Fall in Love

by Anthology

“Ryan’s father has an addiction problem,” my mother says.

  “That doesn’t give any father the right to destroy his child’s dreams.”

  “Mia, I know you’re angry. But Ryan can’t control what his father does. He can only control what he does.”

  That’s true. It’s like my life. I can be emotionally manipulated by my circumstance. I can feel anger, bitterness, pain. But I don’t have to if I can fight it. The only reaction I can control is mine.

  I almost say that, but then I stop. I don’t want to bring up the past. I don’t blame Mom. Not in any way. And nothing happened after she found out and we made the pact with my stepfather: she would stay but he had to keep away from me. Talking about it will only hurt us both and that’s just plain counterproductive.

  I chew on my lip until I taste the coppery tang of blood. So I funnel my frustration into words. “But there’s fallout from what his father does. You know Ryan. He’s decent and noble. What happens when his father is found guilty? He will want to come back and take care of his dad’s garage business.”

  “We will do everything we can to stop Ryan from doing that.” My mother uses a steely voice I’ve rarely heard her use. And I believe she can do it.

  “Thanks. I’d better call Ryan.”

  As soon as I hang up on Mom, I call him to make sure he knows.

  “Mia?” Ryan’s husky voice, sounding sleepy, makes me tremble to my toes. I imagine him sitting up in his dorm bed. He wouldn’t be sleeping naked, but maybe bare-chested, wearing only sweatpants.

  Ooooh…

  This is serious. Not a time for desire.

  I sit on my bed, carelessly dressed for class in sweats of my own—I’m tired of trying to impress professors who have already labeled me as not appropriate for the program. This is serious and Ryan will hurt when he knows about his dad. “I talked to Mom.” I tell him about his father. “Mom told me to assure you she would keep her eye on him. She really doesn’t want you to worry.”

  “Mia…thanks. It means so much to know she’ll watch over him, but it should be me who’s there. He needs me to look after him.”

  No. No. No. “Ryan, please don’t think that.” I try to talk him into staying at the college.

  He listens to me, then sighs. “Mia, it’s complicated. I should go home.”

  “Don’t.” I’m sick with fear that he will quit.

  “It’s a lot harder here. I was prepared for it to be tough, but not like this. My grades are dropping and I could get kicked out anyway if they go any lower.”

  That can’t happen. He would never go back.

  “Have you talked to your professors?” I don’t even know if they are called professors in a military school. Maybe they go by their rank. “Or to a guidance counsellor? They need to understand what you’ve been through—”

  “No, they don’t. There are no special exemptions. I should be able to handle this. You showed me how.”

  But I now doubt my expertise in the area of scholastic success. I am barely passing myself. Since I’m scared of the shops, I suspect my C minus is going to look like an Enstein-ian accomplishment compared to the zero I will get if I don’t build my model. But I am not important here.

  “Ryan, you are so distracted by your father’s problems how can you concentrate? It’s not your fault.”

  “Mia, I’m concentrating. I am trying. I study every night. The stuff just doesn’t go in. My dad says it’s because I just don’t have book smarts. He says I’m stupid that way, just like him.”

  “Your father is not in a position to make any kind of judgment. I agree he is stupid—he’s the one who drinks and drives, which is not exactly a sign of brilliance. You are nothing like him.”

  Ryan is quiet. Then he says, “I know he looks like a mess, but he’s got his reasons.”

  Ryan defends his father loyally every time. It frustrates me, but, deep in my heart, I admire him for it. I’ve kept my family’s secrets. Not so much out of loyalty to my stepfather, but because I was afraid of the outcome if people knew about it. I had just wanted it to stop—I didn’t really want to ruin anyone’s life.

  I know Ryan is loyal, but I still fear that loyalty won’t extend to me. When he finds out how screwed up I am, I’m scared he’ll want out.

  “I wish I could go there and help you out,” I say. It is so tempting. I could get a plane ticket online. Getting to the airport… a little harder but not impossible. By late afternoon, if I were lucky, I could be with Ryan.

  “You can’t, Mia. I have to handle this by myself.”

