Feels Like Falling

by Kristy Woodson Harvey

  That meant: Get the hell out of my room, old woman.

  I smiled. In the doorway, I turned to look at him another moment, my baby who was growing up so fast. That familiar fear, that terror at the thought of losing him, rushed through me. I thought of my mom again, of her joy over having another boy in the family, as though Wagner were going to be the reincarnated soul of my brother, Steven.

  As I walked downstairs, I felt my phone buzz in my hand. Does Wagner by chance go to bed at six?

  I smiled. And I realized that I was really looking forward to that good night kiss.

  diana: cliché for a reason

  The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. It’s a cliché because it’s the truest damn thing of all time. Doesn’t matter if he’s five days or five years or a hundred and five years, a man will love you more if you can feed him well.

  I knew that Wagner probably wasn’t going to be all too thrilled about some strange woman taking up residence in his guesthouse, so the importance of this dinner wasn’t lost on me.

  “Did Mom tell you that fried chicken is my favorite?” Wagner asked.

  He startled me. I guess I hadn’t expected him to walk right up without his mom and start chatting with me.

  “She might have,” I said.

  “My grandma’s fried chicken was the best in the whole world.”

  He was wrong, but I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot.

  “Well,” I said, “no chicken can replace your grandma’s chicken. But sometimes when we can’t have the real thing, something kind of like it will do.”

  At that, my mind wandered to Frank. I’d sure as hell spent the better part of a lifetime convincing myself that whoever I was with at the time was as good or better. As I looked down at today’s TJ’s Salvage Yard T-shirt, I remembered the time that TJ had left me at the bar without telling me because he’d won fifty bucks on a scratch-off and went down to the gas station to turn it in. He ran into his buddy Sammy, and they’d bought beer with the winnings, gotten drunk down by the pier, and forgotten all about me. I’d had to thumb home.

  At the time, I was just looking to fill that huge, Frank-size hole in my heart with anyone and everyone. But I was old enough now that I’d accepted that some wounds just don’t heal, never ever in your whole life. Same as Wagner was never going to taste chicken like his grandma’s again, I’d never love like I’d loved Frank, no matter how many T-shirts I had to prove I’d tried. That love I had for Frank was infinite. Even when both of us were gone, it’d still be out there floating around in the universe. That part of me couldn’t reason out why I had refused to answer his calls or see him since that night outside the Beach Pub.

  But it boiled down to one thing, a thing I didn’t like admitting: I was scared. When you’ve been nothing but left your whole life, it’s what you come to expect. And with Frank, it wasn’t just being scared of what could happen. It was being scared of what could happen again.

  But I didn’t say that to the kid, obviously.

  “So, kind of like Brooke,” Wagner said matter-of-factly.

  “Kind of like Brooke what?” Gray asked, making her way into the kitchen, head wet from the shower.

  Wagner shrugged. “Diana’s chicken is kind of like how Brooke is the replacement for you.”

  I could tell it was taking all the strength in Gray’s little body not to get persnickety about that, but she did a real good job hiding it.

  “Sweetie,” Gray said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I don’t think that’s it at all. I’m me and Brooke’s Brooke and Dad’s Dad, and none of us are chicken. We’ve all made some choices this year that I’m sure have been tough on you.”

  He shook his head. “No, Mom, you don’t get it. She’s just like you. Sometimes she says stuff, and it’s what you would say, and it’s so weird. I don’t get at all why Dad would want to marry her now. It’s like being married to you, except she isn’t as nice as you, and he’s always having to give her something so she’ll be happy.” He paused. “And you haven’t ever cared about presents and stuff unless they’re from me.”

  Gray pursed her lips to suppress a smile, and I winked at her.

  “Why don’t we dive into dinner? I’ve been dying for some mac and cheese,” Gray said.

  “Oh yes, please,” I chimed in. “It’s already on the table.”

  I took Wagner by the shoulder and said, “Listen, I know your grandma’s chicken is the best in the world, and I can’t compete with that. But maybe you can give my biscuits a try and see if they’re the best in the world?”

