Before I Fall

by Jessica Scott

  "You shouldn't have."

  Her expression tells me I'm a moron. "It doesn't exactly work that way, you know. I don't get to shut this off when we're not in bed."

  "I know."

  "Then don't do that again. Don't leave me worrying about you. Because I'm not wired like that. I can't turn it off with a snap of my fingers or a click of my heels." There is an edge beneath her words. Anger and hurt, that she's lashing back to spare me.

  It does something funny to my heart to know that she is holding back again. Still. Maybe she always does. Except when she is beneath me. Then there is no holding back. Nothing restrained.

  I close my eyes, unable to meet her gaze when I say what I have to say. "Maybe this is a mistake. Because, clearly, I'm still fucked up from everything. I can't promise that I won't hurt you again." I clear my throat. "You should be with someone who won't put you through that."

  She shifts, and I'm afraid to see her climbing out of bed. Walking away. Even though I'm giving her permission, the idea of her walking away breaks me a little.

  "Did you hurt your brain coming up with that bullshit?" I open my eyes, and she's staring down at me, anger flashing in hers. "Because that took more creative reasoning than some of the stuff you came up with when we were starting stats."

  The words are stuck at the bottom of my throat.

  "You don't run when things get a little bumpy. That's not how life works. You stick. If you care about people, you stick."

  I swallow the lump that's making it hard to breathe. "I'm not very good glue."

  "No, you're more like two-sided tape, only one side is covered in cat litter."

  I laugh and pull her close because her analogy makes no sense.

  "My mom left as soon as she realized what life with my dad was going to be like. She left both of us." Hurt laces through those words, old mixed with new. I realize what I've done to her in the last day. "I will never be like her. I will never bail on the people I care about."

  There's danger there - a commitment to an ideal that will only lead her to a broken heart, or worse, a burned-out broken spirit. The world has a way of doing that to even the very best of us. Especially to the best of us.

  "My dad hit my mom. He wasn't a drunk or anything. He was just mean. He wanted things done a certain way, and when they weren't, he was like a giant spoiled baby." I sigh because dredging through these memories hurts more than it should. It's been five years since I last went home, and I have no intention of ever going back there. "I think she stayed for me. But now that I'm gone, I can't figure out why she stays." A deep breath. "I tried to get her to leave him when I left home. I told her I'd send her money. I'd get her set up in a place on her own. She didn't have to stay with him anymore." Beth’s body tenses and she shifts, nestling closer. "She just patted me on the cheek and said I didn't understand. And she's right. I don't understand. I don't understand why someone stays in something like that."

  "Maybe you should ask why he hits instead of asking why she stays." A cautious statement. One filled with wariness and resignation. Because neither question gets at the desired end state of my mom being away from my dad.

  "I never thought about it that way."

  She shifts then, hooking one leg around my hip and drawing me closer once more, and there's no more discussion. I need to take her home. But I'm losing myself in her once more before I face the loneliness of spending the rest of my night alone.

  Chapter 21

  Beth

  It’s strange without my dad at home. I can't explain how it makes me feel that he's not only on his feet, but on a date. He knows I won’t be home tonight. It’s Friday and tonight is the big invitation-only event that has the potential to change my life - barring any natural disasters, broken shoes or slips of the tongue that result in all of us being embarrassed.

  I set my bag with my expensive shoes on the floor and rifle through the mail, sorting between junk and bills. Some of them are medical, others from school.

  I should have sorted them better. My hand shakes as I open the first one and absorb the amount. The miracle injection for my dad's back has set us back another seventy-five hundred dollars. Anesthesia. Blood work. Various tests. The actual injection itself was only a grand. All the ancillary stuff that went along with it that jacked up the price. It is goddamned criminal that they charged the people who can least afford to pay the highest rates.

  It's not like I've been even making progress on the previous eighty thousand in medical debt, but for some reason, this number breaks me a little more. It's so much money. In the rational part of my brain, I know there are jobs out there. That I'll start paying it back once I'm working full-time.

  But right now, it's more weight added to the stack of bills that are an albatross around my neck. Sometimes, everything feels like an uphill climb. I put it away and head out to catch the bus to Abby's.

  I don't know what to expect tonight. Abby will have more information for me, but I've never been good at the social scene where I'm expected to interact and not simply take people's orders. I can manage in the classroom well enough, and I can smile and work the floor really well at the country club. I've paid enough attention to how the ladies who lunch act at social events; I'm pretty sure I can pull it off.

  But I've never had a job hanging on a social function before. Maybe that's how these things are really decided. Who fits best, not just at the office but after work, too. I have no idea, honestly.

  I try to put it out of my mind, but my stomach is in knots, twisting and turning until I'm positive that the first thing I eat is going to come right back up on me.

  But then I'm at Abby's and she's pinging off the walls with excitement. It's hard not to catch her energy.

  "Put this on." She hands me a deep emerald green sheath dress that looks at least three sizes too small.

  "There's no way this is going to fit."

  "Trust me." She ignores me while she’s digging in her makeup bag. And by makeup bag, I mean small suitcase full of a billion different palettes.

