Risk the Fall

by Steph Campbell

  A blast of warm air hits us as we walk into the small shop.

  “Do you want something?” I ask, picking up a bottle of Makers Mark.

  “No, are you trying to be funny?”

  “Actually no,” I say, biting my tongue to cut the annoyance. “I’m trying to be courteous.”

  “Courteous?” she repeats, like she’s trying the word out to see how it feels. “Courteous is something you do as a formality. Courteous is what you do to strangers. Is that what we are again?”

  I stare at the bottles of wine on the shelves and all of their labels blur together. I want to break every one of them open and suck every last drop out of them until my lips are stained red to match the angry, blazing fury inside of me that I can’t be the guy this girl deserves. That I waited almost a year for her to come waltzing back into my life and now that she’s here, I’ve fucked it all up.

  “I don’t know what the hell we are, Shayna. I was pissed this morning.”

  “You had every right to be. And I apologized.”

  “You did. I appreciate that. But maybe I should have gone with my gut from the beginning,” I say, remembering what she told Quinn. That she wasn’t looking for anything more than friends. That she needed to sort her own stuff out first. Maybe that’s the truth. Or maybe I need to let it be, no matter what it is.

  “Which was what? Staying friends? We were never just friends, Carter. Not since that first night in my car. There was always something more between us.”

  And she’s right.

  “That’s not what you told Quinn,” I say.

  “Ah, so you were spying on me this time.” Shayna juts her chin out and shakes her head.

  There are a few more people in the store now so I lean in and talk through gritted teeth until they pass us.

  “Look, I don’t know what to do here. I’ve never been in this place before.”

  “What place?”

  I lean against the cooler holding the countless bottles of beer that I so desperately want right now.

  “This place where I care more about someone than it makes sense to,” I say. But it doesn’t come out right, it’s not what I mean.

  “What?” she asks, jerking her head back and looking a little shocked.

  “I mean, I shouldn’t want you as much as I do, Shay.”

  “Why? What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not good enough?”

  “That’s not it at all. It’s me.”

  “Right, I get it.” She laughs. “It’s the it’s not you-it’s me bit. For as smart as you are, that’s not very original, Carter.”

  She takes a step closer to me. Smelling her—the sweet smell of her skin mixed with the citrus of her shampoo this close—seeing her—the sliver of skin between her tits that I know from experience is one of the softest places on her body. Being this close and not touching her, or tasting her is even more torture than this room full of alcohol that is off limits.

  “Listen to me,” she says, poking me in the chest. Her eyes sexy slits of indignation. “Neither one of us are perfect. You know my big secret and now I know yours. We’re even.”

  “It’s not about getting even. It’s not that simple. I wasn’t supposed to—you weren’t part of the plan, Shayna.”

  “Yeah, well, neither were you, Carter. Sometimes shit happens and it’s out of your control. It’s not part of a big plan, but you either roll with them or you—”

  “Run away?” I cut her off. It’s a dick move, I know it when I say it but that doesn’t mean I’m smart enough to stop the words from slipping out of my mouth.

  “Nice,” she says. “Get the Old Vine Zin.”

  She points to a bottle and then storms away.

  Fuck my life.

  ***

  I’m halfway back to Quinn’s apartment when my cellphone rings. I wholly expect it to be Carter and I answer rather than risk having to have it out with him in front of Quinn and Ben.

  “What is it?” I blurt out.

  “Shayna?” the voice says back. It’s familiar but it takes me a minute to process who it is. “Bad time?”

  “Nolan?”

  “How are you?” He the same as always: polite, upbeat, and friendly. I still feel a ton of guilt and shame for walking out on Nolan the way I did. Our months together may have been a sham for me, but I don’t really know what they were for him.

  It occurs to me that I claimed I liked him as friend, but never treated him like one. I never opened up to him, and I never took the slightest interest in his life.

  “I’m—I’m well.” My answer is cautious, because I’m unsure just how much my parents may have told him after I bailed.

  “That’s good to hear. Listen, I know this sounds crazy, but I’m in town. It’s a long story but I’d love to take you to dinner if I can.” The friendliness in his voice is tinged with the slightest hint of crazed desperation.

  “Wait. What? You’re in what town? Nolan I’m in California,” I explain, half relieved I can dodge the awkward ex bullet for totally unavoidable reasons

  He clears his throat and speaks slowly, like he’s making a case for himself. “I know that. I had to make a trip to interview for a position in London. The corporate office is in Los Angeles. When your parents heard I was making a last minute trip out, they told me that you were already on this end. Are you touring schools?”

  He’s asking to be polite. Now I’m sure of it. He knows all of the gory details. I’m positive that my parents had a prayer circle to try to heal me and my sins the day after I skipped town. I slow my steps, to concentrate better.

  “No, not exactly. I’m just visiting with friends. Dinner, huh? That’d be really nice, but I’ve got plans tonight, Nolan, I’m so sorry.” There’s no way in the world I could skip out on dinner at Quinn’s no matter how awkward it’s going to be. Not after Carter and I left her and Ben hanging last time. She’d never let me live it down. I glance over my shoulder, wondering how far Carter is behind me now, or if he’s even coming back. He may just keep the wine and go back to his place.

