Falling Away

by Jasinda Wilder

  She blinks at me. "But I like Benji. It's cute, and you're cute." Her gaze narrows. "You've got a lot of stories, don't you...Benji? Ha. I hear the story there too, you know? I may be wasted, but I remember. I remember."

  "Yeah, I guess I do." I move to a sitting position on the edge of the bed and watch her as she kicks the blankets down and tucks her feet under them, making herself comfortable in my bed.

  "I need a drink, Benji." She leans against the wall, head lolling and eyes narrowed and watching me.

  "I've got some water bottles and some Gatorade," I tell her.

  She shakes her head. "No, Benji. A drink. A fucking drink. I still remember, and I want...I want to forget. I need to forget."

  "I don't think that's a good idea--" I start.

  "You're not my fucking mother!" she snarls, darting forward and jabbing the air with her finger. "You're not my fucking mother, and I need a drink, goddammit." She flops back against the wall, head smacking the drywall. "Ow. Please. Please, Benji."

  Every time she says that nickname, something inside me clenches, stings.

  I push to my feet and limp into the kitchen, hating that I'm doing this. But I don't know this girl, and her pain is bright in her eyes. So I grab a nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam from the cupboard over the fridge. I snag two juice glasses from a different cupboard, and a bottle of water from the fridge. When I make it back into my room, Echo is standing up, unsteadily at best, reaching awkwardly behind her back for the zipper of her dress.

  "Fuck this dress," she mumbles. "Done with this stupid dress."

  She's facing away from me so I know she doesn't see me, which makes it almost funny. It would be funny if this were any other circumstance. She finds the zipper and pulls it down, shrugs her shoulders, and the black material falls to pool around her feet. I swallow hard. She's wearing a black dress, black underwear, and I can't breathe, can't look away, can't avoid the desire and the guilt raging inside me.

  "Um. Hi." I clear my throat, duck my head.

  "Oh. Benji-boy." Echo turns, wobbles, and topples into the bed, then pushes herself upright. "Couldn't handle that fucking dress anymore." Her eyes go to mine, and I see an odd note of something I can't decipher in her expression. "Hope you don't mind, Benji. I just can't wear that dress anymore. You don't mind, right?"

  "No...I mean..." I don't know what to say. This feels wrong. She shouldn't be practically naked, and I shouldn't be struggling with my instincts. Not like this. Not her. "You want a T-shirt or something?"

  "Yes! A T-shirt. What a great idea. There's nothing as comfy as a boy's T-shirt." She points at me. "Shirt me, Benji." And then she giggles, like she's said something funny.

  I move to my dresser and set the bottle and glasses on top of it, and then rummage in my drawer for a shirt. When I turn to hand it to her, she's somehow moved to stand right behind me, and she's lost her bra in the process. Breathing, swallowing, looking away, guilt...the list of impossible things grows by the second.

  "Like what you see, Benji-boy?" She's just standing there, two feet away, topless, in nothing but her panties.

  My zipper tightens, and I've got to clench my fists to keep them at my sides.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing hard, and duck my head. I've got the T-shirt wadded in my fist, and I crush it with every ounce of strength I possess as she sidles toward me.

  "Echo..." I move backward, but there's nowhere to go except into the dresser. I'd be willing to climb in a drawer and close it over me, if only to get away from the burning knot of desire and guilt lodged in my chest. "Stop."

  She doesn't, and I put a hand up, only...she walks right into it, and I feel the soft squish of her breast. I hurriedly drop my hand and slide sideways.

  She's just trying a different tactic, I know. Trying to forget.

  It's not about me.

  Not about me.

  I shake the T-shirt loose and find the neck hole, reach out and fit it over Echo's head, which works to cover her from my gaze and pinion her hands at the same time.

  "What's the matter, Benji?" she says, a sultry pout on her face.

  "You're drunk, and I'm not doing that."

  "But I want to. Don't you?" She's still shifting closer to me even as she slides her arms through the sleeves.

  "No you don't, Echo. That's not going to help you forget."

  "Yeah, it will."

  I shake my head and grab her wrist as she reaches for me. "No, Echo. It really won't."

  Except...how would I know?

