The Upside of Falling

by Alex Light

  “Becca—”

  “I think you should leave.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I never wanted any of this to happen.”

  “I know,” I said, and I think that was the problem. That his feelings for me weren’t enough to stand out in all this mess, when my feelings for him were all that stood out in mine.

  When it was clear Brett wasn’t going anywhere, I was the one who left. I stepped into the elevator and watched him disappear as the doors closed. It brought back memories of my father leaving. I remembered what it felt like to wake up to an empty home. I remembered what it felt like when Jenny stopped caring about our friendship. These memories I tried so hard to block out were resurfacing. I was starting to drown in them.

  But this time I wouldn’t let myself. Because this time was different.

  This time, I was the one walking away.

  My feelings began to change as the week dragged on. Apparently hiding out in my bedroom was not an appropriate way to deal with whatever this feeling was. (Rejection? Heartbreak? A little bit of each?) Dodging Brett at school was beginning to take a toll on my physical health. It was exhausting having to peek into every hallway and eat lunch behind the football field just to avoid seeing him. And, okay, maybe avoiding him wasn’t the best solution, but what did I know? Relationship virgin here. Even books didn’t prepare me for this.

  Speaking of books, that’s where I had begun to direct all my anger. I stopped feeling sorry for myself and created a mental reminder to stop putting all the blame on Brett. He was going through a lot with his family right now. It wasn’t fair to expect him to prioritize me in all this chaos. So instead I put all the blame, again, on these books that were lighthearted and fun. They were about people falling in love in beach houses and amusement parks, where their only worry was melting ice cream. There was nothing in those pages about fake relationships. Or what to do when the fake world you created came crashing down around you. Why couldn’t I find a book on how to deal with a very fake—yet very real—breakup?

  Where were the books on that, huh?

  The worst part was the amount of time I wasted reading these things and losing myself in fantasies that were never going to happen. And at the beginning, that was the point. To read something so completely outrageous and find comfort in the fact that the fictional love and heartbreak would never happen to me. But it wasn’t even worth it because it did happen to me. I was left standing here with all these books and a broken heart from a boy I never really even dated.

  I was a colossal mess.

  My mom walked into my room while I was staring at my bookshelf. When I was nearly done with my internal rant, she cleared her throat. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Thinking about what to read next?”

  I shook my head. “Thinking about which to throw away, actually. Maybe I’ll burn them, watch the romance go up in flames. That could be cool.”

  My mom actually gasped. “But you love these books!”

  “I loved them.” Past tense.

  “Oh, baby. What happened?” she asked, tugging me onto my bed. I guess I could have told her about Brett. She’d know what to say. But I couldn’t do it. My mom had spent all my teenage years asking me about boys, waiting for her daughter to fall in love and have some grand, fairy-tale romance. It never happened. I knew she thought that I wasn’t really living my life to the fullest, which was all she ever wanted. I just . . . I wasn’t sure how to tell her that I finally met someone and it started off fake and then, when it was beginning to feel real, it got ruined. Completely freaking messed up. Catastrophic chaos.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

  I expected her to fight me on this and declare some unofficial mother-daughter therapy session. Instead she patted my back and walked out of the room.

  “Something’s up,” I heard her whisper once the door was closed. “She’s talking about burning her books.”

  “Not the books!” Cassie yelled. Side note: Since when was Cassie here? This better not be some sort of intervention.

  “I can hear you two!” I called back. The door burst open and Cassie barged through. I think she was trying to seem threatening but it was kind of ruined by the powdered sugar all over her face.

  “This better not be about Brett breaking up with you,” she said, pointing her finger at me very aggressively. “I’ve waited too long for you to have feelings for literally anyone and now that it happens, you’re moping around like some tragic heroine.”

  “I’m not a tragic heroine.”

  “You are. The super annoying type that won’t tell anyone how they feel. Not their mom, or even their best friend. Super lame, Becca. The books are ashamed of you. Can you hear them crying? Can you? Look what you’re doing to them.” She jumped onto my bed, full face-plant, and sighed dramatically. I had to fight back the giggles.

  Reluctantly, I took a seat beside her. “This isn’t about Brett,” I said. Cassie gave me a look. “Fine. It may be partially about Brett, but only, like, twenty percent.”

  “How about the other eighty percent?”

  “The books,” I said. “I feel like they’re mocking me.” Cassie slapped her hand over my forehead. “What are you doing?”

  “Checking if you have a fever.”

  I pushed her hand away. “The only thing making me sick is staring at these books all day long. With their stupid, false happy endings. It’s a scam. The entire book industry is a gigantic scam, Cassie. Why doesn’t anyone talk about this? How is this legal? They’re feeding vulnerable readers lies about love and life and we’re buying into it like mindless consumers.”

  Cassie stood up. “Amy!” My mom appeared in the doorway. She was obviously eavesdropping. “You need to take it from here,” Cassie said before walking out of the room.

  Then I had an idea. I ran to the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets until I found the box of garbage bags, the extra-large ones my mom uses for recycling.

  “What is she doing?” Cassie mumbled.

  “No idea.”

