Fall in Love

by Anthology

  The realization struck me.

  I hoped he knew what I’d been doing. The idea that he’d been sitting here, imagining me in the shower the way I’d imagined him watching me… my breath caught.

  Dean’s cell phone rang, breaking apart my thoughts. He sighed as he pulled it from his pocket. “Sorry, Liv.”

  “Go ahead.”

  His expression tensed as he looked at the caller ID. “Paige? What… no, I didn’t tell her I’d do anything… if he doesn’t get his shit together…”

  My stomach knotted. I suspected he was talking about his brother. Paige must be his sister.

  “You’re damn right he won’t,” Dean snapped into the phone.

  Uneasy at overhearing a private conversation, I went into the kitchen and turned the water faucet on full blast to drown out Dean’s voice. After a few minutes, he came in, his expression set with frustration. I tightened my hands on a dishtowel.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Depends on what you mean by okay.” He tossed his phone on the counter. “My brother has been a troublemaker his whole life. I wouldn’t give a shit if it didn’t cause problems for everyone else.” His mouth twisted. “It’s kind of fucked-up.”

  Oh, Dean. I know all about fucked-up.

  It should have made me wary, this revelation of a bitter family relationship in which he was tangled. Instead I wanted only to erase that pained look on his face, ease the furrows lining his forehead.

  I stepped closer to him. I pressed my forefinger between his eyes, smoothing away the deep crease. His breath hitched, his gaze searching mine.

  I was becoming accustomed to seeing Dean look at me with affection and heat. I was not accustomed to this look of aggravation, the sense that he needed something from me.

  What? What could I give him?

  I certainly wasn’t the kind of woman who could comfort a man with her body. Or with her cooking. Or even with any good suggestions on how to deal with his family.

  I tilted my head to the kitchen table. “Sit down.”

  “Shouldn’t we get going?”

  “In a minute. First sit down.”

  He sat. I stood behind him and took his earlobes between my thumbs and forefingers, then rubbed them gently.

  “Uh…,” he said.

  “It’s an ear massage. Excellent way to reduce stress and release endorphins. Just relax.”

  He didn’t obey the command right away, given the tightness of his neck muscles. I stroked his earlobes, then pressed along the outer edge of his ears all the way to the top. I massaged the whorls and behind his ears along his skull. After a few minutes, the tension in his shoulders eased.

  “That feels really good,” he remarked.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “There was a woman at Twelve Oaks who was into ear reflexology,” I explained.

  Dean closed his eyes while I started the massage process again, rubbing his earlobes, the exterior, then moving to the back of his neck. I looked down at his hair and thought about pressing my lips to the top of his head.

  I kneaded the muscles of his shoulders. Warmth flowed from his skin up the length of my arms.

  “Ear reflexology is a whole practice,” I said in an attempt to redirect my thoughts. “Different points on the ears relate to different parts of the body, that kind of thing. I don’t know much about it, except that it feels good. Sometimes that’s enough.”

  “Sometimes that’s everything.”

  *

  Crowds of people clad in red UW jackets and sweatshirts streamed toward the football stadium. A layer of clouds further darkened the evening sky, and a brisk chill swept across our faces as we walked alongside Dayton Street.

  I nudged Dean’s arm. “You forgot your gloves.”

  “It’s okay.”

  I took my hand out of my pocket and wrapped it around his so his fingers wouldn’t get cold. He closed his hand around mine.

  We followed the swarm of red toward the stadium, where a log-jam of people crowded one of the arched entrances. Dean paused to dig two tickets out of his pocket, then eased me ahead of him as we kept walking.

  Voices and laughter rose like flocks of birds, a palpable excitement in the air. I circled around a group of college boys and joined the slow lines moving into the stadium.

  I turned back to Dean, only to find a group of people had gotten between us. I knew he wasn’t far behind, so I stepped out of the line and craned my neck around to look for him. I took a few more steps away toward the stadium, and then I was between the wall and the crowd.