  “They have to understand!” I say, sounding very plaintive. He could barely read when I met him thanks to his father’s hopeless parenting. And Milltown schools just kept passing him. Partly because I don’t think they fail students anymore, but mainly because no one wanted to get on the bad side of Steven Taylor, a notoriously mean drunk.

  “They want to make their students strong and tough. No excuses.”

  “I don’t care what they want. ‘Suck it up’ doesn’t work in the world anymore.” I’m so scared, I’m sputtering. I don’t think I’m making sense anymore. They have to help Ryan and make allowances for what he’s been through. I don’t care—they do.

  “Where are you right now?” he asks. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  “I’m sitting in bed in my dorm.”

  “Me too.”

  I don’t want to argue with him. I want to reach out and touch him. I want to hold him in my arms and love him. And I want to do something naughty to thrill him.

  I lower my voice and ask in a sultry tone, “Are you alone?” My attempt at vixen makes me want to giggle in sheer embarrassment.

  I expect him to laugh. He doesn’t. He lets out a pained groan. A sound filled with the torture of sexual arousal. “Yeah, I wish you were here.” He adds, “In bed. With me.”

  Ryan has never been a talking dirty kind of guy. I think that’s why he abandoned our earlier attempt at sexting.

  I giggle. I want this but I feel kind of awkward. “I really want you. I’m…uh…taking off my sweats right now. I’m reaching down into my panties and playing with my—” I really have a hard time with this. I could go to the club, though I did chicken out on a few things there. I definitely have a tough time talking dirty. “My pussy.”

  Go for it, I tell myself. “I’m rubbing my clit which makes me so wet for you.”

  Ryan takes over. “I pull down your panties, Mia. Then I lick your pussy. I’d run my tongue all over your clit.”

  I’m whimpering.

  “Oh God, yes.” I moan into the phone. My fingers do slide down into my sweatpants. Is he doing that? Did he put his hands down inside his pants and into his briefs? Has he wrapped his hand around his cock?

  I remember the delectable smell of his hard-on on the dock, the way it filled my mouth, and the sweet taste of it against my tongue.

  I want him. Want him. Want him. Want him so much it hurts.

  I flop back on the bed, spread my legs wide, my hand in my panties. Aggressively, I rub my clit. Almost viciously. Frustration and anger make my fingers scrub it hard.

  “I want to eat your pussy, Mia, and make you come on my face.”

  Oh god. Suddenly I have a wild fear that this conversation is being recorded. How much privacy does military college give its students? Surely they don’t tape conversations. They must have to listen to a lot of kinky phone calls if so.

  Blushing and playing with myself, I say, “I want to suck you. I want to suck you deep and hard. I want to take you right down my throat.” It was supposed to sound hot. It came out a bit squeaking.

  But am I revealing too much in everything I say? Talking is dangerous. Doing is not.

  I let out a really loud, throaty moan. “I’m playing with myself,” I admit.

  “Me too.”

  I can imagine it. His strong hands. His thick shaft. The beautiful, swollen, kissable head swelling as he pumps his fist hard.

  I rub myself like wild. Al
l my frustration comes out. I’m almost raw when the climax finally ignites. I cry out into the phone. “Oh God, Ryan. I’m coming. Oh! Oh!”

  He lets out a deep moan. I can picture him coming, just like he did on the dock. I want to sob in regret. Why didn’t I seduce him months ago? On our second date? Oh hell, why not on the first date? Why didn’t I spend every minute in bed with Ryan that I could?

  I breathe heavily into the phone and so does he.

  “That was so sexy,” he tells me softly.

  Five years of college are required for me to get a degree in Architecture. I can’t survive it. I really can’t. Not when I want to share my life with Ryan.

  “We could do it again,” I say. “A lot.”

  ***

  At the end of the week, Lara’s asleep but I’m up at midnight, working on my sketches of the Parthenon for my History of Western Architecture project. I’m working at my desk in the corner, sprawled over the page because I’m working with only one light on so she can sleep and I need to be that close to see detail.

