Headfirst Falling

by Melissa Guinn

  I laugh and shake my head. “Not scared, just feeling a little out of the loop.”

  Evan holds his hands up, his mouth tilted in a lopsided grin. “Hey, I can’t help it.” He turns his attention solely to me. “Do you have any idea how much this kid talked about you in the desert?”

  My stomach does a nervous flip.

  Jackson snorts and nearly spits out his beer. “Evan! Come on.”

  “It’s true,” he insists. “He used to stare at that old picture of you for hours on end every day.”

  Jackson scoffs. “You’re exaggerating.”

  He shrugs, still grinning. “Every day,” he reiterates. “He would’ve lost it had anything happened to that photograph.”

  I glance at Jackson and it’s his turn to blush. His cheeks darken with the slightest shade of red. It’s cute and unfair—being able to look that good while embarrassed should be a crime. “You had a picture of me?”

  “He’s probably got it in his wallet right now,” Evan interjects.

  “Yeah, I do.” He drops his eyes and takes a long drink of his beer. “Adam gave it to me.”

  Evan clears his throat and looks uncomfortable for the first time since I’ve met him. His cheerful eyes are clouded, veiled with a dark emotion. “Your brother was a stand-up guy, Charlie.”

  I smile, but it feels sad. Jackson wraps his arm around my shoulder, and I lean into him. Somehow just touching him eases some of the weight I feel when I talk about Adam.

  Behind us one of the patrons whistles at Evan then calls him over.

  Jackson turns his head and speaks against my ear. “Are you uncomfortable?”

  I shake my head. “Of course not. I’m happy to be here.” And I truly am.

  When Evan returns, he slides a menu to me. “What’re you guys having for dinner?”

  I glance over the menu then slide it back to him. “I’ll have whatever you recommend.”

  He nods and points at Jackson. “The usual?”

  “The usual,” Jackson confirms.

  Then Evan’s off again, pushing his way through a swinging door that leads to the kitchen.

  I lift my drink and read the text printed on the coaster below aloud. “O’Malley’s.” I smile and turn to Jackson. “Where do you think they got the name for this place?”

  He shrugs. A grin plucks at the edges of his mouth, reaching all the way to his eyes. “Probably named it after some old alley cat.”

  I lean forward and kiss him. This is exactly where I want to be right now. And I’m with the one person I want to be with.

  Evan breezes past us and winks before he’s off again. He stays busy, but he flits from one person to the next, unflustered. When I was seventeen I was a waitress at a local taco joint. I was awful. Maybe even the most awful employee in the history of tacos. Needless to say, I held the job for only two weeks.

  I’m having fun, and the night flies by. We laugh and enjoy our ales through dinner. We chat with Evan when he gets the chance. As the night wears on, only a few customers linger. I check the time on my cell phone—2:00 a.m.

  I frown. “Should we get going?”

  “Nah.” Evan shakes his head. “No worries. Stay.”

  I look at Jackson, and he shrugs. So we stay. We drink. We laugh. We even talk about Adam. And I don’t stop smiling the entire time.

  * * *

  It starts to rain on the ride home. We stayed at O’Malley’s late into the night. We’re both a little drunk, especially Jackson.

  He sweeps my hair to one side of my neck and plants a trail of kisses along my neckline. “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs as he slides his hand up my thigh. The fact that he’s being so affectionate in the presence of others makes me flush. Not that the driver is paying any attention to us.

  My breaths are short and ragged by the time the car comes to a stop. I glance helplessly out at the rain hammering down around us. It shows no signs of letting up, and I don’t want to wait.

  Jackson reads my mind. “Let’s make a run for it.” Without giving me time to think, he wraps his hand around my wrist, drags me across the seat then pulls me out of the car and into the cold, beating rain. We sprint across the lawn, laughing and screaming like we’re kids again.

  This is one of those moments in life, the ones that play out in slow motion. Like the world’s either upside down or moving backward, and it’s impossible to stand still. This is the kind of moment that wouldn’t be so bad to be stuck in.

  We’re soaked from head to toe by the time we reach the small cover of our entryway. Jackson laughs and pulls me in for a kiss, dissipating my giggles. Without taking his lips off mine, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves the room key.

  The door gives way behind me, and he pushes me through then slams it shut with his foot. We shed our sopping clothes in a hurry, and they fall to the floor with a splash. My feet leave the ground as he lifts me, and I link my legs around his waist. He stumbles backward, and within seconds we’re falling onto the bed. Then he rolls us, and I’m beneath him.

  He breaks away from me and rakes in a few staggering breaths.

  I lace my hands behind his head and stare up at him. “What’s wrong?”

  His eyes are full of passion and adoration. I pull in a breath and hold it as surges of electricity pulse back and forth between us.

  “I want to take my time with you tonight,” he murmurs, his voice thick. His words make my heart swell, and I worry it may burst at the seams. It hammers in my chest, wild and out of control.

  He dips his head and plants a tender kiss at the base of my neck. I watch him for a moment, and our eyes lock again. I smile and wait for him to return to me. One beat. Two beats.

  “Do you know how much I love you?”

