Falling Away

by Jasinda Wilder

  It's not a kiss; it's a promise of kisses to come.

  He goes, then, and I let him go, even though I want to scream and cling to him and cry and beg him to carry me away and wrap us back up in that bubble, where nothing mattered and nothing hurt.

  He goes, and I need whiskey with a vicious desperation that has me clawing at the sheets.

  And that's when I know I have a problem.

  *

  A lot has happened in the last two weeks and while I still don't completely have my shit together, at least I know it and I'm trying to do something about it. Bray is sitting next to me on the couch, shirtless, hair messy, eyeliner from the night before smeared across his eyelids. He's in a "gay phase", as he puts it, which means he borrows my skirts and wears my makeup--poorly applied, usually, but whatever. Maybe I should give him makeup lessons. He has a bird tattooed on his chest, on the left side, over his heart. It's a lark, he once told me, but wouldn't explain its meaning. It's a gorgeous tattoo, done life-size in photorealistic detail and color. The lark is perched on a branch, crest raised, mouth open to sing, wings spread as it prepares to take flight.

  He leans forward, touches the record button on the GoPro that faces us, set up on a tripod. "Hey, hey, ya'll. I'm Brayden and this Echo, obviously. Since Echo the Stars is on temporary hiatus, we know all ya'll need your fix of Echo's singing, and possibly my magical mandolin. So, here we are. This is a personal project, I should probably point out. No filters, no polish, just Echo and I as we are. I haven't even slept yet, and it's six a.m. I'm still wearing last night's makeup, and I lost my shirt at some point, but I don't care. We're just gonna make some music and put it out there. This is for us. And hopefully, ya'll will like it, too."

  I glance at him. "Bray-bay?"

  "Yes, my dear?"

  "You're rambling. Shut up and play your mandolin."

  He sticks his tongue out at me. "Meanie-head. But alas, you're right. Without further ado..." He flexes the fingers on his chord-hand, closes his eyes and ducks his head, and then begins strumming a slow, mournful melody.

  I sing:

  "Forgive me, forgive me...forgive me,

  But I just can't get those words out,

  Those two little words, can't set 'em free,

  Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me,

  I should be able to say it, should be easy,

  But those words, they get stuck

  And anyway it's not like you give a fuck

  If I say I'm sorry, they're just words, two little words, That mean so little,

  Too little, too late,

  And they just can't erase the hate I pile on myself, Can't bury the guilt I keep on my shelf,

  Can't bring down these walls,

  Can't tear down these halls,

  Even if I beg you on bended knee,

  Forgive me, forgive me,

  Forgive me,

  I should be able to say it,

  But those words just get stuck,

  And anyway it's not like you give a fuck,

  And it's just my luck,

  You'd forgive me, you'd forgive me

  Like it's just that easy,

  Because we all know the truth,

  We all know the hardest part,

  The thing that's really an art,

  Is when I say forgive me, forgive me,

  Forgive me,

  Is to say it to myself,

  To take the guilt off the shelf,

  To bring down my walls,

  To tear down the halls,

  To beg myself, to plead with my own soul,

  Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me."

  "That was, obviously, a song called 'Forgive Me'." Brayden tilts his mandolin so the rounded bottom rests on his thighs, leans his chin on the edge of the headstock, and then gazes at me sidelong. "And Echo? Just so you know, I forgive you."

  My chin wavers, and I try to smile, and then he stops the recording and pulls me into a hug. "Thanks, Bray."

  "Love you, babes." He inclines toward me, kisses me on the temple. "I've gotta crash. Be good, you."

  He settles his mandolin in its case, clips the latches closed, carries it to his bedroom and closes the door behind himself.

  We're sharing an apartment, Brayden and I. The girls I was living with were no good for me to be around. Really, the only thing we had in common was partying and I'm determined to keep away from that lifestyle. Bray's lease was up, so we decided to get a place together. He keeps an eye on me, making sure I go to my appointments with Dr. Pruitt at the counseling office, and makes sure I don't do anything stupid. This way, we can make music together all the time. The other kids in the band agreed that we needed a hiatus.

  That I needed a hiatus.