  I mentally scold myself for the thought. Real supportive, Shayna. Not that he deserves my support right now. He’s determined to be alone, fine.

  “That’s no problem.” There’s some background noise that takes his attention away for a second, while I search my mind for an acceptable way to turn him down. “I’m here for a couple of days. You free tomorrow?”

  “Um…” I weigh my options. If I go to dinner with Nolan and convince him that I really am doing amazing, he’ll report the good news back to my parents and maybe that’ll lessen their heartache a little. That means more to me than I can process, so the decision winds up being an easy one. Except lunch seems less committal than dinner. “How about lunch? If that’s alright, I can absolutely do tomorrow. That sounds great.”

  “Okay, perfect. Let me see where I can get us a reservation and I’ll text you the details,” he says with the kind of in-charge efficiency that makes me doubt if he’s the same guy who struggled to eat spaghetti a few weeks ago.

  “Oh, Nolan, don’t bother with reservations,” I rush to say. The last thing I need is a romantic, candlelit meal with the two of us dressed up and totally uncomfortable in every way. “Casual is great. In fact, I’ve got a little place in mind if that’s okay?”

  “That’ll work, Shay.” he says. “And one more thing before I hang up.” I press the phone close to my ear, wondering if I lost him when I don’t hear his voice for a few seconds. When it comes through, I can tell he’s embarrassed. “I wanted to apologize for the last time that we saw each other. I know that things ended a little awkwardly and that wasn’t my intent at all, Shayna. I care about you a lot.”

  “I know that, Nolan. And I… I’m so sorry, too. I’m really glad we’re going to see each other. I’d hate that last time to be it for us,” I say. And I mean it. “Thanks for calling. I’m really looking forward to tomorrow.”

  Dinner at Quinn’s isn’t nearly as insufferable as I expected. Th
e food is delicious. Quinn outdid herself with the short ribs and pasta. She tells witty anecdotes, talks culinary school and new recipes and keeps everyone entertained.

  Until about halfway through the meal, Carter excuses himself.

  “I forgot to do something at the office,” he mumbles, picking up his plate to bring it to the kitchen.

  “And you can’t finish it tomorrow?” Quinn asks with all the authority of a family matriarch.

  Carter shakes his head. “Nope, it’s got to be tonight.”

  Quinn looks at me and then back at her brother. “You can’t even wait until you finish dinner?”

  “Quinn, I said I had to leave,” Carter snaps. He tosses his napkin onto the table then looks at me. “The apartment is unlocked, if you’re coming back.”

  I stare back at him, trying to read in his eyes if he even wants me to. What a shit day it’s been. For a moment I think I can just slide into bed, wearing nothing but Carter’s soft sheets and wait for him to come back from work and everything will be okay. But that’s the old Shayna. The new Shayna didn’t deserve to be lied to and didn’t deserve the way he talked to me at the liquor store.

  “Stay here tonight, Shay,” Quinn says, clutching at my arm. It’s not like her to be touchy, so I know it’s for my benefit. “Ben is probably going to sneak out to the lab after dessert anyway, right?”

  She looks at her boyfriend who already looks guilty. He raises a single brow and says, “Maybe.”

  “See there. I was going to be abandoned. Please stay,” Quinn says.

  I glance back at Carter. He looks tired and sad and I start to wonder if he’s really going back to the office, or if he’s going to a meeting—or the opposite. And it’s not even my place to worry. He isn’t mine. “You go ahead, Carter. I’ll crash here.”

  He gives me a sharp nod, then turns away.

  “Carter!” I call after him.

  He turns around quickly with the slightest bit of hope in his eyes. “I hope everything works out. With work, I mean.”

  “Enjoy dessert,” he says. His eyes go dark and full of disappointment.

  ***

  “You’re up next,” Damien, the guy who occupies the cube next to me, says, passing the proverbial baton to me.

  I shuffle the papers on my desk so it looks like I’ve been doing anything productive today—anything that wasn’t trying to figure out how I fucked things up with Shayna so badly.

  I wish there was a way to make her understand.

  Make her realize how much she means to me—how much she’s always meant to me. How it killed me the last few months when she’d text me and I couldn’t tell her what was really going on. How I’d know she was out with some other guy. I wanted to be that guy.

  “Thanks, man,” I say.

  I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand and take a deep, shaky breath. Today is the day of our yearly evaluations at the firm. While I don’t expect to be fired or anything, it’s still unnerving and feels like I’m in third grade and on my way into the principal’s office because I put gum on the back of my desk that Jill McNair then leaned back into, tangling it into her long braid.

  Or, more recently, my third year of college.

  “Carter, is there a particular reason that you continue to underperform?” my Business Statistics professor asked.

  “No, ma’am,” I said, swallowing the hiccup that bubbled up in my throat. I was still drunk from last night, that’s why.

  “You’re incredibly bright. I remember you from your freshman Taxation class. From then to now is a complete turnaround. And not in a good way.”

  I wanted to apologize but I was mostly just having trouble staying awake at all, much less forming actual, sincere words.

