Fall Into Love

by Melody Anne

  “Nick, can we talk?” I asked, looking at him, trying to hide the potholes in my voice. We hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in almost a week. I only knew he’d been home at all by the dirty dishes he had piled in the sink for me to wash.

  He rubbed his eyes, bloodshot and ringed with dark circles. “It’s late, and I have to be back at the hospital soon.”

  “Please. It’s important.” My hands shook. I clutched the couch cushion to steady them.

  A hardness settled over his features. “Lillie.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t have the energy to do this right now.”

  “Then when?” I asked as tears soaked into my shirt.

  He clenched his jaw, covered with several days of growth, and stared at me as though I were a child who had asked him for the eighth time to go to Chuck E. Cheese’s after he repeatedly told me no. “How about once I get a vacation from gluing people’s bodies back together? Is that a specific enough time frame for you?”

  Silence stretched between us. The air grew thick and charged, the moment before thunder cracked.

  “Something happened today,” I said finally. “I found something.”

  The storm broke. Nick crossed the room and hovered above me, nostrils flaring.

  “Lillie, do you know what my day was like?” he asked, his voice rising to a shout. “Two thirteen-year-old kids were hit by a drunk driver on their way home from soccer practice. One died on impact. The other will be lucky if he ever kicks a soccer ball again. Or would you rather hear about the woman who collapsed in the shower and smacked her head on the tile floor, eight days after giving birth? She had a rare and undetected heart condition triggered by her pregnancy and died on the operating table. The father is some deadbeat drug addict.”

  “That’s not what—”

  “Save it,” he yelled. “You spend your days serving pie to people in a diner, so excuse me if I don’t see why this conversation can’t wait until I’ve had some fucking rest.”

  I wiped the wetness from my cheeks. “You’re not being fair.”

  “Fair? Who the hell said anything about being fair?” He grabbed the plate off the coffee table and threw it against the wall. I flinched as it shattered into porcelain fragments, the rocky road fudge bars flying everywhere. “Don’t talk to me about what’s fair.” Then with a cold, hard glare, he turned and disappeared upstairs.

  While Nick slept, I wandered through the house, taking it all in. The monogrammed hand towels folded neatly in the guest bathroom. The ornate mahogany cabinet in the dining room that showcased Nick’s great-grandmother’s gold-trimmed bone china. The Persian rug adorning the entryway, greeting visitors into our farce of a home. All of it picked out with Charlotte Preston’s approval, all of it meant to illustrate the kind of life Nick was expected to have.

  None of it me.

  I was like tapioca in a caviar family, desperately trying to blend in but failing miserably. There wasn’t even a framed photograph of us together. Nothing from the time before we became shards of who we once were. Those people had been reduced to a box in the small storage closet on the third floor, collecting dust along with the unframed diploma granting me a bachelor’s degree in business administration and my father’s abandoned Taylor acoustic guitar.

  But then, who was I really?

  My whole life I had imagined countless scenarios about why my mother had left: she was a woman with a Gypsy heart who couldn’t bear the responsibility of being a wife and a mother; she broke the law and was serving a life sentence in prison; she was diagnosed with cancer and passed away when I was a toddler and my father had been too devastated to confess the truth.

  Not even in my worst nightmares did I ever consider that she had abandoned my father and me so she could escape to New York City, become a famous chef, and find herself a shiny new family. All this time, while I’d been crafting batch after batch of her beloved recipes, actually believing I could feel a connection with her—that I’d mattered—she’d been attending culinary school and opening restaurants and kissing her husband good night and driving my half sisters to ballet recitals. And my father had never said a word about any of it. Your mother needed to fly, baby girl, he’d said. Only that had been a lie. All of it.

  The realization ripped open something deep and feral inside of me, a raw feeling that surged through my whole body, leaving in its wake a crippling pain. Though there was something underneath it, too, a small voice chanting in my ear, urging me to go. It grew stronger and stronger, until I had no choice but to listen.

  That night I left the crumpled newspaper clipping on the kitchen counter for Nick to find and packed a suitcase.

  Hours later I was gone.