  *

  It's been two months since I O.D.'d, and I've exchanged a few texts with Ben, but I haven't seen him. I don't know what he's doing. Finishing his degree, I guess. Good for him.

  I'm in bed now, and it's 3 a.m., and I'm listening to "3 A.M." by Gregory Alan Isakov. My phone buzzes in my hands and the gray box pops up over the Pandora app, with Ben's words, and his name as he saved it--Benji: Just wanted you to know, I'm still waiting for you.

  I stare at the screen for a long, long time before my fingers begin typing out a reply: And just so YOU know, I'm still working on things. Keep waiting. PLZ?

  As long as I need to.

  Promise?

  Promise.

  The question for me becomes: when will I be ready? Will it ever happen? Because I still don't know how to be what he wants me to be. I'm not even sure what he wants. Exclusivity? A long-term relationship? To be, what? Lovers? Is that a term monogamous types still use? I don't know. I've never done that.

  And I have so many fears: If he knew my history, in terms of sex, would he still want me? I mean, let's face it, I'm kind of a slut. It's a self-appointed and accepted label. The first time a guy called me that, I didn't hit him, didn't slap him, didn't walk out. I sat back and thought about it, and then nodded and agreed with him. Yeah, I said. I guess I am, aren't I? And what does that make you? A slut-fucker. Not a good thing, I'm thinking now.

  Is that what Ben wants? What he deserves? I mean, yeah, I'm good at sex. He likes what I've got going on, obviously, but if he knew how many have been there before him, would he still feel the same way?

  My bedroom door opens and Brayden sticks his head in. "You think too damn loud, girl. You may never be ready to love that boy. But you'll never know unless you try."

  I stare at his silhouette. "Was I talking out loud?"

  "No, I just know what you're thinking. I mean, it's kind of obvious." He blows me a kiss. "Now, shut off your brain and go to sleep."

  I blow a raspberry at him. "I wouldn't be up at three in the fucking morning if I could do that, Bray-bay."

  "I know. But try."

  "Yeah, yeah." I wave him away, and he closes the door.

  I stare at my phone for a while longer. You still up? I text him.

  Yup. Why?

  You know where Fannie Mae Dees Park is?

  Yeah...?

  Meet me there.

  When?

  Now?

  Be there in 10.

  I get out of bed, my hands shaking, heart palpitating, and rinse off in the shower. I brush my hair till it shines and leave it loose, brush my teeth, put on some deodorant and perfume, and then slip into a sleeveless white full-length dress, no bra, no panties. I step into sandals, stuff my phone in my purse, and head toward the door.

  Brayden is sitting on the couch, facing the coffee table, wearing nothing but a black miniskirt. It just looks so weird. He's really embracing this side of himself, apparently, and good for him. I love him regardless, and I'm proud of his fearlessness, but...it's just weird. He's talked about being bisexual, and I've met a few of the guys he's "dated", but I've never seen any actual hard proof that he's actually done anything to speak of...in that way, I mean. He's always been impeccably dressed, a little too well dressed, really, which was
my first indicator. But he was always dressed like a guy. And a partially gay guy, sure, in pants and shirts and boots and scarves, mostly. This Bray that wears my skirts and puts on makeup is...a little hard to get used to.

  As I pass him by, I get a look at what he's doing: rolling a joint. I stop and stare. "I didn't know you smoked pot, Brayden."

  He starts, gasps, and claps a hand over the lark adorning his chest. "Jesus, Echo. You scared me." He shrugs. "I used to. I stopped for a while."

  "Oh. Um, okay."

  He licks the paper and seals the joint, then turns on the couch to glance at me. "Is it a problem?"

  It's my turn to shrug. "No, I guess not."

  "You want some?"

  I almost do, but I hesitate. I think about Ben, waiting for me. "No, thanks. Probably not a good idea for me."

  He blinks at me, owlishly. "No, I guess it wouldn't be. Sorry." He then takes in my appearance. "Nice dress. I'd rethink going braless, though. Where are you off to?"

  "Meeting Ben."

  "At three in the morning?"

  "I'm awake, he's awake and, like you said, I'll never know unless I try." I lift my tits through the thin white cotton and let them fall. "And besides, I like how I look without a bra. It feels nice. Freeing."

