Falling Away

by Jasinda Wilder

  My hands seek skin, her shirt rises and I find it, palm her spine and the soft curves of her sides, just above the waist of her jeans, and then my fingers are toying with the string of her thong peeking up over the low-rise jeans and hers are busy at my chest, pushing at my shirt.

  But I'm not content to merely kiss. Not after what we had together this afternoon. I break the kiss and grab her by the shoulders, spin her in place so her front is pressed up against the door, and I slide my palms around her waist to her belly, press in flat and dig my fingers under the waistband of her jeans, against her skin. She gasps and sucks in her stomach, rests her forehead against the door and lets out the breath in a whimper when my fingertips graze her opening. She's limp against the door, yet also taut and tense at the same time. I pop the button of her jeans and lower the zipper and shove them down, and she's pushing back against me, grabbing my hand and pressing it to her now-bare core, dipping at the knees as I touch her, find her wet and willing. She's gasping out loud within moments, and then she's reaching blindly behind her for my zipper, and before I know it, my own pants are around my ankles and I'm pressing up against her.

  We both hesitate at the same moment, freezing, not breathing. I lower my face to her neck, pull my body away, breathing shakily. "Not here, Echo. Not like this."

  "No." She doesn't move, though, as if she's feeling the fight of need versus knowledge; I know I am.

  I owe it to her to be stronger. So I bend, find the scrap of material that she calls underwear and lift it for her, tug it into place, and then do the same for her jeans. I tug, tug, and she lets me, not moving, breathing deeply and slowly as I get her jeans into place. She spins and pushes me away.

  "Stop, stop. I can't handle it when you do that. I'm barely handling myself right now as it is. You being sweet and dressing me like that...I can't handle it." I don't apologize. I just bend and lift up my own clothing, but she grabs my wrists and stops me. "Let me help you out with your problem," she says, glancing down at my straining erection.

  I shake my head and back out of reach. "No. That'd be even worse than if we'd done what we just started." I pull my boxers into place and zip my jeans, button them. Now that we're both clothed, I let myself get within touching distance again, but I don't actually touch her, because that would be catalytic and dangerous. "Has anything changed?"

  "Between us?" she asks, and I nod. She closes her eyes, wipes at her face with both hands, and then falls back against the door. "No. I don't know how to change it. Us fucking wouldn't change it. Here, your place, anywhere. It'd feel incredible, but it wouldn't change anything."

  "Then we're right back where we started before I kissed you."

  She shrugs and nods. "Yeah. If we fucked, it would put us right back in the bubble, and--as much as I like it in the bubble, I have to face reality at some point."

  "So you still want me to go?" I hate how my heart thumps and aches.

  She won't look at me as she nods and reaches for the doorknob, moving out of the way so I can step fully outside. "Yeah. Want you to go may be too strong a way to put it, but yeah, it's best if you go."

  "Okay then." I step carefully down the two wobbly stairs to the sidewalk and cross the grass to my truck. "You have my number."

  "I know." She waves, like it's any old goodbye. "Drive safe."

  "Yeah."

  And then I'm gone, back out to the main road, to my apartment, where I contemplate the fact that Echo and I were just a few miles apart, that we even know some of the same people but never crossed paths until now, until this. And I think about how this makes the thought of going back home to Nashville all the harder. Before, it was like skulking home with my tail between my legs. And then I got injured and I just couldn't face even the idea of going back and hearing all the talk, the whispers, the curiosity about why I'd vanished so suddenly.

  And now, if I go back, I'll know not only is Kylie there with Oz--married now--but Echo as well.

  What the fuck am I supposed to do?

  And of course, just to rub it in, the radio plays "The One That Got Away" by Jake Owen.

