The Girl Who Fell

by S. M. Parker

  I pick up the knife. Mom passes me the giant carving fork. I stare down at my hands and a memory tiptoes inside of me. Dad’s hands holding these same utensils, wielding them in a way that orchestrated all our holiday meals. He was our family conductor. The person in charge. Can he be that again? I don’t know if that’s what he wants, if that’s what I want.

  Mom pours me wine.

  “Did you mean to do that?” I ask.

  “The drinking age in Canada is eighteen.”

  “We’re not in Canada. Hence, Thanksgiving.”

  She shoots me a look. “I’m perfectly aware of what country we are in, but you are old enough to vote now so it only stands to reason that you are old enough to taste alcohol. I’d rather you try it with me than with your friends.”

  “Mom.” I laugh.

  “Could you at least humor me so I can make a proper toast?”

  I raise my glass, the red wine painting the clear edges with its wave of liquid.

  “To Zephyr and a lifetime of possibilities. To Boston College and all that it entails.”

  “Here, here.” I silently toast a lifetime of possibilities with Alec.

  Mom’s glass clinks mine and I fake a sip. I dislike even the smell of red wine.

  We eat while the food is hot but there is enough to feed a family of six. The leftovers heap over the tops of our storage bowls as we pack the fridge with all the dishes we couldn’t possibly finish. I’m stretching Saran wrap over a container of yams that I know will get tossed in a few days. Mom unties her apron. “Not a bad feast, huh?”

  I nod. It was great, except for how much I miss my father and our traditions. I feel like calling him tonight and am about to tell Mom so when she announces, “So I’ll just go and freshen up and we’ll leave for the Slicers?”

  “What?” My head jolts from my task, the plastic wrap clinging into a puckered mess.

  Mom removes her apron, folds it neatly even though I know she’ll throw it in the laundry bin. “Pie Night. I want to change before we go.”

  Pie Night is an annual engagement for Gregg’s family and mine. Mrs. Slicer bakes, like, a dozen pies every year and spreads them out on their dining room table—the sweetest buffet imaginable. Only I hadn’t thought we’d be attending this year. “Um, are you sure you want to go?”

  “Why not? We go every year.”

  My palms start to warm. “Yeah, I know, but new traditions and all.”

  She waves off my concern. “It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without Rachel’s pies. Besides, it’ll be good to catch up with her and Nathaniel, hear about the wedding plans.”

  Mom must see my face blanch because she adds, “You don’t have to endure the details. You and Gregg can escape to the game room, like always.” And then Mom disappears down the hall, humming.

  I stack the rest of the leftovers, trying to decide whether I should tell Mom I feel sick and can’t go. But by the time she returns to the kitchen, I realize I really want to go to the Slicer’s. I want to see if Lani’s there and if Gregg’s making new traditions of his own.

  • • •

  Awkward. A bird carries this feeling on its wings as it crashes over and over against the window panes of my brain. Like that bird, I am stuck. In Gregg’s basement. I stare out the French doors and see the pool where we swam almost every day this past summer, every summer since I can remember. When I hear Gregg’s heavy footfall on the stairs behind me, I turn and he stops short. He’s alone. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  “It’s tradition.”

  He throws a short, bitter laugh. “Like Alumni Weekend? You didn’t have a problem blowing that off.”

  “Now you’re mad at me because I missed Alumni Weekend?”

  He plops down on the couch and throws his feet onto the oversize coffee table. “I couldn’t give a shit about Alumni Weekend, Zeph, though your coach may feel differently.”

  “It’s likely.” I move to the opposite side of the couch, sit on the arm. My feet press into the soft cushion. There’s something about the warmth of the basement, the familiarity of my surroundings. Hanging out like we used to suddenly becomes all I want to do in this moment. I want things to be easy between us. Like before. My phone vibrates in my pocket but I ignore it. “I—”

  He holds up his hand. “Wait. Whatever you’re about to say will probably make me forgive you for being so out of touch lately, so can I just say that I’ve been really bummed that you barely even look at me anymore. What happened to us, Zeph? You get this boyfriend and suddenly our friendship isn’t worth your time?”