  She jerks her wrist out of my grip, eyes blazing. "Fine. Fuck you, then." She grabs the bottle of Jim off the dresser, unscrews the cap and puts it to her mouth, takes three long swallows, hissing as it burns down her throat. "Or don't, whatever. You could've, but no. Too damned...chivalrous, aren't you? Benji, my honorable knight in shining armor, is that it?"

  She turns away and misses a step, catches herself with a hand on the bed, the bottle clutched in her other hand. I just watch from across the room, not daring to speak or move. Echo makes it to the side of the bed, sits down and scoots back, tucks her legs under the blankets and settles with her back to the wall. The bottle goes to her mouth and she tips it back and gulps a big mouthful, and then sets it down with a loud thud on the bedside table.

  "Put on music, Benji. Something Mom would like. Country music."

  I fish my phone from my pocket and bring up Pandora, then dock the phone in the Bose alarm clock on my bedside table.

  When the first song comes on, Echo lets out a sound that's half-sob, half-laugh. "Are you for fucking real?"

  It's "Whiskey Lullaby" by Brad Paisley and Alison Krauss.

  "Should I change it?"

  She shakes her head floppily. "Don't you fucking dare. It's perfect." She pats the bed beside her. "Sit down, Benji. I won't test your virtue again, I promise."

  If only she knew how deeply that cuts.

  We listen to music for a long time. She doesn't say a word, and neither do I.

  "Henry Lee" by Crooked Still comes on, and Echo is horizontal now, scrunching a pillow under her head and a cheek under her hand, long eyelashes fluttering against her skin.

  She's snoring in moments.

  I watch her sleep and can't help wondering what I've gotten myself into.

  FIVE: Ease the Ache

  Echo

  Oh...oh Jesus. It feels like the sun is exploding inside my skull.

  Throb...throb...throb...

  I blink my eyes open, and thank god the blinds are closed.

  Shit, I'm not at home. Where am I?

  I sit up, look around. I don't recognize the room. It's a dude's room, spartan and messy and male. A six-drawer bureau, piles of clothes on the floor, a white laundry basket with folded clothes. Boxer-briefs, jeans, gym shorts, T-shirts.

  I look down, and...yep. I'm wearing a guy's Mumford and Sons concert shirt. It smells of him, and that worries me a little, because it smells good, familiar and comforting somehow. There's a bottle of Jim Beam on the nightstand to my left, empty but for maybe a shot's-worth. Beside that is a Bose alarm clock/iPhone dock with a black iPhone connected to it.

  I grab the bottle of Jim, uncap it, and finish it off, as in my experience hair of the dog is the best way to negate a hangover. That and lots of water and aspirin and greasy food. But first...my clothes.

  And that's when it all hits me: I see my dress on the floor. The black dress, the one I bought before leaving school.

  The one I bought for the funeral. Mom's funeral.

  Mom.

  Oh god, Mom.

  It's instantaneous. I go from zero to hyperventilating sobs in a split second. My chest is being torn open. My heart is in pieces.

  It all comes back. The call from a police officer in San Antonio, informing me of my mother's death. A car accident. She was dead before the paramedics even showed up.

  The funeral. Father Mike...Grandma and Grandpa...

  And him.

  Ben.

  Flashes of last nig
ht flicker in my head, but I push them away. I can't deal with whatever I may have done to embarrass myself last night. Not now.

  Mom.

  She's dead. She's gone.

  I feel the bed dip, and I smell him before I see him or feel him. He smells just like the T-shirt I'm wearing, deodorant, and something spicy and citrusy, like cologne maybe, and those other faint scent-elements that can't be defined. And then his arms are around me, lifting me, cradling me.

  He's a perfect stranger. I remember only bits and pieces of what happened after the burial, and even less about him. But here he is, holding me as I sob for my mother. He doesn't say anything, doesn't shush me, just feathers his fingers into my hair and presses my cheek to his chest and holds me.

  I hear his heart beating, and it's hammering as if he's nervous.

  "She's gone." My voice is hoarse, and the words are barely intelligible through the gasps and the sobs. "She's--Mom...Mom is dead."

  "I'm so sorry, Echo. I'm so sorry."

  "I never--I never even got to say goodbye. The last time I talked to her we argued. We fucking argued. And now she's gone and I can't ever--I won't ever be able to tell her--" I can't even finish.