  The memory fades. Breathing in deep, the tightness in my chest relaxes and I straighten up. My father is standing in the doorway, staring at me with heavy, sad eyes.

  “Why did you keep this?” I ask, the newspaper clipping still clenched in my fist.

  “It’s a reminder, baby girl.”

  “Of what?”

  He crosses the room and puts a hand on my shoulder, gently squeezing. “That every choice has a cost.”

  TWELVE

  THE WEIGHT OF the memory is still heavy on my chest when I arrive at the Tipsy Teakettle. Celtic music barrels out of the door.

  As I step inside, I notice the decor hasn’t changed much. Teapots from around the world are still mounted on every available inch of wall and ceiling space. Chandeliers adorned with cups and saucers illuminate the room in a soft glow. A long, mahogany bar flanks one side, perfect for elbow resting while enjoying a Belgian ale on tap or a rich, hearty porter.

  Dangling from hooks in the ceiling above the stage, a black letter board showcases the trivia Wall of Champions. As my eyes scan the list, my breath catches. Nick’s name stares back at me from the number-one slot with my name butting up against it. Throughout high school and college, Nick and I participated in trivia night religiously, often as solo acts but sometimes as a tag team. Either way, one of us would end the night victorious. All that came to an abrupt halt once anatomy and biochemistry became Nick’s top priority, so how are we still tied for the most trivia games won? Surely someone’s come close to stealing our records since then.

  Across the bar, I see Wes straddling a chair at the head of a rectangular table, pint glasses and beer bottles littering the surface, chatting and laughing with two guys I recognize immediately as half of the Randy Hollis Band. At the other end, Nick and another band member are hunched over what appears to be a Moleskine notebook, deep in discussion.

  I can only stand there and stare, my feet bolted to the floor. Nick is here, at the Tipsy Teakettle on trivia night, hanging out with the Randy Hollis Band? None of this makes sense.

  As if he can sense my gaze on him, Nick looks up, straight at me, and shoves the notebook into his back pocket. His expression is unreadable, but his blue eyes lure me in, seize hold of me. The intensity in them feels as though he’s scooping me out from the inside like a pumpkin. My heart stutters. Sweat pricks up on my palms and I wipe them on my jeans.

  “Jelly Bean is in the house!”

  The hollering jerks my attention to Wes, who is pumping a fist in the air and whooping. The anxiety buzzing through me eases up, and a big, goofy smile spreads across my face. Wes has always been a doofus in that inherent way that can’t be taught or mimicked. I dare anyone not to find it calming or comforting.

  By the time I force my way through the crowd and make it to the table, the final member of the Randy Hollis Band has returned and stolen what was the empty spot beside Wes, leaving me with no other choice but to take the only remaining seat, smack-dab next to Nick. He stares at me for a moment before he turns away, bringing a beer bottle to his lips and taking a long pull.

  Wes springs up from his seat. “Jelly Bean, get over here. I’ll introduce you to everyone.” He grabs me by the elbow and guides me over to his end of the table, while I pretend Nick’s presence doesn’t u
nnerve me.

  I meet guitarist Karl Randy and lead singer Matt Hollis, followed by drummer Jason Douglas and bassist Tim Oliver. Shaking their hands, I expect to feel starstruck, given that their songs are blasting all over country radio, but they all seem so . . . normal, if not a little rugged with their torn jeans, stubbled faces, tattoos, and piercings.

  For a few minutes we make small talk. The band tells me about the radio appearances they’ve done to promote their new record, some smaller venues they’ve played like the Prickly Pear and Billy Bob’s Texas, how they are preparing to travel the country and live in a bus for six months while on tour, and their upcoming album release party for Resolution at the House of Blues.

  As I settle into my seat, Jason slides a cold beer into my waiting fingers. I nod in thanks and swallow a few sips, savoring the hoppy notes and citrus overtones.

  Tim taps a rhythm on his pint glass, condensation trickling down the Shiner Bock logo. Studying me, he says, “So, Lillie, you’re the pretty girl who—”

  “Don’t,” Nick interrupts, his voice sharp as ice crackling. With a slight shake of his head, he mouths something I can’t make out.