  The dress slides over my hips like crushed silk. It clings to my curves, but she's right - it fits like a dream. The scoop neck accents my collar bones but keeps slipping and exposing my bra. The long sleeves give it a more sophisticated feel than had it been cap-sleeved.

  "Here." Two pieces of double-sided tape and she's fixed the bra problem. I step into my shoes and immediately tower over her. She pauses and glances up and down my entire length. "I knew it."

  "Where on earth did you get this?"

  "I have a friend who works for a place that helps women dress for job interviews."

  "Who wears something like this to a job interview?" The dress is fantastic and well beyond my price range.

  "Depends on the job, now doesn't it?" Abby smiles and holds up a palette next to my face. "Sit. No peeking until I'm done."

  "You are just full of commands." The butterflies in my stomach are more from excitement than nerves now.

  "I'm doing a strong eye and everything else will be neutral."

  "I don't even know what that means," I say.

  "You'll see. And we need to pull your hair up. I want a messy bun at the base of your neck."

  "That's how I do it for school."

  "It ought to be easy then, huh?" She's focused now. The tip of her tongue is pressed to the corner of her mouth. "Close your eyes." I comply and try not to laugh at how serious she is at the moment. She pats and taps my face. "Did you fix the things with lover boy?"

  "I think so." I'm not sure what to say. How to explain what happened last night. I know now what I'm dealing with, at least a little more. But I'm wary where I wasn't before. I want to guard my heart even though it's far too late for that.

  "That is the most tepid response I've ever heard in my life."

  "It's complicated."

  "When isn't it? Try me."

  "He's...trying to deal with some stuff from the war." It's a dodge, but his wounds are not mine to share freely. Gi
ven how hard it was for him to show me, to trust me with what happened to him, I can't just tell the world.

  "And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I will never, ever date a soldier."

  "It's not all bad," I say. When my dad tells me stories about when he was gone, I can hear the regret in his voice - that he misses it. To hear him talk about it, I'm always left with the feeling like there is nothing like it. It's something I'll never experience, but that doesn't mean it hasn't touched my life indirectly through my dad and now through Noah.

  "No, I'm sure it's not. And I'm the last person to judge someone for their life choices. But I've got more than enough drama in my own life. I want a well-adjusted, normal, stable guy. Not someone who needs high-risk activities or guns to feel like a man."

  Neither of those things describes Noah, but I’m not going to argue with her. She is skeptical of men and their motives. I can't say that I blame her. Abby is the exception that proved the rule. Her mother raised her alone and made sure that Abby was going to college. She never told me everything her mother did to provide for her, but I get the impression that it went above and beyond working two jobs.

  "Okay." She brushes beneath my eye one last time. I feel her move away.

  She holds up a full-length mirror, like Vanna White turning the glowing letters. Only I’m what’s glowing. She's done something to accent my eyes, just a little bit, and my lips are wet with a pale gloss. I’m a princess. Someone elegant and refined and completely at home in this place.

  "Wow."

  I could never have pulled this off on my own. I would have done too much makeup. The dress would have been wrong.

  "Abby--"

  She beams her “I told you so” expression in full force at me. "I love it when I’m right." She folds her arms over her chest, smiling. "Okay, now remember, don't talk about religion, guns or politics."

  I make a face. "Why on earth would religion, guns or politics come up at a business party-slash-whatever this is?"

  She lifts one eyebrow. "Sugar, you're in the South."

  I laugh because it's true. I just forget that sometimes.

  The doorbell rings. The cab is here. I wouldn't normally use the money for one, but I can't ride the city bus in this outfit. Noah wanted to pick me up but it doesn’t look good for us to arrive together. At least not for me. I want them talking to me, not wondering what I’m doing afterward with him. And maybe that’s selfish and a little bit mercenary, but I need this job. Badly.

  Abby gives me a quick hug. "Knock ‘em dead. For your dad."

  Her words are the confidence and courage that I need.

  Because I am terrified of screwing this up.

  Noah

  I've never been good at mingling and small talk. I've always avoided it unless I was ordered to attend. When we would be forced to do mandatory fun - otherwise known as activities we “would be at” because the commander decreed it so. LT and I would stay long enough to be seen and then sneak off. That was before the war. After - well, there was no after. I came home and left the military behind.

  I'm nursing a vodka tonic and pretending to care about some local scandal with the energy company. This is the stuff I should be paying attention to, but I'm distracted. Amid the wealth and opulence of the Baywater's formal ballroom, there is someone missing.

  Beth isn't here yet.

  We're a half hour into the thing, and she's not here.

  I offered to pick her up, but she didn't want us to arrive together. It makes sense - for her, when she points out that I don't have to manage impressions of myself like she does. But I won’t argue with her because her life is not mine. I think she's wrong - she's never had to answer stupid fucking questions like, “What is it like to go to war? Did you ever kill someone?” But I’m not going to press the issue with her.

  My fingers tighten around the glass, and I realize that just thinking about that question is spiking my blood pressure.

  Where the hell is she?

  "So tell us about yourself, Noah. What are you majoring in?" The question comes from old man Morgan. He's a big man, still intimidating despite pushing sixty. He's on, at least, his third scotch, but doesn't appear to be drunk or even on his way to being drunk.