  "She knew, Echo. I promise you, she knew." His voice is low and smooth and soothing.

  "You don't know that." My voice breaks, cracks.

  God, what am I doing? Clinging to this guy, crying on him? What the fuck. I barely even remember what he looks like. I shift off him and he lets me sit up. I twist to look at him and I'm struck breathless.

  He's gorgeous.

  Tanned olive skin hinting at Mediterranean heritage, wide brown eyes so dark they're almost black, and thick messy black hair cut close on the sides and longer on the top. I felt it when he held me, but now seeing him, I realize he's powerfully built, broad through the shoulders and chest. He's wearing a sleeveless black Under Armour shirt which is stretched across his chest, leaving his arms bare, long and thick and bulging with muscle.

  My gaze rakes over him, and then goes back to his eyes, and something inside me clenches. His expression is shuttered, but I can see through it. I can see worry and pain and doubt and strength and self-assurance. Such expressive brown eyes, even when he's trying to keep from showing his feelings.

  Or maybe I can just read him.

  Fuck. I'm checking this guy out, and I just buried my mom yesterday. What the hell is wrong with me?

  He clears his throat and swings his legs off the bed, scoots forward, and stands up, hopping a little as he grabs a cheap black drugstore cane from where it was propped against the bed. I remember flashes of him from last night--that cane, a limp. Something about a football injury?

  "Want some coffee?" he asks.

  "Maybe some water and aspirin first?"

  He nods. "Sure. Stay put." He turns away, but not before I notice his gaze flicking to my legs and then quickly away.

  I realize then that the T-shirt I'm wearing has hiked up, giving him a nice view of my entire lower half from the waist down. At least I wore panties with the dress yesterday. I pull the sheet over my waist and stuff the pillows behind my back, lean against the wall and ignore the pounding in my head as I reluctantly try to summon memories of last night.

  Nothing good comes to mind.

  Ben returns with a bottle of water, a mug of coffee, two aspirins, and a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel slathered generously with cream cheese. He's got his cane hooked over his arm so he can carry everything. I feel immediately guilty, letting him hobble around bringing me breakfast in bed.

  Jesus. This is nuts. I've known the guy for like five seconds and he's treating me better than anyone I've ever dated. Which, honestly, isn't that hard, but it's worrisome.

  "You didn't have to bring it to me--" I start.

  He waves me off, handing me the pills first and then the bottle of water, then setting everything else down on the bedside table. "It's fine. You've got to have the mother of all hangovers--" He cuts off abruptly. "I mean, a hell of a hangover."

  The shitty thing is, I really do feel that fragile, that even the word 'mother' has the power to make me choke up.

  "God, Echo. I'm sorry." He winces, rubbing at his forehead. "I'm an idiot. I'm sorry."

  "It's fine. Thank you." I swallow the pills and force myself to drink the entire bottle of water slowly, sip by sip, until it's gone.

  He starts to turn away. "I...I'll--let me know if you need anything. You're welcome to stay here as long as you need."

  The idea of being alone right now scares me. I'll lose it if I have to be on my own. "Ben, wait." I scoot over to the other side of the bed and then reach out for the coffee mug and the paper plate with the bagel. I pat the bed beside me. "Sit. It's your room. And...I wouldn't mind the company."

  He seems reluctant, oddly, but then lets out a breath and takes the spot on the bed beside me, lifting his injured leg onto the bed with obvious relief. He snags his phone from the dock and scrolls through his FB feed while I eat my bagel. It's strangely comfortable, the silence between us. I'm not given to idle chatter, and neither is he, it seems.

  When I'm done, and my stomach is less tumultuous--a little, at least--I set the plate aside and sip at the coffee, which is strong and lightly creamed, which is how I happen to like it.

  I let out a sigh, knowing it's time to bite the bullet. "So. My memory of last night is...hazy." I can't quite look at him. "But knowing myself and how I get when I drink as much as I did, I probably embarrassed myself. So...fill me in, would you?"

  He clicks the top button of his phone, putting it to sleep, and sets it aside. His gaze goes to mine, serious and compassionate. "Nothing to be embarrassed about, Echo. I think...under the circumstances..."

  I groan at the hesitancy in his voice. "Just tell me what I did."