  He nods and shrugs. "Okay, then. Just...don't run. You might smack yourself in the face with those puppies."

  I lean across the couch and smack him on the back of the head. "Shut up, weirdo."

  "I'm not weird. I'm just...exploring myself."

  "You're wearing my miniskirt."

  "So?"

  "It's weird," I say. "And...I'm not sure I want to know the answer to this, but what are you wearing underneath it?"

  "You don't want to know."

  I close my eyes and shake my head. "No, you know what? Forget I asked. Just wash it and put it back when you're done."

  "Sure thing, babes." He blows me a kiss. "Go get him, tiger."

  "Rawr." I make claws with my fingers, and then leave Brayden to his marijuana.

  I feel hopeful as I walk to the park; hopeful, yes, but also shaking with fear, and nearly paralyzed with doubt.

  FIFTEEN: Giving In

  Ben

  I'm sitting on top of a picnic table under the gazebo at Fannie Mae Dees Park. It's warm out despite the hour, and still. Quiet. There's a playground not far away, with a stone dragon diving into the earth and remerging, painted a dozen different colors.

  I wonder what's going to happen, what Echo will be like, what she'll say, where this will go. I can't even begin to guess. I know she's doing better. I've watched her and Bray's YouTube music videos, which they post with prolific frequency. They're more like musical video journals, though, than a typical music video. The lyrics Echo sings are painfully honest, discussing the nature of pain, the problem of addiction, discussing her mother's death and how she's having such a hard time dealing with it. She holds absolutely nothing back; it's heartbreakingly courageous and breathtakingly daring.

  I don't hear her approach. I feel the picnic table shift and creak, and then she's sitting beside me. I take a deep breath, eyes closed, praying and hoping and not daring to hope. And then I look at her, and my heart stops, lurches in my chest, and I'm struck dumb.

  She's wearing a floor-length white dress held up by thin, nearly-invisible straps. It falls to her feet, clings to her curves. The material is bunched around her knees so the hem doesn't catch on her sandals, and the cotton is pinched between her thighs, cupping the V of her core, clinging to her flat stomach and hugging her ribs. Her breasts bulge against the fabric, pulling it taut, making it erotically apparent that she's not wearing a bra. I can see the outline of her nipples and a hint of the darker circle of her areolae. My gaze dips back to the apex of her thighs, and I'm pretty sure she's not wearing anything down there either. Her blonde hair is loose around her shoulders and face, thick and wheat-golden and glistening, as if she just brushed it. She smells clean, freshly showered, with a hint of something citrus.

  "You look incredible, Echo," I say.

  She ducks her head and smiles. "Thanks." She nudges me with her shoulder. "You're just saying that because I didn't put on a bra."

  "Or underwear." I curl my arm around her shoulders and pull her against me. "But no, as much as I do enjoy that particular view, it's you. You are beautiful." I sense we have a serious conversation coming, and force myself to put my need for her on a chain, keep my lust reined in.

  "Thank you." She rests her head on my shoulder for a moment, and then pulls away. "So, I was waiting to see you until I felt...ready. But Brayden informed me that I might not ever feel ready, and I realized he was right. I owe it to you to tell you that I'm--I'm not sure I can ever be what you deserve, Ben. I'm not sure I know how to be the kind of girl you want. But...I want to be. I want to at least try."

  "Echo, how do you not understand? Just be you. That's all I want. And as for what I deserve? That's horseshit. No, not even that, it's...what I deserve isn't even a real thing. What I deserve is what I want. And I want you."

  "You make it seem so easy."

  "Well, it is. Or, it's simple, at least. Maybe not easy. But sometimes the hardest things are the simplest."

  She pulls the white cotton of her dress up around her knees, baring her calves, and a pair of strappy white sandals. She's silent for a while, and I wait for her to speak. "My father is French. He's a musician, a really amazingly talented one, too. He and my mom met at Juilliard. He was there on a violin scholarship and, from what my mom told me, he barely spoke any English. He was a wizard with the violin, though, and gorgeous, with a sexy accent and all that. Well, they fell in love, and...she was ice-skating with him when she fell and broke her ankle and messed up her Achilles tendon. He stayed with her, took care of her, supported her, and it seemed like they were just...destined to be together.