  TEN: Ben-Shaped Hole

  Echo

  It's eleven o'clock at night, and Mom's house is done. I tossed almost all of her clothes, because she was taller and skinnier than me, which irked me pretty much my whole life, from the time I was old enough to be jealous of her figure. I kept a pair of her shoes, killer red heels I'd always envied and that she'd never let me borrow. I also kept a leather bomber jacket that was old and worn and likely belonged to my father, as well as her favorite cream knit sweater. I have two boxes of sentimental stuff, picture frames and photo albums and her jewelry, and her favorite books. The curb is piled high with bags that I labeled as either "trash" or "free stuff", as this neighborhood always gets trash-picker traffic the night before the garbage is collected. Someone will take the bags of goods and the rest will get thrown away. I leave the furniture, the TV. I clean the place top to bottom, scrubbing and vacuuming and mopping and wiping until the house looks like it had never been lived in. Grandpa and Grandma will sell the house and take care of whatever else has to be done.

  And I do it all without sobbing.

  When I'm done, I book a flight back to Nashville for early the next day.

  Then I call Grandpa. "Hey there, sweet-pea. We was gettin' worried about you," he says by way of hello, his voice low and thickly Texas-accented.

  "I needed time to deal, Grandpa. Sorry, didn't mean to worry you."

  "Where ya at?"

  "Mom's--Mom's house. I just finished...going through everything."

  He's silent for a moment. "You shouldn't have done that on your own, sweet-pea. Your grandma and I woulda helped you. We're old, but we ain't helpless."

  "It was mine to do." I swallow hard. "I had help, too."

  "That boy you left with?" His voice brooks no argument, meaning, I'd better damn well explain, because even if I am twenty-two, I still have to answer to my elders.

  "Yeah. Ben."

  "Echo." It's a none-too-subtle warning.

  "Just let it be, Gramps. Please?" My voice shakes. "I just...I need a ride to the airport in the morning."

  He lets out a breath. "You're stayin' with us tonight, then?" It's a concession, which means a lot to me, since Grandpa isn't one for conceding anything, ever.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Be there in forty-five. Just hang tight."

  "Thanks, Grandpa."

  "No sweat, sweet-pea."

  I sit on the stoop with the boxes at my feet, killing time on The Berry, and then Instagram. That last one is a mistake. I end up in my own photograph history, swiping through the pictures of Mom and me the last time we were together. It was the Fourth of July, and we spent it with Grandma and Grandpa at a lake near their house, grilling and drinking beer and setting off firecrackers. Mom and I got along great, since we'd decided on an unspoken rule to totally ignore my choice of schools and career.

  I hold back the sobs, even still.

  I keep holding them back when Grandpa shows up, his Wranglers as tight as ever, his shirt plaid and pearl-buttoned, his boots worn and scuffed. I hold them back as we drive in silence back to their house in his rattling, chugging, diesel Ram pickup that's older than me. I hold the tears back when Grandpa hugs me stiffly outside the truck in the gravel drive out front with the crickets singing and the moon high. And I hold them back when Grandma hugs me tearfully and makes me sit down to eat reheated roast beef and mashed potatoes and pecan pie.

  I nearly lose it, though, when the ancient radio mounted under the cabinet next to the kitchen sink plays "Even If It Breaks Your Heart" by the Eli Young Band. I force myself to keep it together, even when "Leave the Pieces" by The Wreckers plays, but that one is hard, because I want to be as strong as the lyrics in that song, but don't feel like I am.

  So now I'm lying in the narrow bedroom off the kitchen that's always been mine when I visit my grandparents, staring at the fifty-year-old painting of a cabin on a sno
wy hillside with tall pine trees in the background. That painting has always been how I get to sleep in this room. The moon shines through the window over the bed, streaming silver light onto the painting on the wall, and I imagine myself in that scene, a little log cabin with a fire cheerfully blazing, snow falling peacefully outside in thick fat flakes.

  It's not working tonight, though.

  I miss Mom.

  I miss Ben.

  I miss Nashville and my life and my friends and how things were before I got that call.

  Most of all, I wish I could take back the things I said to Mom the last time we called.

  I grab my phone off the little bedside table and stare at Ben's entry in my phone book. I want to call him, want to hear his voice. But even wanting that scares me, because I don't do that. I don't do emotional connections to guys.