  Outside the door I hear footsteps. That’s not unusual as people come and go from their rooms all the time. People roll in from parties at all hours of the night. But the footsteps stop outside our door. Someone raps lightly on it.

  Jonathon?

  At midnight? It could be, but he doesn’t ever come to the dorm room. Well, he came once to drop me off, but he didn’t want to come in. It would be way too awkward. I haven’t hidden my friendship with Jonathon from Lara but haven’t exactly told her about it either. I mean I wouldn’t lie about it if she asked. She just hasn’t asked.

  The photos. Is it possible whoever took them found out which room is ours? That he is standing outside the door right now?

  But you can’t get in residence without a key after ten, unless someone lets you in. So the stalker guy is either someone who lives in this dorm, or has a friend in here.

  All I have to do is go to the door. Open it. I’d find out who he is.

  Yeah, and have him clamp his hand over my mouth, drug me, rape me, kill me, dump my body in a garbage chute. I’ve seen enough CSI episodes to know that my brave action would lead right to my demise.

  Something slides under the door. A sheet of paper.

  Sitting up and utterly motionless, I watch it slip in, inch by inch.

  No, this is insane. He is right there. I can end this now. I pick up my cell phone and dial 911. What am I going to say? I don’t know if I’m in danger, but could you hang on for a minute?

  Still, he won’t know that 911 is not listening to everything, if I can bluff.

  I’m wearing a sweatshirt and my pyjama bottoms, so it’s not like I’m creeping to the door in a baby doll negligee. Phone pressed to my ear like I am speaking to a 911 operator, I stalk to the door. I wish I had one of those whips from Jonathon’s club in my hand right now.

  The paper scoots fully under the door.

  I twist the deadbolt knob as silently as I can. I turn the door handle gently, and open the door an inch. Our security chain is in place. I try to make it not obvious I am opening the door. Really, as if I will take the guy by surprise.

  Someone is running away from the room, down the hall. Damn it. Now I want to get a look at him—if he’s fleeing I’m not in danger. I could learn what he looks like and have the door slammed again before he could do anything. I fumble with the chain and yank the door open. But the figure has vanished through the fire door at the end of the hall and must be running down the stairs.

  I’m not crazy enough to follow him down an empty stairwell.

  Was it a guy? I don’t know. The person wore a shapeless coat of army green and jeans, I think. A ball cap. I don’t know if I saw shoulder-length dark hair or just shadow.

  I would make a perfect witness for a defence lawyer, I know.

  Two girls come up the stair. As they pass, I ask them about the guy.

  They both shake their heads. “We didn’t see anyone.”

  But I realize he must have ducked out onto the second floor when he heard them. Damn.

  I close the door, pick up the paper.

  This time it’s a printout of a picture, and it’s taken of Jonathon and me inside the Irish pub. One word is written below it. Slut.

  My hands shake.

  I’m tempted to rip it up and destroy it. What gives this psychotic idiot the right to judge me? Even if my behavior was questionable in the past, that is my business. With Jonathon I was completely in control and did nothing wrong. But some idiot jumps to assumptions and makes it his duty to try to hurt me.

  My anger dissolves into fear. Someone followed me to the Irish pub? Crap, how did someone do that? Why?

  I want to make this picture go away. I really want to set it on fire, so it dissolves into ash as if it never existed. I can’t—I’d probably set off the sprinklers.

  And I don’t want to wake up Lara.

  I know I have to keep the picture intact. Channeling CSI, I know I have to keep it in case I need it for clues.

  CSI could dust for fingerprints after my body has been found.

  Stop it. Tomorrow, I’m going to show it to campus security.

  ***

  Other than campus security, I don’t tell anyone about the picture. Not Lara—I just warn her to be careful, to not open the door, to watch out for stalkers, etc. Given this last picture, I think this creep’s attention is directed at me. I guess it explains why the earlier emails were sent to me. I also turned them over to Yardley’s security.