  I notice things like this. I'm all for partying and getting buck wild, but I'm wary of people who crawl into a bottle in public. It says something about their decision-making capabilities. I did it once, and it was a painful lesson that I’m unable to forget. I puked on the battalion command sergeant major's Stetson, and well, I ended up on every shit detail he could find for the next six months.

  Literally.

  I focus on old man Morgan and the here and now. He's not the sergeant major. He's just some old dude with a shitload of money who has the potential to solve some of Beth's problems. If she would just get her ass here.

  "Business ethics and decision sciences, sir."

  "Ethics. Interesting. Why ethics?" He takes a sip from his drink, and I realize that he's not actually drinking.

  We can smell our own, apparently. I wonder if he's noticed I'm not drinking either. Doesn’t matter how much I might want to. I can’t. Not if I want to maintain my composure.

  "Well, sir, I was in the military, and I want to understand how we make decisions and why organizations run the way they do. What is the line between individual ethics and business decisions?"

  He's watching me closely. I want to scan the room once more, but I don't. I'm focused completely on my audience. "Do you think businesses need ethics?"

  "I do, sir. I know it's not a popular field among some of our colleagues, but I believe we have an obligation to consider facts beyond profit and loss."

  There's a glimmer in his eye, and I can't tell if I've pissed him off or sparked his curiosity. "Like what?"

  "Like our employees. In the army, I had a lieutenant who always used to talk about second and third order effects. Not the direct consequences of our decisions, but the ones that came after that we didn't foresee."

  His eyes crinkle at the edges. "This lieutenant sounds like he was pretty smart for a lieutenant."

  I smile at the memory. "It drove my commander crazy that LT was smarter than he was and not just book smart. He had this way of seeing the world that was really different, but he fit, too." I find old man Morgan watching me closely and the scrutiny is a little unnerving.

  "You admire him."

  "Very much so, sir. I want to be like him when I grow up."

  Morgan laughs, and in the space between one moment and the next, I notice Beth standing in the doorway. She's wearing something that hugs her curves. She is stunning. Glamorous and sexy and professional all at once. Her hair is twisted at the base of her neck in that way that drives me over the fucking moon wild.

  Morgan notices her. Hell, everyone in the room notices her. I clear my throat. "Sir, may I introduce Beth Lamont. She's --"

  He cuts me off as Beth approaches. "I've seen you somewhere before. Where?"

  She flushes and the effect is stunning. "Sir, I waitress part-time here."

  He frowns at her. "You say that like it's something to be ashamed of."

  Her throat moves as she swallows. I want to taste every inch of her exposed skin. "No, sir. I've worked very hard to be where I'm at."

  "You should be proud of that," he says to her.

  She's not bristling, but it's a close thing. Morgan glances between us. "And how do you two know each other?"

  "She's my statistics tutor," I say before she can come up with a different story.

  "Tutor, eh?"

  "Yes."

  "Most men wouldn't admit to needing a tutor," Morgan says. I can't tell if he's fucking with me or not.

  "I learned in the army that pretending you know what's going on when you don't can get someone killed."

  "No one is going to die in Stats," Beth says.

  "Feels like it sometimes. Professor Blake doesn't mess around," I say.

  Morgan chuckles. "Indeed, she does not. Sh
e's terrifying."

  It's my turn to frown. "You know her?"

  "Son, I know everyone in this school," he says, and there's an underlying note of something I can't put my finger on.

  I stiffen then. I'm not his son. He turns to talk to someone else, and I feel Beth's hand on my arm. A warning. A restraint. I finally meet her eyes.

  "Don't," she whispers.

  "What?"

  Her lips curl into a faint, teasing smile. "You know what."

  I lift one brow. "Don't want me to get drunk and puke on his Italian leather shoes? It would make you look that much better."

  She shakes her head, that faint smile painted in place. "I think admitting you needed a tutor took care of that," she says.

  "Good. Now go talk to his son and be brilliant. You're getting this job."

  The mask she has painted on flickers. Just a little, but enough that I notice it.

  "What?"

  She shakes her head, and the mask is back in place. She migrates to a small cluster of people including Morgan's son. She's all business, and as I watch her work, I realize that she fits in this place better than I ever could.

  LT was wrong. This is not my space, and it never can be. The world these people live in isn't my world.

  I don't even know why I'm here.

  Chapter 22

  Beth

  I'm exhausted from being on all evening. It's a different kind of emotional drain than waitressing. You get a break between customers. You can take the fake smile off your face as you're fetching food and ordering drinks from the bar. But at a thing like this, you're on one hundred percent of the time.

  My face hurts from smiling so much. My feet are ready to chop themselves off at the ankle and go on strike.

  But it's over now. I've timed my departure to be right in the middle. Not the first out the door, not the last.

  I didn't get to talk to Noah the rest of the evening, but I'm worried about him. He’s seemed tense and strained since the night started and he looked more stressed as the night wore on. As I leave, I notice he's already gone. I try to ignore the disappointment. I wanted to talk to him. To see if he was okay.