  I ignored the two of them and marched back to my bedroom. Then I shut the door and took as many books as I could off the shelves and threw them into the bag. I started off with the cheesiest ones, the ones with the happiest endings and the promises of eternal love. Yuck. Then I did the same with the ones that had made me cry. Then the ones that I didn’t really like but still read anyway because it was physically impossible for me to stop reading a book halfway. When the bag was full and half the bookshelf was empty, I tied the top, lifted it into my arms, and walked out of my apartment.

  “Where are you taking those?” my mom called after me.

  “Don’t follow me!” I yelled back. “Either of you!”

  By some miracle, they didn’t. I guess there was something about a slightly sleep-deprived teenager shoving books into a bag that scared people off.

  I marched to the elevator, pressed the button to the lobby, and waited. My arms were beginning to ache from the weight of all these books, but I didn’t care. It was nice to feel that weight somewhere other than my heart.

  I was sitting with my feet dangling over the edge of the bridge, the water lapping beneath me. It made me think of the night I spent at Lovers’ Lake with Brett. The kiss, the piggyback rides, the moonlight reflecting off the lake—it all seemed so perfect at the time.

  Stupid books. Nothing prepared me for this.

  The weird part was that my heart didn’t feel entirely broken. Not the way it had after the divorce. Now it was like, instead of the entire thing shattering, just one tiny little piece of it was missing. A subtle ache. But it was there all the same. And it still hurt.

  It was my fault for getting my hopes up. Because before I met Brett, love was an idea I was fine reading about. It existed on pages, and that was okay because that was safe. Then I saw it begin to take shape between us. And I think part of me began to feel that maybe this entire idea of love wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe my parents just had
a bad experience. Right? Maybe, for other people, it could actually work. Maybe Brett and I were two of those people it could work for.

  With hindsight, I realized now I was wrong. I should have remained pessimistic and kept all the locks and chains around my heart.

  Now there was only one thing left to do.

  I reached into the bag and blindly chose a book. I didn’t even look at it, I just opened it to a random page, tore it out, then threw it into the water. I watched it float, then slowly move away. I breathed, counted to five, then threw the entire book in. Now it sank, right down to the very bottom until I could no longer see it. Good. I didn’t want to see it. Seeing was a reminder. I wanted it gone.

  I grabbed another book and threw it into the water. Then another. And another. I sat there under the sun until the bag was half empty, the lake a little fuller. I was tearing through a book about a dying girl in Maine when Jenny appeared out of nowhere. She was standing beside me, breathing too loud. Or maybe I had gotten used to the quiet.

  “God, Becca. What are you doing?” she asked. I ignored her and threw another one in. “You’re polluting the water.”

  I threw another, then said, “Semi-broken hearts are selfish. They don’t care about things like pollution.”

  Jenny sat beside me, her flip-flop-clad feet dangling over the edge. Her toenails were painted bright yellow. “I heard about you and Brett,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled. There was nothing else to say. I picked up another book and threw it in, not even bothering to look at the title.

  Then Jenny held out her hand, palm toward the sky. I stared at it for a minute, then her smiling face. It made sense that she was so popular. She was beautiful, like that natural kind of beauty that made you wonder how it was even possible for someone to look like that. I searched her face, looking for the friend I used to know.

  “Give me a book,” she said.

  So I did. She scanned the cover, flipped it over a few times, then asked, “This is the one you were reading that morning. Right?”

  I snorted. “The one you made fun of? No. This one’s different.”

  “They all look the same. What’s the story?” she asked, gently tapping the book against her thigh.

  “Isn’t it always about love?”

  “I mean your story,” she corrected me. “When did you buy this? Why did you buy it?”

  “I don’t remember,” I told her, “but I read this book to Brett once in his car.” I grabbed the book from her hand and threw it into the water. This time I watched it sink, the memory of that night drowning with it. “I know you probably think I’m being dramatic—”

  “Stupid, actually.”

  “—but this makes me feel better. These books were safe. Like this alternate, paper world where anything was possible. And after my parents’ divorce I gave up on love. I never wanted to fall into it or feel it because what was the point? These books let me feel it through other people. That way, I didn’t have to worry about being hurt. It sounds dumb, but they helped. They helped me when nothing else could.”

  “So why throw them away?”

  “Why do you care?” I asked, glancing up from the book in my lap to look at her. “We haven’t really been friends for a long time.”

  Jenny shrugged, throwing another book in. “I know what it feels like to be alone. And that night, at the hotel, you looked like you could use someone to talk to. Not to mention I think you’re having some sort of breakdown right now.”

  I ignored the last part. “Alone? You’re never alone. You’re always surrounded by your friends.” I left out the night at the marsh.

  Jenny had this sad smile on her face when she reached for another book. She held it in her lap, playing with the page corners. “You know,” she said, “I used to think being popular was all that mattered. Having a lot of friends, being invited to parties, all of that shit. When I got my braces off before sophomore year and these”—she grabbed her chest—“finally grew in, people looked at me differently. Like I was now worthy of their attention or something. God, that sounds so superficial, and it was, but it felt really damn good. So I joined the cheerleading squad. I said yes when guys asked me on dates because what else was I supposed to do? I thought I was living this enviable life where everyone wanted to be me. And I was happy. But I was lonely, Becca. Because those people were my friends, but not like you once were.”