  He shrugs. "You hopped in my cab as I was leaving the cemetery, and you had the driver take us to the nearest bar. Which, by the way, was one of the nastiest shithole dive bars I've ever been to. You must've had...oh man, like four or five pints and at least six shots in maybe an hour and a half at most."

  I thunk my head against the wall. "Jesus."

  "So, yeah. That hit you pretty quick. We left the bar and just drove around for a while. You ended up passing out in the cab, so I brought you back here."

  I close my eyes and try to remember. I have flashes of memory: the cab ride, hearing one of Mom's favorite songs, seeing the outskirts of San Antonio through the window, wishing I could fall asleep and never wake up. Ben helping me walk, a strong arm around me, holding me up.

  "I remember some of that." I try again, and recall a memory of fighting with my dress, and calling Ben "Benji." I remember him not liking it, but not fighting me on it. But then, I was probably pretty belligerent. "I remember calling you Benji, for some reason. And I also remember trying to get my dress off."

  The fact that I'm in nothing but his T-shirt worries me. What did I do? And what do I not remember doing? I'm scared to ask.

  Ben's lips quirk. "Yeah, you...I was getting you a drink. You demanded a drink after we got here, and I guess maybe I shouldn't have given you anything else, but I did. So when I came back in with the whiskey, you were trying to unzip your dress and you were all like 'fuck this dress, I'm done with this stupid dress.'"

  "Anything else?" I ask, not daring to even look at him. "I didn't...I mean...did we...?"

  "No," he answers immediately. "You were beyond wasted, and there's no way in hell I'd ever take advantage like that. No fucking way."

  "So I took my dress off and passed out?"

  He makes a face. "Not...quite."

  "Fuck."

  He won't look at me directly, and I'm pretty sure he's blushing hard. "You...took your bra off, too. And you..."

  "I threw myself at you, didn't I?"

  He shrugs. "Sort of. Yeah." He finally looks at me, and I see a welter of emotions in his gaze. "So I got a shirt on you, and got you in bed. You asked me to put on music, so I did, and then you fell asleep."
>
  "God, Ben. I'm sorry--"

  He cuts in over me. "Don't. Please don't apologize. You have nothing to apologize for."

  I take a long sip of hot coffee. "I guess I'm lucky you're an honorable guy. Most guys wouldn't have hesitated."

  Ben doesn't answer right away. "I'd like to think there are more decent guys out there than that. How could anyone have even considered it? You were drunk and hurting. You just wanted to forget--that's what you said. And I get it. It was...a defense mechanism. Just forget it. It's okay."

  "I can't forget it. How can you?"

  "Do you remember doing it?" he asks.

  I think back. I do, sort of. I have a memory of thinking he was sexy and that his kindness was sexy. He was taking care of me, he was there for me, and that was sexy. That's what scares me about this situation. I may have been shitty wasted last night and, like he said, throwing myself at him was a defense mechanism, a reflexive act of desperation to not have to think or feel, even for a minute. But that sense of desperation is there, still, even now. Especially now. Sober, it's even worse. And Ben isn't making it any easier. He's insanely hot, those big expressive dark eyes, that powerful athlete's body, and the fact that he didn't take advantage of me, that he listened and held me and let me cut loose, and understood what I needed.

  "I do, a little. I remember..." I close my eyes and summon the memory. "I remember you backing away from me. I remember you putting your hand out to stop me, and accidentally touching my breast." I look up at him as I say this, watching for his reaction.

  He's looking down, rubbing his hand on the fabric of his gym shorts. "Yeah, that was an accident. You walked into me. I didn't mean to--" He's blushing hard. Even with the shade of his skin, it's easy to tell.

  I can't help grinning. "It's fine, Ben." The humor is gone immediately, though. "For real, Ben. Thank you. For...everything. For putting up with me. You don't know me, and you don't...you didn't have to do any of this."

  He shrugs. "You clearly needed someone. What else was I supposed to do?" My coffee is gone, and Ben nods at the empty mug. "More?"

  I shake my head. "I'm still hungry, actually."

  He starts to get off the bed. "I've got--"

  I interrupt him. "How about we go somewhere for breakfast? I know a couple good diners." I glance at the clock, and I'm glad to see it's only ten in the morning.