  All the air is pushed from my lungs, and I struggle to get in another breath.

  He kisses me again. This time on the lips. “I’m not trying to scare you, and you don’t have to say anything back. I just don’t want you to go another day without knowing.”

  My chest aches as his words settle—in the best way possible. It’s unexpected, and exactly what I want to hear. The atmosphere between us changes. It’s heavier now, dense with emotion.

  “Do you know how much I love you?” As the words go, a huge weight is lifted from my shoulders. I feel better...lighter now, and so much more connected to him.

  “I love you,” he repeats. Then he laughs, and it’s the best sound in the world.

  My laugh echoes his. “I love you.” It’s the best feeling in the world.

  * * *

  “You’re trembling,” Jackson murmurs as he runs his hand up the length of my arm.

  We lie in bed, basking in the waves of post-climax pleasure. I’m physically drained and reeling with emotions from our encounter.

  I shiver and scoot closer to him.

  He frowns. “Are you cold?”

  I shake my head.

  He tips my head back for a kiss, studying me intently when he pulls away. “Are you okay?”

  I nod. “I’m just overwhelmed.” He winces, and I quickly rush on. “In a good way.”

  He stares at me for a few moments then brushes a stray strand of hair from my face. “You should get some sleep. It’s late.”

  I open my mouth to object but can’t find the strength to form any words. He’s right—it is late, and I’m tired. I close my eyes and let sleep take me.

  * * *

  There’s sunlight pouring through the windows in the dining room when I wake up. A glance at the bedside clock tells me we’ve slept half of the day. I debate waking Jackson, but he’s still sleeping. He looks too peaceful to disturb—it was probably close to dawn before we finally got to bed.

  I roll out of bed and head straight for the Tylenol I packed. Then I go
about getting ready for the day. I shower and slip into the sundress. It’s blue and short, perfect for the hot weather. By the time I apply makeup and blow-dry my hair, Jackson is up, riffling through his bag for something to wear. He gives me a brief kiss before disappearing into the steaming shower.

  I take the time to style my hair, teasing it at the roots to add volume as Taylor taught me. An involuntary chuckle escapes my throat. I wonder what she could be doing today. Sitting in our kitchen and drinking wine—avoiding yard work at all costs is my guess. Oddly, I miss her. We’re going to have to grow up soon. Like really grow up, because she’ll be married. Then what will I do? And what will my hair do, for that matter?

  Jackson emerges from the bathroom with wet hair and plops down on the bed to shove his feet into his boots.

  I watch him as he ties his laces. “You want some coffee?”

  He glances up at me before returning his attention back to his shoes. “Sure. We could order room service?”

  “It’s okay. It’ll be quicker if I walk over and get it myself.”

  “If you give me a minute I’ll walk with you.”

  “No. You stay,” I say. “Stay and relax. It won’t take long.”

  He nods and starts on his other shoe. “I should probably check my messages anyway.”

  He crosses the room to retrieve his BlackBerry and powers it to life. The phone starts buzzing with endless message notifications. His face falls into an embarrassed grimace, and I laugh. I suppose it’s not something he can help, and he usually does a pretty good job of keeping business on the back burner when he’s with me. He offers an apologetic smile before I slink out the doorway.

  The sun hangs high overhead, emitting blazing rays that heat my shoulders. There isn’t much evidence of the rain last night, but the grass is vibrant and thriving. And the aroma of wildflowers hangs in the air, sweet and subtle. This place is perfect.

  It doesn’t take long to find a pot of fresh coffee in the dining area. I prepare two cups—mine with cream and sugar, Jackson’s black and bitter—and return to our room.

  “I’ve got coffee!” I sing as I breeze through the doorway.

  The smile slips from my lips as my eyes land on Jackson. He’s staring down at his phone, shoulders slumped. He doesn’t lift his head when I come in. Something is wrong. Really wrong—I can feel it.

  I cross the room and take a cautious seat beside him on the bed. “You okay?”

  He shakes his head then slowly meets my eyes. His blue eyes are startling. The sweet expression from last night is gone, replaced by a vacant stare. He looks like he’s going to be sick.

  I’m too afraid to touch him. “What’s wrong?”

  His voice shakes when he finally speaks. “We’re going to have to leave early.”

  “Okay,” I say. Then, unsure of what to do, I begin gathering my things, stacking them neatly inside my bag.

  “Come here, Charlie.”

  It’s an order. So I retreat from the bathroom and sit beside him. His body is rigid beside me. There might as well be a brick wall separating us.

  He takes a deep breath then pushes the air back out in one loud, long whoosh. “Something happened.” He interlaces our fingers. It’s a robotic movement, cold and lacking intimacy. It’s strange that I can tell the difference, but I can. The usual spark is gone. “I have to fly out to California. Tonight if I can.”

  “Is everything okay?” Maybe this is just about business, but the knot in my stomach tells me otherwise.

  “One of my friends passed away last night.”

  He looks so sad. I can’t help but throw my arms around him. He doesn’t warm or relax.

  “Who?” I croak, swallowing back tears—tears for Jackson and the man I don’t even know.

  “Someone I served with.” His voice is hollow and flat.