  She threw the book over the bridge.

  “I’m sorry for ruining our friendship,” she said. “I’m sorry for acting like I was better than you because I had more experience or whatever. You were a great friend. You still are. You deserved better than someone like me. But I’m happy that we’re talking again. Think you can finally accept my two-year-late apology? Put the past behind us?”

  I think the old me, the one in the hallway that day, would have said no. She would have happily accepted the answer to the question that had been weighing on her for years and gone on her way. She would have been fine losing another person because, after all, real life was scary and books were her only safe place. But I was starting to realize that maybe I wasn’t that same girl anymore. So I said, “Yes,” and hugged Jenny back when she reached out. Maybe with answers came forgiveness. And Jenny was the first person on that list.

  When we were sitting side by side again, I said, “We were pretending,” and, wow, it felt really good to say that out loud. “Me and Brett were never dating. It was all a lie.”

  Jenny laughed. She leaned back on the bridge, resting her palms flat behind her. “Honestly? I kind of thought the whole thing was bullshit,” she said, shaking her curls out behind her. “Hand me one of those, would you?”

  I reached into the bag blindly and gave her the first book my fingers touched. “You did? Why didn’t you say anything? Tell anyone?”

  She shrugged. “Who cares? Let people believe what they want. I think ninety percent of our school thinks I’m straight.”

  “You’re not?”

  She ripped the cover off the book in one swift motion. Making a face, she threw it into the water, then said, “Still figuring that out.” Then she paused. “Let’s keep that between us.”

  Obviously. “What about all those guys you dated?” I asked, curious.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I felt like I had to? Maybe that’s why I was always bragging about it, to cover up something else I couldn’t quite figure out yet. . . . You didn’t answer my question. Why throw these books away?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “Because they’re fiction. They’re not real. Love like this,” I said, grabbing another book and waving it between us, “isn’t real. It exists in these pages. That’s it.”

  Then I had an idea. I grabbed the garbage bag, the whole thing, and stood up. I was about to throw it over the edge when Jenny screamed and ripped it out of my hands. She placed it behind her, protecting it with her body, and muttering what sounded like “crazy” under her breath.

  I was breathing hard. My fingers were tingling. I wanted to grab another book. I wanted to watch it drown.

  I laughed again. This time, it was maniacal. Crazy. Total witch laugh.

  “I can’t believe it.” I was shaking my head. “You were right this whole time! You told me these books were setting me up for disappointment, raising my expectations, and I didn’t believe you. You were right,” I said again.

  I was still laughing when I lay back on the wood to stare up at the sky. Jenny’s head appeared beside me a second later. I could feel her watching me, analyzing me like a puzzle. Like one right move and I could be put back together. I wasn’t sure if I could. Because parts of myself were everywhere. Some with my mom, some with Cassie. Some were even with my dad. With Brett. And now, some were buried at the bottom of this lake, smudged words on soaked pages.

  “What if,” Jenny began slowly, “we were both wrong?” I raised my brows, shifted my head on the wood to stare at her. “I mean, these are books, Becca. They’re not real life. Y
ou can’t take what you read in here and expect it to magically happen to you. You can’t expect it to feel like that.” She paused, grabbing a book out of the bag and placing it on her stomach. “Real guys aren’t like this. I don’t think anyone is like this. People don’t stand in front of your bedroom window with a boom box—”

  “That’s from a movie. Not a book.”

  She gave me that look that said shut up for a second.

  “My point is no one can live up to some romance you read about when you were fourteen. But Brett’s real. He’s here. And isn’t that better? Mistakes and all?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “He’s been moping around school. Everyone knows what happened with his family. He’s having a hard time. I’m sure he could use a friend. . . . Or a girlfriend.”

  “Fake girlfriend,” I corrected her.

  Jenny pushed my shoulder. “Please. Maybe it started off fake, but did it stay like that?” she asked.

  I planted my elbow on the wood and raised myself up. “Give me the bag back,” I said.

  Slowly, Jenny handed it to me. “No more pollution?”

  “No more pollution,” I repeated.

  “And you’ll talk to Brett?” she prodded.

  “To be determined.”

  “I want you to be happy, you know,” Jenny said after a minute. Her eyes were still locked on the sky. “You seemed happy with him.”

  “I think I was.”

  “Give him time,” she said. “Let him focus on his mom, his family. Once he gets that all sorted out, he’ll come back.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “Because some people leave for good. But sometimes they come back.”

  “Like you did,” I said.

  Jenny smiled. “Exactly.”

  I stood up then, bag in tow. It sagged in my hands, nearly empty now. I contemplated throwing it over, watching it sink, then decided against it. Maybe someday I’d pick up one of these books and be glad I didn’t destroy it. Or maybe that day would never come and they’d just be books on a shelf. Either way, I walked off the bridge with the bag, Jenny trailing beside me.