  They’re taking it seriously. I spoke to the head of the security, a lady named Ms. Marilu Keeble, and while her name sounds a bit fluffy, she looks like I imagine a female prison guard should look, and is just as intimidating. But I realize, after being interviewed by her, there’s not a lot that can be done proactively. Lots of evidence can be gathered after the fact—i.e. after an attack. But I’d really rather not be assaulted to catch this weirdo.

  I have to finish my ‘Structures in Architecture’ project for Monday. I’m required to make a model of a floor system. For the last two days, I’ve stayed up until 3 a.m. using a hot glue gun and hand saws to make a replica of a wood joist floor. I’ve also slept in the studio on those nights so I didn’t have to walk home where I might be prey for my stalker. The only bathing I’ve been able to do is to throw water on my face in the girls’ washroom. I haven’t been back to my dorm room in two days. I did call Lara and tell her so she wouldn’t freak out.

  We don’t get to use the shops after five o’clock, when the shop supervisors go home, but we can stay in studio as long as we like to work. All night if we have to. The security guards know us and stop in to talk to us. Usually a group of us make coffee and food runs just before the University Centre closes. I’m starting to feel like part of the group in the studio, at least.

  Dremel tools buzz and the smell of burning hot glue fills the room. On any given night someone will cut off the end of a finger with an Exacto knife. Architecture students are well known at the special nurses’ station in the residence commons building, which is where we head when there’s an accident. Fortunately for us, they’re open on evenings and weekends.

  At ten o’clock on Sunday night, I set down my glue gun, a big blob of glue falling to my table. I’m done. I can’t believe it. My model is finished, my drawings are done. And I really, desperately want to get a shower.

  It’s not that far to walk back to my dorm.

  Except that would be stupid when I have a stalker.

  I can’t call a cab—I’d end up walking half the way anyway. I really, really just want to bathe and go to bed. I’m swaying on my feet from lack of sleep over the last few weeks. Suddenly, not being able to get to my bed, then take a shower in the morning, feels like the biggest disaster in the world.

  And seriously, will my stalker have hung around here for hours or days in the hope that I leave the studio?

  That would be totally nuts.

  He followed me to the pub.


  Or he just happened to see me in there. I didn’t really pay attention to other people in the pub.

  I call Lara and she doesn’t answer, so I leave a message, then text her. I also phone Jonathon and leave a message for him. I don’t want to ask anyone from studio to walk with me; everyone is rushing to meet their deadlines.

  I do take some precautions. I turn on my phone and stick it in the pocket of my winter coat—it’s cold now, especially at night. My winter coat is a Walmart special from two years ago. Everyone else has stylish wool coats.

  The good thing about my coat is that it’s grey, so not obviously feminine. I pull on a hat; wind a scarf around my face. With my hand in my pocket on my phone, I walk outside into a wind that’s a fierce breath of winter. I’ve been studying how Jonathon walks. The long-legged, confident stride of a guy. I’ve noticed that guys walk a certain way, which I suspect is related to the fact they have a penis and a set of balls between their legs.

  Doing my best guy walk, I move as fast as I can toward my dorm.

  It’s raining. Of course I have no umbrella, but I’m actually pleased. No one is going to hang around in the rain, waiting to attack me.

  Anyway, I haven’t had any emails or pictures since I went to campus security. Maybe he was following me and saw me go into the security office. Maybe he’s given up—

  Footsteps slap on the sidewalk behind me.

  I’m halfway between the studio and my dorm. Panic hits me, of course.

  It could be anyone. It could be someone innocent walking to the dorm. Someone I could walk with.

  I doubt I would be that lucky. I turn and this time there is someone behind me. A dark, indistinct figure, but one that is tall and large. Rain glistens on the hood of a dark anorak. When I stop, the figure stops.

  Oh God. My brain throws out a million thoughts at once.

  I wish Jonathon were here. I really wish Ryan were here. I want to throw myself on a guy, cling to him tight and feel safe. With Ryan, I would be safe. He could handle this guy. Ryan learned martial arts from a MMA fighter who grew up in Milltown, and started a club there. I watched Ryan deal with brawls at the local sports bar. He has the skills to beat someone really badly, but he would never use them.