  "After my mom officially withdrew from Juilliard, she and my father got married. They were both not even twenty, at the time. And...Mom got pregnant within weeks and had me nine months later. And he stayed around. They lived in New York, and Mom started going to school for nursing at night while Dad took care of me. And then, one day Mom came home from class late one night. I was in my crib, and our neighbor was sitting on the couch, watching TV. My dad was nowhere to be found. His things were gone, all of his clothes, his violin, and the money they'd saved. All of it. He didn't leave a note, and she never saw him again. He withdrew from Juilliard without any notice, mid-semester. Went back to France, apparently. Just...left. Cleaned Mom out, like he took every single dollar they had and even stole some of her jewelry."

  Echo shifts on the bench, staring at her feet. "Mom moved back to Texas where she'd grown up, lived with Grandma and Grandpa, transferred to a community college and got her nursing degree. She never had the money to get a divorce, and by the time she did have enough money there didn't seem to be any point, because it had been years and he never sent a letter or anything, never made contact. Jean-Luc Leveaux. That's his name. I found him, actually, my senior year of high school. He lives in Paris. He's remarried, with three other kids. Plays for the Orchestre de Paris. I even sent him a letter, and a picture of myself. I look like him, enough that it's clear I'm his daughter."

  "Did he write you back?"

  She shakes her head. "No. But I'd already been accepted to Belmont by then, and I got a notice saying my entire tuition had been paid for up front, all four years worth. No letter, no explanation. Mom wanted me to give it back, but...how do you do that? He'd had them calculate how much my entire degree would be and sent a check, apparently. There was no way to undo it, and besides, how do you turn down free college?

  "That was another part of what Mom and I disagreed on. She was still so angry, so hurt, and so bitter about him, she wanted me to switch schools, or tell them to apply it to someone else's tuition, or anything, anything other than accept a single thing from him. But I went anyway, and I don't think she ever forgave me for it. She didn't want me to go ther
e in the first place so that, on top of what she saw as a betrayal...? She wouldn't come with me for my orientation. I moved here by myself."

  "Damn." I shake my head. "It's hard to reconcile that with what I knew about Cheyenne."

  "I know. She was always so level-headed and kind and loving, and until that we never argued about anything, ever. That's what made it so hard. I didn't know how to be mad at her; I just wanted to forget it all, to move on. I just wanted her to...to be proud of me. To see how amazing Echo the Stars is. To just...get over it. But she couldn't. And then she died, and I never got to say goodbye, never got to--" She breaks off and puts her face in her hands, shudders, shakes, weeps.

  I pull her against me. "Ssshhh. Echo, I know. I know. I'm so sorry."

  She cries for a moment, and then straightens up and wipes at her eyes. "I think that's something I'll never get over--that she died and the last words we had were in anger." She sniffs, wipes her eyes again. "I think I'm also a lot more angry at my dad than I've ever realized. I've been talking to a therapist at school, and this is something we've just started touching on. He abandoned me. My dad, I mean. I never knew him, never saw a picture of him or knew his name, not until I was a teenager. Mom just never talked about him. I asked, when I was...six? And then again when I was eight, and then ten, and twelve, and she just said it wasn't a topic she was willing to talk about. Finally, when I was fourteen, I refused to leave her alone until she told me something. I pestered her for weeks about it. Wrote her notes and letters, left them in her purse and in her gym bag, on the fridge, written in lipstick on the bathroom mirror. I never left her alone about it. I refused to eat for three days, too. That was what broke her, eventually, because I refused to eat. She tried to force-feed me, and that...didn't go well. We both ended up covered in food, wrestling on the kitchen floor, laughing our asses off, and then she was crying, and told me the whole story. I was fourteen, almost fifteen when she told me."

  "Damn. She really didn't want to talk about it, huh?" I try to insert some humor, but it falls flat.

  Echo shakes her head. "No, she didn't. She never got over it. Or over him. And neither did I. He left us, just...walked out without looking back. I was just a baby, and Mom was...so young, and she loved him so much. I could hear it in her voice when she told me about him. The effect that his abandonment has had on me, to this day is...something I'm still uncovering."