  Tim regards Nick with a quizzical expression, while Wes and the rest of the band exchange uncomfortable glances. My gaze bounces from face to face, hoping to gather a clue as to what everyone else knows but won’t say. Only I glean nothing from them. We sit there in silence, sipping our beers and avoiding eye contact.

  Thankfully, Wes breaks the awkwardness by chucking a bottle cap at my head. “Ready to defend your title, Jelly Bean?”

  “Guess we’ll find out.” I hurl the bottle cap back at him, but Wes ducks out of the way before it hits him. “Why is my name still up there anyway?”

  “The owners never bothered to remove it,” Nick cuts in, though something about the edge in his tone indicates there’s more he’s not saying. “But don’t think your record hasn’t been demolished.”

  “It’s true. You’ve got some stiff competition to contend with, Jelly Bean. Nick’s like the next Alex Trebek with all this trivia mumbo jumbo.” Wes fishes an ice cube out of a water glass with a straw and pops it into his mouth, chewing gleefully.

  “You’ve been playing again?” I say to Nick.

  He lifts a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Occasionally.”

  “He’s a liar,” Wes interjects. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s still the reigning champ around here. He’s dominated the last thirteen weeks in a row. Everyone’s out for his blood.”

  Nick stares pointedly at Wes. “It’s not my fault no one else can name all eleven tracks off the tenth studio album from Hall & Oates.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” I say a little too smugly, then count off each song one by one. “My favorite happens to be the title track, ‘Private Eyes.’ ”

  For a second the table is quiet as they sit there, slack-jawed. All at once they’re shouting over one another.

  “I call dibs on Lillie for my team,” Karl says, thrusting a trivia scorecard across the table.

  Jason intercepts the paper before it reaches me and says, “No way. That’s cheating.”

  “Not if she agrees to it,” Matt says, then pushes his own scorecard and a pen at me. “Just jot your name down right there on that blank line.”

  “Fellas, hold up,” Wes says. “If she’s playing on anyone’s team, it’s mine.”

  Their arguing fades into white noise when Nick brushes his arm against mine. My skin tingles. He leans over and whispers, “Show-off.”

  My stomach dips as one side of his mouth curves higher than the other. I hate how devastatingly sexy I find that grin, how sexy I’ve always found it. It’s the smile that charmed the pants right off me in the back of his vintage Mercedes when we were in high school. The one that had been private to only me right before his touch brought me to life.

  Quit it, I think as I’m reminded how Nick used to say that people don’t change. They only manipulate what you see. Which means that hiding behind that penetrating gaze and crooked grin capable of transforming my insides into a puddle is the same Nick as before, skilled at hurting me in ways only he can. I need to remember that. I can’t ever let myself forget it.

  “Tell me about Chicago.”

  I jolt in my seat. Nick has shifted his body closer to mine, so close that I inhale his natural scent and feel the heat radiating off his body. Too close.

  I finish off my beer, then say, steady and strong, “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything.” His eyes roam over my face. “I want to hear about your life now.”

  “Why?” I say. “You willingly gave up the right to know those details.”

  Sighing, he says, “Lillie, come on. Stop being combative. I only want to talk.”

  “We’re not kids anymore, Nick. We stopped talking to each other a long time ago.”

  He doesn’t respond, probably because he knows I’m right. What else is there to say, anyway? I stand to head for the bar, but Nick grabs my wrist. A current of energy pulses through me. He looks at me in that piercing way that makes me feel exposed.

  “Stay,” he says, his voice low and deep. That one word stirs something inside me. I need to move away from him, create some distance, but my body betrays me. I sit back down, my heart racing too fast for me to speak. I hate that there’s still this pull toward him, a thread that won’t sever. Nick drops my wrist, but the impression of his fingers lingers on my skin.

  “I’ll get the next round. Trivia should be starting soon,” he says, then stands and goes to the bar.

  “Jelly Bean,” Wes says as he lowers himself into the chair Nick occupied. “He’s trying to make peace with you. Let him.”