  “Gregg—”

  “No. Seriously, Zeph. Some stupid drunken kiss was not enough to make you completely dis me.”

  “Things got complicated.” My phone pulses again. I flick it off.

  Gregg laughs. “Believe me, I know. I kissed you and then you fell for another dude. It’s a story as old as time. It’s lame. Who needs to rehash it?” He gets up, goes to his record player and selects Blind Faith’s Blind Faith album. Older than old school. Gregg’s the one who turned me on to vinyl. Claims iPods killed the rock star.

  “But since you’re with Lani now none of this even matters, right?”

  He looks at me hard. “Lani has zero to do with this.” He returns to the couch, sitting closer now. “I wouldn’t have done it, you know. If I’d known. I’d rather have friend Zephyr than no Zephyr. So while I retain the right to be utterly annoyed by your assholery at Waxman’s the other night, I do think I could muster the strength to call a truce in the spirit of Thanksgiving. Now that I’ve said my piece and all.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Fuck. Of course, Zeph. I’m not the asshole.”

  “But I am?”

  “I believe I’ve made my thoughts clear on this subject.”

  “But can’t you see how you’ve basically done the same thing? Telling me”—I deepen my voice and do a shitty Gregg impression—“that ‘you made your decision and I can make mine.’ And apparently you’ve chosen Lani.” I shift in my seat. “You were the one who blew me off first. You stopped coming to my games. You moved your seat in French. You were the one who changed, Gregg. Not me.”

  “Hah! Saying you haven’t changed is like saying that kiss wasn’t a mistake. I admit I went into a kind of self-preserving hiding, but how can you claim to be innocent in all of this?”

  “Not totally innocent, but I don’t deserve to be called an asshole. Unless I can call you one too.”

  The music swells around us. “Fair enough. It’s exhausting fighting with you, or whatever it is we’ve been doing. I hate it, Zeph.”

  “I do too.”

  “Then why are we acting like total shitbirds to each other?”

  “Like I said, things got complicated. But I could do a truce.”

  A shade rolls up over his features, revealing something like relief. Or gratitude? “Well, then at the risk of sounding completely corny on this day of giving thanks, I’m glad you came. I didn’t think you would.” He shakes my leg at the calf. “Now because I really need to change the subject . . . What’s the news from Boston College? Are they begging for you yet?”

  “No one’s knocking down the door.”

  “They will.”

  “I’m not so sure anymore.”

  “Why? What’s up?” And the tender way he focuses on my answer reminds me of all the other times I trusted Gregg enough to confide in him. Instances that can’t be forgotten just because of some stupid kiss.

  “I’m afraid Boston College won’t want me because of my dad.” It sounds so stupid when I say it that I’m afraid Gregg will laugh, tell me I’m an idiot. But he doesn’t.

  He doesn’t break his gaze. “What does one have to do with the other?”

  I have known the answer to this question since my father left his note behind like a footprint. “If I wasn’t important enough, vivid enough, special enough to keep my own father from moving on to something else, how can I possibly expect the admissions board at Boston C
ollege to see me as anything other than a dull wannabe of a human being?”

  Gregg breaks then. His chest cracks. I can see it in the way the force hunches him forward. He grabs my hand and swallows it between the sandwich of his massive grasp. “Christ, Zeph. Is that what you think? That you’re flawed? How could you even believe that for a minute?”

  A nervous laugh bursts. “You just called me an asshole a few minutes ago.”

  He smiles. “Well, that’s different. That was my bruised ego lashing out.” He squeezes my hand tighter. “Zephyr, your dad left because he lost his shit or something. Whatever it is had exactly nothing to do with you.”

  I wish just one atom of my existence could believe that.

  “I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Ever since Jimmy split.”

  “You have?”

  “Of course. It would be impossible not to. Here’s the thing. Olivia and Jimmy got married when they were our age. You came along a year later. Imagine becoming a mother in the next few months. Imagine spending the next twenty years of your life raising that child. You’d love him or her and your life would be great but . . .”

  “But what?” In my mind I’ve been the “but” in the middle of the junction of Dad’s life. Zephyr: love her, but.