  “What happened?”

  He stands abruptly and walks to his bag. Then he starts shoving things inside. “He committed suicide.” His tone is distant now, laced with ice. It sends a shiver down my spine.

  My tongue slips in the temporary loss of my brain. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he blew his fucking brains out,” he snaps, not taking his eyes from the task before him. “What’s so difficult to grasp about that?”

  There’s no holding my tears back after that. I slip into the bathroom in attempt to hide it, and when I blink, the first two tears hit my cheeks. He’s never been so cold, and it’s scary—like an entirely different person. I take a few deep breaths and cut off my tears. I rationalize with myself. I’m upset because he snapped at me, but he had every right to. He’s upset. His friend killed himself, for God’s sake. That’s awful.

  We don’t speak again until we’re in the car heading for home.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie,” he says. And I have no way of knowing if it’s sincere. He’s hiding his eyes behind his sunglasses.

  I lean my head against the window and close my eyes. “Me too.”

  My stomach is a bottomless pit of worry. I’m worried about Jackson and how he’s taking all of this. I’m worried about all the things I may not know about him. Fighting in a war is hard—that’s obvious. And if it’s traumatizing enough to make a man take his own life then Jackson has hidden a large part of himself from me.

  I’m worried that this is going to be his reaction anytime something like this comes up. He pulled away. Shut off. Took himself away from me—it’s all the same.

  It makes me want to cry, because I want answers. But I know I won’t get any—not from him, anyway.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jackson promised he’d call when he landed, but he didn’t. I don’t hear from him until the next morning, and it’s not the phone call he promised. It’s a lousy text message, only five words. Not even a complete sentence, really.

  Made it to California safely.

  I try calling later in the day, but he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t call back either. How disconnected we are makes me feel awful—and confused. We shared something special the night before he left. He said he loved me, I said I loved him, we connected more than ever. Look at us now. It isn’t fair for him to act this way. There isn’t anything right about this situation—it’s all wrong. It’s messed up any way you look at it.

  I do yard work in hopes of distracting myself, but for the most part it only reminds me of him. I wish he were here doing it with me. That would make Mrs. Alford happier too.

  Taylor has a glass of water waiting when I finish, but I go straight for the bar and opt for a glass of wine instead.

  She arches an eyebrow. “Wine on a Sunday, Charlie Day?”

  “Wine on a Sunday,” I confirm.

  “You already miss Jackson that much?” She’s teasing, but her eyes soften with her words.

  “Very much,” I admit.

  “He’ll be back before you know it.”

  I frown at my glass and take a drink. It’s bitter and dry, and matches my mood well. “I’ve hardly heard from him since he left.”

  “I’m sure he’s just really busy.”

  “Are you saying that to make me feel better, or is that what you really think?”

  She laughs and rolls her eyes. “I think you think too much.”

  I hold out my palm and aim to change the subject. “Let me see your ring again.”

  She extends her left hand so I can admire it, and we’re quickly swept into a sea of giggles. My attention span is out of Jackson-world for now.

  * * *

  On Sunday I show up at my dad’s house with the intention of asking him about the medication I found. His truck is in the garage, so I know he’s home. But he isn’t in the house. He must be down by the lake with Oliver. I know I should just go outside and talk to him because snooping is wrong—but I don’t.
>
  I snoop.

  I go straight to his bathroom and crack open the medicine cabinet. The bottle is still there. In the exact same place. My hands are shaking as I turn it around so I can read the label. Erlotinib—the one word that’s going to give me my answers.

  I take a deep breath and dig my cell phone out of my pocket. Then I tap the letters into my search bar. I select the first web page that pops up in the results window and start scanning the screen. As I read, the words begin to blur and my stomach clenches.

  Erlotinib hydrochloride, generic for Tarceva, is used to treat several types of cancer. It is most noted for its use in non-small-cell lung cancer. It is typically used to treat cancer that has spread to nearby tissues and/or to other parts of the body in patients who have shown no response to other types of chemotherapy.

  Salty tears are coursing down my cheeks by the time I finish the first paragraph. The word cancer tumbles through mind, along with the image of my father’s name printed clearly across the prescription bottle. Patrick Day and cancer—no. No, no, no. There is no way, no possible way.

  This is a mistake. I read the label wrong—I don’t know—something. It can’t be correct, so I check again. I lift my hand and pick up the bottle. I read it again. And again. Then one last time. Erlotinib. Patrick Day. Cancer.

  I drop it and back away with my limbs stiff, like it’s a bullet in the chamber of a gun, waiting for the trigger to be pulled so it can ruin everything. Just like the one that took Adam away. I’m going to be sick.

  My stomach lurches and bile rises in my throat. I drop my cell phone and lunge for the toilet, doubling over in front of it just in time to vomit.

  The words spin in my head as I expel the contents of my stomach over and over again. Even when my stomach is empty, with nothing left to come up, an awful dry heave racks my body. I’m in a cold sweat when I finally scoot back across the tile and press my back to the wall. I cover my eyes and weep. As my sobs grow stronger, I become weaker. I cry until I’m nothing more than a vessel for the tears. I cry until I have nothing left.