  Wagner sat down and slathered butter on his biscuit, then a little bit of jam. I waited, holding my breath. This was a make-or-break moment, do or die. If he liked this biscuit, I was in. He’d hang with me in the kitchen while I was cooking or ask me to drive him to the pool. We’d be thick as thieves just like that. But if he didn’t like it… if he didn’t like it, then I was toast. Burnt toast.

  Gray winked back at me like she knew all the stuff that was going on in my head. Wagner swallowed, wiped his mouth, and smiled. But was it a happy smile? Or a sarcastic smile like I wasn’t nearly as good as I thought and he was going to prove it? He took a sip of water. I darn near thought the hands on the clock had stopped.

  “Diana,” he said, “you’re right. That is the best biscuit I’ve ever had.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief and smiled triumphantly.

  Wagner said, “Mom, Diana’s cool. She can stay as long as she keeps cooking instead of you.”

  Man + stomach = love. All day, every day, every single time. If only every man in my life had been as easy as Wagner to hook with nothing more than my homemade biscuits.

  CHAPTER 10

  gray: zero idea

  The bad part about your almost ex-husband getting your eight-year-old a cell phone is that, well, he got your eight-year-old a cell phone. The good part is that an eight-year-old with a cell phone will Snapchat his mom pictures of himself and his friends all week so she can keep up with what he’s doing.

  Evidently, the ex-husband will do something similar.

  Why in the world is Marcy at my office? Greg texted me Monday morning a couple weeks later as I was rushing around getting ready for my dad’s visit.

  I looked around. That was weird. Marcy hadn’t come by for her usual coffee this morning. I have zero idea, I replied.

  Sure, he typed back.

  I was going to argue with him, but I didn’t have the energy. I had done enough of that already.

  On Saturday, I had been so excited when Greg brought Wagner back to me from Raleigh. As he came flying through the door that night, backpack on his back, I’d said, “Oh my gosh, I missed you so much!” We had been careful to make sure that he had two of everything, one at my house, one at his dad’s, so the poor kid didn’t feel like he was packing up and getting shifted around every week. Even still, he was always transporting stuff back and forth. He threw his arms around my neck, and I realized that I barely even had to stoop to kiss him on the cheek. I’d almost said, “Don’t you ever leave me again!” but I caught myself. It was habit, but I had to be more careful.

  “Hey, Mom,” he’d said, “do you want to go play tennis with me next week?”

  Andrew rushed into my mind, those luscious lips that I had kissed good-bye a million times not an hour ago. “I would love that, buddy!”

  “Okay, great. Because Andrew bet me and Johnny ten bucks that we couldn’t beat him in doubles no matter how sorry his partner.”

  Johnny and me. I decided to let it go. I gave him my best shocked and amused look. “So you chose me? Are you saying I’m not a good tennis player?”

  “Not as good as me,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. I ruffled his shaggy hair, and he darted through the kitchen and up the stairs. Not as good as I am, I thought, mom mode fully reactivated.

  “Well, hi,” Greg said, leaning over to kiss my cheek, catching me off guard.

  “Come on in,” I s
aid, closing the door behind him. “I miss the hell out of him, but boys need dads, right?”

  He pulled out a bar stool and sat down, and I sat beside him. “Look, I know it’s hard, but I appreciate it. I really do. I can’t stand the thought of only getting him every other weekend. And I’ll make sure to repay you for that when we’re hammering out the…” He cleared his throat. “…details.”

  That did sound nicer than “settlement.” I was about to make a snide remark, but then I realized that this was the best opportunity I was going to get to raise my voice about ClickMarket.

  So I shot him my most ingratiating smile. “Funny you should mention that,” I said. “Because I think the perfect trade would be that you quit trying to take half my company.”

  Greg started to stand up. “I thought we had agreed not to discuss this without our lawyers.”