  As if the Fates are conspiring, Annabelle appears in the Tipsy Teakettle’s doorway. “You first,” I say, jutting my chin in her direction.

  Wes furrows his brow, comprehension dawning too late, since Annabelle is walking toward us. When Wes notices her, his lips press into a thin line. He turns to me and, to my surprise, gives a faint, almost imperceptible nod of his head.

  “I’ll go borrow a chair from another table,” he says, patting my shoulder. “Be right back.”

  As Wes disappears, I watch Annabelle’s face collapse. She must think Wes dashed out the emergency exit when he noticed her. Tossing her purse onto the ground by my feet, she circles the table, embracing everyone in a hug. Clearly she’s friends with the band. When Annabelle reaches me, she kisses my cheek and says, “Hey, kid. Thanks for the invite.”

  “No problem,” I say. “Glad you got my message.”

  “I’d never miss an opportunity to witness you kick Nick down a few notches.” Her eyes dart around, and I wonder if she’s searching for Wes when, out of nowhere, he reappears like Houdini.

  “Hi, Annabelle,” he says, gripping a chair, his knuckles white. The way he says her name makes it sound like he’s devouring his first bite of food after a long fast. “This one’s for you.” With me in it, he scoots my chair over and places the one he swiped beside it.

  Annabelle blinks, momentarily stunned before regaining her composure. “Thank you.” Her voice is hesitant, so different from the confident, assured demeanor she usually portrays.

  I wait until Wes has reclaimed his seat at the other end of the table and Annabelle has gotten comfortable in hers before pouncing. “Do you want to explain to me how y’all know the Randy Hollis Band?”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you in my car, if you would have let me,” she says. “We all met when—”

  “When I threw a spiral at Karl’s head and knocked him out at a Baylor Medical charity football tournament,” Nick pipes up, setting a shot glass filled with red liquid in front of me. He settles in the seat across from me, a Fat Tire in hand.

  Annabelle shoots Nick a curious glance. She opens her mouth to say something but quickly closes it, as if thinking better of it.

  Frowning, I look around at the band. “You guys play football?”

  Ka
rl takes a swig of his Guinness, inspecting a teapot glued to the ceiling like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, while Tim and Matt burst into laughter and Jason says with a wink, “We attempted to play football for the sake of supporting youth cancer research, but obviously that didn’t work out so well. We stick to music now.”

  “Lucky for us,” Wes and Annabelle say in unison. They grin at each other for a beat too long before averting their gazes in opposite directions.

  “What is this?” Tim says, his nose scrunched up as he sniffs the shot glass. “It smells disgusting.”

  Nick links his fingers behind his head and leans back in his chair. The movement pulls the shirt tight across the broad expanse of his chest. I pretend not to notice, but my traitorous hands twitch, desperate to feel the hard muscles in his shoulders and biceps.

  “A Loopy Ladybug,” Nick says. “Lillie’s favorite.”

  Annabelle snorts, jabbing me in the ribs, and Wes cackles so hard his body convulses. I know they’re remembering my twenty-first birthday party when I got wasted off three of those deadly shots, then proceeded to perform a striptease for everyone in the middle of Nick’s apartment. Only instead of removing the shirt seductively over my head, it got stuck, and I ended up face-planting on the carpet, where I fell asleep.

  I scowl at them. “Excuse me. I’ll have you know that despite everyone’s insistence to the contrary, I can drink a ladybug under the table. Heck, I can even take on a hippo given the chance.” To prove my point, I slam the shot back, squeezing my eyes shut as the liquor burns my throat, and wave a server over, ordering another.

  “Easy there, Jelly Bean,” Wes says, wiping wetness from his cheeks. “Maybe you should have ordered something a little less potent.”

  “Like a chocolate cocktail, perhaps,” Nick says, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face. “We all know how much you adore those E.L. Fudge cookies.”

  Puzzle pieces whirl in the air around me, but since I’m already feeling a buzz, it takes a moment before they click into place. I whip my head back and forth between Wes and Nick, my eyes growing wider than the saucers decorating the chandeliers overhead.