  A sudden unease raced through me. I didn’t like the feeling of being trapped. I started to push back into the line, but two big, young men moved in front of me.

  The backs of their red sweatshirts filled my vision. Their laughter rang in my ears. The smell of beer and brats assaulted my nose.

  Panic hit hard and fast. I froze. My chest tightened, and my heartbeat raced. Sweat broke out on my forehead. I tried to draw in a breath, but the air was stale and hot from all the bodies, and it stuck in my throat like a stone.

  The boys were turned away from me, oblivious to my presence, their voices eager as they discussed the upcoming game. Black spots swam in my vision. My skin prickled with cold. Part of me knew what I needed to do to calm down, but I couldn’t do it.

  Fear paralyzed my brain. The crowd surged. The bigger guy bumped against me. My stomach roiled with nausea.

  “Liv, sorry, I thought you…” Dean pushed past the frat boys. “Liv?” He stopped and grabbed my arm. “What’s wrong?”

  I was shaking too hard to respond. He pulled me away from the wall, away from the boys. I stumbled. My legs weakened as dizziness swamped me.

  Dean slid his hand beneath my elbow and guided me to a bench, the crowd still swarming in a sea of red.

  “P-panic attack,” I whispered. “Need… need to… b-breathe…”

  A woman’s voice penetrated the ringing in my ears. I forced air into my lungs and looked up, her face a blur, her words sounding very far away.

  “… all right… need help… ?”

  I clenched my fingers around Dean’s arm and shook my head. He settled his other hand on my back as he declined the woman’s offer of assistance. She moved away. I pulled in another breath. My chest ached.

  “Liv, look at me.” His voice was calm, steady.

  I tried, wanting to anchor myself, but I couldn’t focus on his face, couldn’t suppress the urge to run. I lowered my head. The world spun. I tightened my fingers on Dean’s arm, overwhelmed by the horrible feeling that I was about to lose my grip on reality.

  “Talk… talk to me,” I gasped. “C-count.”

  “Take a deep breath in. Nice and slow.” He sat beside me on the bench. He pulled my scarf away from my throat, the rush of air a welcome relief on my hot skin. “One. Two. Three.”

  I managed to pull a breath into my lungs. A new, different fear arose that Dean’s proximity would intensify my panic, but instead the pressure of his hand and the rumble of his voice loosened the constriction in my chest.

  “Again,” he ordered, tilting my chin toward him. “Another breath on the count of three, okay?”

  I stared at his serious expression, his unwavering gaze, and nodded. He counted. I inhaled. Again and again until the tension began to seep away with every exhale. My heartbeat steadied. I kept my hand curled around Dean’s arm, finding comfort in the solid feel of his muscles beneath his sweatshirt.

  He counted. I breathed. Over and over until air filled my chest without hurting, and the sharp pain in my throat dissipated.

  When I finally felt more in control, I swiped at my damp forehead and rested my elbows on my knees. My heartbeat still pounded in my head, but it no longer felt as if it was about to burst.

  I stared at the ground. Embarrassment, shame, began to fill the empty space inside me.

  “Drin
k some water, Liv.”

  I accepted the bottle Dean extended and took a small sip. Slowly the world around me came into focus again. A few people still milled around, but the last of the crowd was disappearing through the entrance. A raucous cheer came from inside the stadium like steam billowing from an enormous pot.

  I clenched my fists to hide the lingering trembles. I couldn’t look at Dean.

  “Better?” he asked.

  I nodded. “S-sorry.” I rubbed a hand over my face and looked toward the stadium. “The game’s about to start.”

  “I don’t care about the game. Can you walk home or should I call us a cab?”

  “I want to walk.” Grateful that he no longer expected us to go to the game, I stood on shaky legs. “But you don’t have to…”

  “Come on.” He slipped his hand beneath my elbow again as we headed back toward Dayton Street. I kept my scarf loose and unfastened the ties of my sweatshirt to feel the cold air. Exhaustion swamped me.