  I learned not to do that a long time ago, the hard way. I learned it when Dad left Mom when I was eight. I learned it at fourteen when the high school junior I just knew was in love with me took my virginity, then told everyone at school. I learned it again with the next "boyfriend", who ditched me the very second I finally let him have sex with me; literally, he finished, zipped up, left, and I never saw him again.

  And I kept learning it with every guy I thought I liked, every boyfriend I stubbornly hoped would actually fall in love with me. But none of them ever did. They all acted like they liked me, like I meant something, and once I'd put out a few times and they got what they wanted, they took off and left me wondering what I'd done wrong. It wasn't until Marcus that I realized how stupid I'd been.

  I put thoughts of Marcus out of my head. And I certainly don't call Ben.

  I text him instead: Thanks for your help today.

  His response comes quickly: no prob.

  I don't know what else to say. I have to think for a long time. I type several things, then erase them. Finally, I send the simple truth. I'm sorry. Under different circumstances maybe we could have taken it somewhere. But it is what it is.

  Under different circumstances. You know how many times I've heard that?

  I already said I was sorry.

  Don't be sorry. You headed back to school soon?

  Tomorrow AM.

  Well...I don't know what else to say but have a safe flight, then.

  That sounds so distant, so unlike Ben, that it actually hurts. My fingers type without consulting my brain: You're making me second guess myself, Benji.

  I'll come get you right now, wherever you are.

  I choke when I read that. I nearly tell him yes, I nearly give him Grandma and Grandpa's address, but I don't. Because if I was confused before, him coming to get me in the middle of the night would only confuse me more. And as nice as he's being right now, I know it won't last.

  No. Sorry. Just no.

  You know, I've always known women were confusing, but Echo, I really don't understand you.

  Me either. That's part of the problem.

  Goodbye, Echo.

  That sounds so permanent.

  I don't know if I can ever go back to Nashville.

  And I can't stay here. There's nothing left for me in San Antonio. Nothing but memories. It was Mom's home, it's not mine. And now she's gone, and I just can't stay.

  I get that. But that's not why you're pushing me away.

  No, it's not.

  But you won't tell me why.

  I did.

  No, you gave me excuses.

  Damn it, Ben. I don't know what else you want me to tell you.

  Exactly my point. There was a pause of several seconds, and then he sent a follow up text: Go to sleep, Echo. Go back to Nashville tomorrow and just keep breathing. You'll be okay, someday. One day at a time.

  I can't figure out what else to say after that, so I don't text anything back. In the morning, Grandpa drives me to the airport and sees me off at security. He promises to ship me the boxes of Mom's things. I manage to keep it together all the way to Nashville, all the way to the apartment I share with three other girls.

  Thank god for those girls, because they live for three things: partying, boys, and music.

  I'll need huge doses of all three to move on.

  Addendum: I'll need huge doses of partying and music to move on. I'm done with boys for a long, long time.

  Which has nothing to do with the strange, empty hole I feel inside me...a hole that is frighteningly Ben-shaped.

  Even admitting to myself that I feel Ben's absence like a chasm within me has me trying to fill that hole with whiskey.

  Lots and lots of whiskey.

  ELEVEN: Going Home

  Ben

  I managed to waste a week. I don't even know what I did for that week, to be honest. A whole bunch of not much. A whole bunch of feeling sorry for myself, hating life, hating women, hating football, hating my life. Just...hating in general. Drinking. Avoiding my phone, refusing steadfastly to look at the last texts I'd exchanged with Echo. Also steadfastly refusing to call Mom and Dad.

  It was inevitable, though. I had nothing left here. Nothing left anywhere.

  It's almost funny how big a bitch hindsight is; once Echo was gone, I realized with lightning-bolt suddenness and vivid clarity that I'd fallen in love with her. I mean, sure, I knew nothing about her. But it wasn't just a physical attraction. It wasn't just the sex. It was just...her. I want to know everything about her, I want to know what happened to her father, I want to know why her mother was alone for so long. I want to know why Echo is so shut down, so unable to talk about herself. She didn't make a big deal of it until right at the end but, looking back, I realize that she always deftly avoided talking about herself. I want to talk to her from dawn till dusk and find out everything about her, and I want to hold her and shelter her secrets and...I want her to be happy.

