your air conditioner’s working. He was just lying there in the crate, so I put some ice in his water bowl and put it next to his face so he could drink. He drank the whole bowl, then he passed out! Oh, my God. Did I do something wrong? I was just trying to cool him down. I swear, I didn’t mean to do anything. I’m sorry, Rory. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, no. How long has he been out?”
“About twelve minutes now.”
“Is he breathing?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I hang up the desk phone and grab my cell off the stack of invoices. Then I scroll through my contacts searching for the number to Skip’s vet as Houston follows me out of the office.
“Shit! I rode my bike today. It will take me at least twenty-five minutes to get there.”
“I can take you,” Houston immediately volunteers.
I gaze into his eyes, knowing that every second I hesitate could mean the difference between life and death for my best friend.
Suddenly, the memories come flooding back to me from the day my world was turned upside down five and a half years ago. The day I found Houston standing outside my dorm refusing to let me inside. The day Houston became my protector and my downfall.
My finger hovers over the call button, then I grab Houston’s arm as he begins walking straight toward Grandpa John and Jamie, who are both standing at register three talking to Kenny, another cashier.
Houston glances down at his arm where my fingers are curled around his firm bicep. I quickly let it go.
“Sorry, but we can’t go that way. We have to go through the back. Hurry.”
He follows me into the warehouse and out through the back door.
“What about your meeting?” I mention as we skitter like mice along the back wall of the store.
“I’ll work it out,” he replies quickly.
We turn right at the back corner of the building into a small service alley that reeks of trash and stale beer.
“Where are you parked?” I ask.
“Right out front. Don’t you need to tell your boss you’re leaving?”
“I’ll call her after I call the vet.”
We make it to the end of the alley and Houston grabs my arm before I can walk out onto the sidewalk. “Rory, wait.”
I glance down at his fingers, which are curled around my forearm the same way mine were curled around his bicep a minute ago, and I instantly grow impatient. “What?”
He’s silent for a moment, then he lets go of me. “Nothing. Let’s go.”
I follow closely behind him as we approach his shiny, pearl-white SUV. The sight of it makes my stomach curdle. Not because it’s a gas-guzzler, but because his wife probably sat next to him inside this car, holding his hand, stroking his skin. Maybe they’ve even had sex in there.
I know I shouldn’t care. I haven’t seen or heard from Houston in five years and here he is going out of his way to help me—again. As if the past five years never happened.
He opens the passenger door for me and I grit my teeth as I climb inside, holdin
g my breath to block out the heady scent of beige leather.
Shutting the door after me, he rounds the front of the car and smoothly climbs into the driver’s seat. “Where are we going?” he asks, unable to hide the hint of enthusiasm in his voice.
I stare straight ahead and think, I wish I knew.
Click here to continue reading The Way We Fall.
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