  We walked the length of Dayton Street in silence. The movement felt good, dispelling the threads of anxiety and tension. I shoved my hands into my pockets and hunched my shoulders as we rounded Marion Street to my apartment building.

  “You don’t have to come up,” I said, the words sticking in my throat as I fumbled to find my key.

  “I need to know you’re okay.”

  I let him follow me inside and up the elevator. Once in the safety of my apartment, I sank into a chair and rested my head against the back.

  Tears stung my eyes. I tried not to think. I heard Dean rustling around, and then the scent of peppermint tea filled my nose.

  “Found it in the kitchen,” he said, placing a cup on the table beside me.

  I sat up slowly, too exhausted to hide my dismay. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m not a fan of peppermint tea, but you don’t need to apologize for it.”

  I managed to crack a smile and looked up. He stood right in front of me, not too close, his hands loose on his hips. Despite the wry tone of his voice, his eyes were dark with concern.

  My heart hurt with a different kind of ache. The threat of a panic attack always hovered at the edges of my consciousness, but I hadn’t experienced one in over three years. The fact that I just had reminded me with the force of a blow of my damaged psyche. And the fact that Dean had witnessed it…

  God in heaven.

  “I’m… they don’t happen often,” I finally stammered. “I… I almost forgot how to deal with them.”

  “How long have you had them?” he asked.

  “They started when I was eighteen. I went to a therapist and learned behavioral and breathing techniques, but even then they didn’t happen often. I know the triggers, so I’ve managed to avoid situations that might cause them.”

  Dean frowned. “Crowds?”

  “Sometimes,” I said vaguely. “I haven’t… haven’t been around people much in the past few years.”

  I couldn’t get into this. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  I put a hand over my eyes. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m exhausted.”

  I couldn’t muster the courage to ask, but I wished he would stay. Though I’d never panicked before without the specific trigger of feeling trapped, the threat of another attack was still there. As much as I didn’t want Dean to witness my panic again, I was more scared of being alone.

  “I hate to leave you, Liv.”

  I lowered my hand to look at him. The tender concern in his expression eased my anxiety. “I’m really not a total basket case.”

  “I know. How about I sleep on the sofa tonight?”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “I want to.” He drew a few strands of my hair between his fingers, looking as if he were studying them in the light.

  Relieved and glad to have something to do besides sit there trembling, I went into my bedroom to get him a clean towel and washcloth. I found an unopened toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet and a fresh bar of soap, which I put on top of the folded towel.

  “I keep extra quilts in here.” I took a few magazines and books off the storage chest that served as a coffee table. “Hold on, I’ll get you a pillow too.”

  Apparently sensing my surge of jittery energy, Dean stayed out of the way while I bustled around getting a quilt spread out and the pillows fluffed.

  “Here’s a clock if you want to keep it beside the sofa.” I put a battery-powered digital clock on a small table. “Do you want the remote control too?”

  “Liv.” Dean put a gentle hand on my shoulder. Affection and something else, something more somber, filled his eyes. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Okay.” I ran my damp palms over my thighs. “Sorry… sorry again for…”

  Shit. My throat jammed up.

  “Stop apologizing, Liv. Go get some sleep.”

  Rather than try and speak, I just nodded and went into my room. I slipped into a T-shirt and pajama bottoms and managed to brush my teeth and hair before falling into bed.The one blessing of a panic attack, if one could call it a blessing, was that I always slept hard for a few hours afterward. It was one of the few times I was able to sleep well.

  I woke to the reddish glow of my clock. One thirty-two. Pushing aside the covers, I went into the kitchen for a glass of water. The living room curtains were partly open, allowing a thin stream of moonlight to illuminate Dean stretched out on the sofa. Clutching the glass, I moved closer to look at him.