  “Yeah, Greg,” I said sarcastically. “We agreed. But they’re certainly not coming up with a solution anytime soon, so I thought perhaps we could try to have a civil conversation that didn’t cost me five hundred dollars per hour.”

  I didn’t sound super civil as I said it, but this was my major pain point, and Greg knew it.

  He sat down again. “Fine. Let’s talk. I helped you build that company. I’ve worked just as hard on it as you have.”

  The laugh that escaped my lips was cruel. “Are you kidding me? I have spent all day, every day, seven days a week working on that company since I was twenty years old.” I paused and reiterated, “Twenty.” Then I added for good measure, “I brought you into my carefully cultivated world, and you repaid me by cashing paychecks and screwing your secretary in your corner office!”

  Civil was over.

  His face darkened, and his voice was cold and callous as he said, “Who do you think was holding our family together while you were working seven days a week? Who do you think was taking care of our child? Who was doing your share of the work at home?”

  I wasn’t going to let him play the superdad card. He was far from it. “Maria! Whose salary I paid,” I practically spat as Wagner came tearing into the kitchen. I could feel the fury in my chest. What Greg had said was kind of fair, and I knew that I had some responsibility for my divorce. But this was about my company, not my shortcomings as a wife and mother.

  “Mom! Where’s Diana?” Wagner asked, thankfully oblivious to what was going on. “I want to show her my new Wii game that Dad got me.”

  I cut my eyes at Greg, then said, “Diana’s gone out, bud, but you can show me.”

  Greg leaned over to hug Wagner. “Love you, man.”

  “Love you, dude.” Wagner gave his dad a fist bump.

  Greg turned to me and whispered, “Maybe if you’d ever put me first, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

  “Maybe if you had made yourself someone I wanted to put first, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

  We were so good at this game, at cutting each other down to the smallest size.

  “You amaze me, Gray,” he said ruefully. “You really do.” Once upon a time he had meant it earnestly. He had been in awe of my tenacity, of the way that I was able to achieve what he never could.

  And I wondered how, if I had truly been so amazing, I had ended up in this house alone.

  Even now, two days after the fight, my blood boiled every time I thought of it. And, honestly, I was a little embarrassed by how cruel I had been. But why in the world was my best friend at my office—and, yes, still Greg’s office too—in Raleigh? I texted her.

  Greg’s office?????

  When she didn’t answer, I texted Trey. Is M at ClickMarket?

  Three dots appeared immediately. Investigating.

  Diana was pulling something that smelled like what heaven must out of the oven and, before I could respond to Trey, I heard a soft rap at the back door. I shouldn’t admit this, but I didn’t know whether to feel excited or a little annoyed or something in between. I loved my dad so much. But ever since Mom had died, things were… awkward. She was the glue that held us together. It was sort of like when you were great friends with someone in a group but when you finally hung out solo, you had nothing to talk about. That was us. But we were trying. And sometimes trying was enough, right?

  And he was an amazing dad. When I started my blog, my dad got on Facebook so that he could make a bunch of friends and share my posts every day. That’s the kind of dad he was. He supported us in everything we did. And, truth be told, he had taught me everything I had ever known about business and hard work.

  I hugged him and said, “Hey, Dad. Thanks for coming.” After Mom had died, Dad couldn’t bear to be alone in their house in Raleigh. He had bought a small condo over on the beach, about three rows back from the ocean. We were ten minutes apart, but we only saw each other a few times a month.

  He nodded. I noticed he had put on a collared shirt with his jeans and flip-flops. It didn’t matter to me what he wore, but I appreciated the effort. “How’s it going, kiddo?”

  I shrugged. “It’s going.”

  If I had said that to Mom, she would have known that was an entry point, pushed me for more. But Dad didn’t know that. If I said I was fine, I was fine.

  “Greg and I just can’t seem to reach an agreement about the company,” I added as I waved him inside.

  We sat down in the living room at the front of the house, which was rarely used, if ever.

  “You know, baby girl, you’re just not on my level anymore. Your old dad doesn’t even know how to tell you what to do.”