  “If you don’t get it together, Carter, there is no way I’ll be able to recommend you for the internship you inquired about. Is that what you want?”

  “Carter?” Tracey says. “Daydreaming? Really? I didn’t think there were any dreamers in this place.”

  I’m leaning up against my bosses door frame. I shake my head to clear the fog.

  “Sorry about that,” I say. I’m not drunk this time, but I’m just as out of it. I don’t want to talk about my future with the firm right now, I want to fix things with Shayna.

  “Are you ready to get started?” Tracey asks.

  “Sure.”

  “Alright then, have a seat.”

  I sit down in the deep chair expecting to sink into the buttery leather. It looks like it should be incredibly comfortable but it’s deceiving. It’s stiff and forces me to sit up straight and proper. I guess that’s the point here—all business.

  Tracey flips open a manila file folder on her desk and starts thumbing through it while she talks like she’s reading from a script.

  “As you know, the purpose of this meeting is to evaluate you, your performance and talk about the firms’ goals and projections and what we feel your strengths and weaknesses are in helping us attain those goals. An audit of you as an employee, if you will.”

  “Right,” I say.

  “And I apologize, Jim was supposed to join us but his wife has just gone into labor so it’s just you and me.”

  “No problem,” I say. Jim never much cared for me anyway. He’s an old buddy of my dad’s, which is probably why I landed the internship here in the first place and eventually the job—because I never did get that recommendation from my professor. But even though I took the same career path as my dad, I don’t play golf, and I don’t condone sleazy accountants cheating on their wives—two of Jim and my father’s favorite past times.

  Tracey is a petite woman in her mid-forties who at first glance at her tiny frame, you think, “she’s cute,” but once you really look at her sharp features, her perma-frown and get an earful of her fierce voice, you know she’s all business.

  “Okay. You’ve been with us since your internship your senior year, that’s what… how many years? Three? Help me out, my math is shit,” Tracey jokes.

  “Yes, three years.”

  “We hired you as a junior accountant right out of college.” She flips through a file even though she’s been here since the beginning and knows all of this. “In that time you’ve worked on several big files. Graham. Lindsay. Fettero. And most recently the Brew file.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How’d you enjoy that? Taking on the Brews as clients is a huge deal for the firm. We stand to profit exponentially from their case.”

  “It was… good. It was a good learning experience,” I say.

  “Good.” Tracey repeats back. Her tone is ambiguous enough that I can’t tell if she’s asking a question or not.

  What other word could I use to describe alphabetizing files and triple checking math? I may have been here a few years already, but I’m still just a junior accountant, they don’t trust me with much.

  “I would have thought you would have been more excited about it.” She frowns at me. “I think that’s one of the problems that each of the partners has noted in your file here, Carter. You lack passion.” I fight the eyebrow that wants to dart up at her use of the word passion. In accounting. “Jim commented here that when you first started you showed a lot of ingenuity and gumption. Now, the general consensus of the partners is that you’re doing just enough to get by. We don’t need that in this firm. We need hungry, driven individuals who will help propel us to the next level.”

  What can I say to that? That I was probably drunk most of those early days? That my main drive and motivation stemmed from not giving a fuck. There was nothing holding me back. I was extremely productive, because my fear was retracted and my ego was in power. If I wasn’t sober I couldn’t give in to my depression and apathy.

  “I’m still incredibly passionate about my work,” I lie. I got into accounting because it was easy back in the day. Because my dad had connections and when I started to get scared that I wouldn’t have a future in anything, it made it an easy jump from “undeclared major” to “i
nternship in the bag.”

  “We don’t see it that way, Carter. You need to do more to prove it.”

  “I completely understand, and I’m sorry that you feel that way,” is all I say. “I’ll definitely keep that in mind going forward.”

  Tracey taps a paperclip on her glass topped desk. “There’s also the matter of the missing paperwork, Carter.”

  “What missing paperwork?” Alright, so I’m not as gung-ho as I was in the early days, but I still do my job.

  Tracey tucks a short piece of shiny, dark hair behind her ear and says, “On the Brew file. You were missing a handful of receipts we needed to prove corporate deductions and schedule K-1 in its entirety.”

  Shit.

  “I asked the client for those items several times,” I say. I rub the back of my neck, trying to ignore the nervous tingling that sweeps across my neck and face. “I called. I emailed. I even asked Mrs. Brew in person the last time she was in meeting with Jim. I told her we had to have them as soon as possible.”

  “Right,” Tracey nods. “But she never brought them in. Badgering a client isn’t the same as actually making sure that she gets them to us. We were almost late filing her returns and the paperwork for the new shell corp because it didn’t go on the calendar until all of the paperwork was in. Jim caught it at the last second. If he hadn’t…” Tracey shakes her head looking oh-so-serious. “We would have had a malpractice case on our hands, you know that?”

  I grit my teeth and sit there stunned. “I didn’t…”

  “You didn’t follow through. Because, frankly, we just don’t feel like you care.”

  “That’s not true,” I say. “I do care. I love my work.”

  That’s a lie. It pays the bills. I’m good at it. I thought I was good at it.