  It should have been strange to me that his presence was a comfort rather than cause for apprehension, but it felt entirely… normal.

  I put the glass down, then sat on a chair by the sofa and looked at him. He seemed younger in sleep, the lines of his face eased, his closed eyes concealing the flashes of darkness whose source I still didn’t know.

  I could almost see him as he might have been as a boy—full of youthful energy and confidence, knowing he would blaze a trail through the world, surrounded by people who admired him.

  A band tightened around my heart. How different from my own wariness, my inability to envision my own future beyond the tangled, dark forest of my childhood where an oppressive queen ruled.

  Dean opened his eyes. We looked at each other for a moment before he pushed up to sitting. He dragged a hand through his hair, over his rough jaw.

  “Hi,” he said, his voice hoarse with sleep.

  “Hi. Thanks for staying.”

  I couldn’t believe how comforting it was to have him here, how grateful I was to wake up and not be alone. Even when I was at Twelve Oaks… I’d never felt so warmed by the presence of another person.

  I have been so fucking lonely.

  My throat tightened.

  “You okay?” Dean asked.

  “Can I get you anything?” I whispered. “Something to drink?”

  He shook his head. Moonlight slanted through the curtains, a stripe of it cutting across the shadows on his face.

  I owed him an explanation. I knew that.

  I took a breath. “Dean, I’m… I need to tell you some things about me.”

  Faint wariness flashed in his eyes. “Okay.”

  “When I said I traveled a lot as a kid, it was because of my mother,” I explained, resisting the memories pushing at the back of my head. “Crystal. She was very self-centered. Controlling. She’d been a spoiled, coddled child… actually had a successful career as a child model for a couple of years and was in a national commercial.

  “But the career offers waned when her mother got a reputation for being unreasonable and demanding, a typical stage mother. No one wanted to work with Crystal anymore. She was in some beauty pageants and talent shows, but then she got pregnant with me when she was seventeen. Changed her whole life. She never stopped resenting me for that.”

  I reached for my water and took a sip. “Her parents disowned her because of the pregnancy. She had to drop out of high school and move in with my father. They never got along. They fo
ught a lot about money… or lack thereof. They broke up when I was seven.

  “I found out later that my father was having an affair.” The word lodged in my throat. “He was going to leave my mother to be with the other woman. My aunt Stella, my father’s sister, once told me he’d still wanted to have a relationship with me, you know, still be my father. But my mother said she’d never let him near me again.

  “So she packed up her car and we took off. She was restless, always wanting to be somewhere else, always wanting to find the attention she’d had as a child. We moved a lot. I lost track of the number of cities and towns we stayed in.”

  “How long did you and your mother live like that?” Dean asked.

  “Until I was thirteen. I finally told my mother I was going to live with Aunt Stella up in Pepin County. I wanted to have a normal life. My mother and I had a huge fight about it.

  “We were in Dubuque. I woke up one morning and she was gone. She’d taken the car, most of our stuff. I had just enough money for a bus ride to Madison, where I called Stella to come and pick me up. I didn’t hear from my mother for years.”

  “You lived with your aunt after that?”

  “Yes. Through high school.”

  “When did you see your mother again?”

  An ache crawled over my heart. “When she came to visit right before my senior year. She wanted me to come with her again, but I refused. She’ll never forgive me for leaving her.”

  And in some ways, I would never forgive myself.

  “Did you ever see your dad again?” Dean asked.

  “No. I guess Aunt Stella heard from him a few times when he was looking for me, but she didn’t often know where we were either so she couldn’t tell him anything. Then when I was eleven, we got word that he’d died.”

  “How did your mother manage to support you?”

  “She hooked up with a lot of men,” I said. An unwelcome barrage of male faces and voices went through my brain. “That was how she found places to stay. She’d convince a guy to let us live with him for a while with the understanding that she’d share his bed. Most of the time, she waited until they agreed… or sometimes after she’d moved in… before telling them she had a daughter.”