  This was what drove me insane. Yes, I had done well. I had worked my ass off for it, and I’d gotten a little lucky too. But he was always so dramatic about my success, as if I had purposely used it to drive us apart.

  “Your mom and I, we were always just normal. We had what we needed. We had a few extras. We gave our girls a nice life—”

  “You gave us a great life, Dad.”

  That was true. We hadn’t had cable, so we’d read library books. We didn’t belong to a pool, so we’d spent our summers running around the yard with the neighborhood kids. And my dad had been the one to swallow his pain, to hold it together, to love my mother with all his heart even when she was mired so deeply in her devastation that she couldn’t get out of bed.

  Even still, it annoyed me that we were here again. I was reassuring him when what I needed was for someone to tell me I’d be okay.

  There was silence; then Dad said, “Well, that’s why some couples stay together, I guess. It’s not that they don’t have problems; it’s just easier than ending things.” Before I had time to object, he said, “Where’s that grandson of mine?”

  I was thinking the exact same thing.

  Dad sat at the head of the table for lunch with Wagner and me on either side.

  “Diana,” I said a little too enthusiastically as she brought the food to the table, “don’t you want to join us? Please?” I had told her earlier I didn’t like it when she served our food, but she’d said in the South, family lunches were supper and they were proper food with someone serving it, not some slapped-together sandwich.

  She gave me a face like she’d sooner die and said, “Oh, can’t. So much organizing to do in Wagner’s room.” That was actually impossible. Wagner’s room resembled a well-curated museum.

  “So, kiddo,” Dad was saying to Wagner, “Mom tells me that you’re quite the tennis pro.”

  Tennis pro. Andrew. Butterflies. Smiling too big. Get yourself together, Gray.

  Wagner nodded enthusiastically, taking a sip of his milk. “I’ve played practically every day since the trip!”

  “That’s great, man,” Dad said. “I can’t wait to come watch you sometime.”

  We were settling in now, the awkwardness dissipating with each bite of food. What I really needed was a nice cold bottle of Sancerre. But Dad didn’t drink at all, and I couldn’t bear the brunt of his disapproval yet again today.

  Wagner thought for a minute, chewing his last bite of corn. Diana’s stea
mer-pot shrimp boil was his favorite thing to eat these days. “Well, I don’t have a tennis court here, but I can show you my soccer moves!”

  Dad and I raised our eyebrows at each other and smiled.

  “Do you think you ought to wait until your food settles a minute?” I asked, always the cool mom.

  “Nah,” he said, running out the door, leaving it open and calling, “Okay. Now, don’t take your eyes off me for a second!”

  Dad smiled at me. “He seems like he’s doing pretty good.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. He’s adjusted really well. It’s kind of shocking.” I laughed. “I think he has adjusted better than I have.”

  “I wish your mother could see him,” Dad said, and at that my eyes welled up with tears.

  “Me too.”

  “You still think you did the right thing?” he asked.

  “About what?”

  “About hiding the divorce from your mother?”

  I took a sip of water, giving myself a moment to digest his question. I had almost called off that Virgin Islands trip with Greg because we had just found out Mom had cancer. But she insisted. “Darling,” she had said, “there’s nothing you can do by sitting at doctors’ appointments. It’s only a few days.”

  I’d often regretted listening to her. Of course, we didn’t know then how bad it was; we didn’t know that she would be dead a few months later. It had only been a few days. But a four-day vacay seems like an eternity when you only had a few dozen days left. I remembered walking in her door the night I flew in from the islands and her immediately asking, “What’s the matter?”

  What was the matter was that my husband had told me he was leaving me and we had had to fight about it for three days after that, that he was still living in my house and working in my office. I had debated telling her, but I wanted her to die happy—whenever that might be—knowing that both of her girls were okay. So I didn’t tell her that her older daughter was getting divorced and her younger one was marrying a religious fanatic who was better suited to an insane asylum than a pulpit. I still thought it was right to let her die in peace.