  I know that feeling, loving someone enough to want their happiness to be my priority. It's why I left Nashville, after all. Kylie deserved happiness, and she'd found it with Oz. I couldn't give her anything, couldn't stomach seeing her happy with him, couldn't stomach seeing her at all, so I left. It was as much for her as for myself, I now know. I needed the space and time, as well. I needed experiences that didn't include Mom and Dad and Kylie and football.

  I grew up while I was gone.

  Not all the way, though, because I still need Mom and Dad. Now I don't know what to do. I'd thought I'd found myself on this journey around the country, but it turns out once football was taken away I still don't know who I am.

  So I'm sitting on my couch just past dawn, my cell in hand, ESPN on the TV, muted, trying to make myself call home.

  And then my phone rings. It's Mom.

  "Benny!" Her voice is so soothing, so familiar, that lilt from growing up fluent in three languages. "You haven't called in so long, I was getting worried. I just...felt like I had to call."

  My throat is thick, choked off with heat. "Mom."

  She hears it, of course. "Benny? What's wrong, sweetie?"

  Twenty-two, a grown man, and she still calls me Benny. "I don't even know--ahem--" I have to pause and clear my throat and start over. "I don't even know where to start, Mom."

  She's quiet for a long, long moment. "I think it's time to come home, Benjamin."

  "I can't."

  "It's been almost two years, honey. If you're not over her by now, no amount of running away will change that."

  Ouch. "It's not that, Mom."

  She sighs. "Let me get your father. Hold on."

  Shit. Shitshitshit. I can talk around Mom, because she won't push an issue. She doesn't have that directness in her. Dad, however, will dive straight into the heart of the matter and won't give up until I've spilled it all out for him.

  "Son." His voice comes on the line after a moment.

  "Hey, Dad."

  He must have been working out, as I can hear his breath huffing quickly. "So. Out with it."

  "I got hurt," I say.

  "Explain."

  "Took a hit to the knee. A bad
one."

  "How long are you out for? You need surgery?"

  I swallow hard. "I already had surgery, and a month of PT. And...I'm out permanently."

  He doesn't answer right away. "Shit."

  "Yeah."

  "And this happened when?"

  "Month, almost a month and a half ago." My damned voice is small, like I'm a little boy again.

  "And you're just now telling us?" He sounds pissed, but with Dad pissed usually comes from worry. "What the hell, Ben?"

  "I--I don't know. I didn't want to tell you. I didn't want it to be...real, I guess. I don't know, Dad." I have to swallow and blink. "I had to handle it on my own."

  "I'll be there this afternoon." His voice is gentle but allows for no arguments. "Get your shit together."

  "Dad, I don't know what I'm--"

  "Which is why you're coming home."

  "You don't understand--"

  "And you can explain on the drive home. This ain't up for discussion, son."

  I don't have the energy or the will to fight it. "See you soon."

  "Damn straight. Be ready."

  He shows up at the door of my apartment at one that afternoon. He doesn't knock, just walks in as I'm stuffing the last of my clothes in a duffel bag. He stands in the door of my bedroom, massive arms crossed over his chest, brows drawn, staring at the cane leaning against the bed.

  I ignore him until I have the bag zipped, set it on the floor beside the other suitcase and duffel bag that contain all my clothes and other belongings, of which there aren't many. I take the cane in hand, turn slowly to face my father. Take a hesitant step toward him. My knee is really messed up again. Once Cheyenne died and I met Echo, I'd stopped exercising it and started overusing it, so now it's stiff all the time and sore and always throbs with pain. To the point that any progress I'd made with Cheyenne has probably been totally undone. I can barely walk on it, even with the cane. Not that I'd admit that to Dad.

  "Jesus, Ben. You need a cane?"

  "Not forever. Just...for a while." I take another step.

  His eyes waver, and then he rushes across the space between us, wraps me in a bear hug. "Ben. God, Ben. You went through this alone?"

  "I'll never play again, Dad." My voice cracks, and I have to breathe hard and deep to keep it all at bay. "I may never even be able to run again."