  “His life might have gone by too fast. Maybe Jimmy needed to be a kid again for a while. It’s not an excuse. It doesn’t make it right. But he’s not a monster, Zeph. He’s never been that.”

  “He was selfish.”

  “We’re all selfish sometimes.” His finger strokes my thumb, a metronome of affection. “And maybe that’s why he’s back. To set things right.”

  “How’d you know he was back?”

  Gregg nods upstairs. “Please. Your family is pretty much the talk of our family. There’s a lot of love for you here.”

  And I feel it. The multitudes of love.

  Gregg inches back in his seat, releases my hand. “Did that weird you out?”

  “No, not at all.” He should know that even though I didn’t want to kiss him, his words and his hand holding are perfect. “I’m really glad I came tonight.”

  The music drums between us.

  “Zephyr. Don’t ever for a minute think that you aren’t the most special person on the planet. Boston College will want you. They’ll prove me right. You’ll see.”

  Tears of thankfulness well up in me and I can’t think of the right words to tell him how grateful I am for his fierce belief in me. But then I remember I don’t need words. Tonight has reminded me that with Gregg, I can just be.

  • • •

  By the time the night is over, I’m exhausted. I crash on my bed and pull out my phone. Finn settles into a ball at my feet.

  Two missed calls. Four texts.

  The first text: Call me.

  The second: U still eating?

  The third: Where are u?

  The fourth: Call. Me.

  I don’t even listen to my messages; I’m too eager to pull up Alec’s number.

  “Where have you been?” he asks quickly.

  “Um . . . having Thanksgiving with my mom.”

  “I want you here,” Alec says, his voice heavy.

  I look at the clock: 10:16. “Now?” I hear Mom rattling around in the kitchen, likely trying to squeeze Rachel Slicer’s chocolate cream pie into the fridge. I don’t know how she has the energy to do anything when I’m so tired.

  “Tomorrow. Five o’clock.”

  “Ooo . . . kay.” I grin. “What’s with the formality?”

  “My mom’s visiting my aunt for the night. I’ll have the house to myself. Which is why I need you here.”

  “Well then, I need to be there.”

  “Good.” I hear his smile in the word. “Because I love you, Zephyr.”

  My heart leaps. My body hums.

  I have so much to be thankful for.

  Chapter 17

  If I could crawl out of my skin to get to Alec’s house faster, I would. I’ve been on a high since last night and the only person I want to share it with is Alec. I brake for a light in the center of town and the red bulb seems brighter, crisper. Everything seems sharper thanks to Gregg’s bolstering words.

  My headlights brush Alec’s garage doors just as his front porch light flickers on.

  Alec jogs to my car, opens my door. “Why does it feel like forever since I’ve seen you?”

  “Because I’m just that magnetic?”

  When I get out, he pins me against the car with his hips, flirts his mouth to mine. “That is an understatement.” He bites at my bottom lip. “You ready?”

  I swallow hard, a lump suddenly blocking my throat. Ready for what?

  Alec guides me into his warm house, through the living room and kitchen until we reach a set of sliding doors at the back. “I wanted to start here, considering our origins.” He looks at my clothes, one long gaze over my jacket to my boots as he opens the sliding door a crack. “Unless you’ll be too cold.”

  The frosty air whistles into the hot room and it steals some of my anxiety. “Outside is good.”

  He ushers me through the door. The sky is littered with stars and the air drafts cold into my lungs. “Over here.” He leads me to a jungle gym, a smaller version of the one in the park, but only just. It offers monkey bars, a rope ladder, and a twisting slide. Lights poke out of the house’s windows like yellow eyes, but the lawn is fenced off from the neighborhood and we are alone. Alec settles me onto the wooden slats of the platform. He hovers over me, a growing shadow in the dusk.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea to make me wait to see you.” He moves the tip of his sneaker to meet the side of my boot. A rush surges, like always.

  “Shall I rearrange the holidays then?”

  “Yes, please. They are terribly inconvenient.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “Your girl, huh?”

  He stares at me. “I hope so.”

  I shift my back against the post, a blush deepening on my face.

  “My shy girl,” he adds.

  “A little.”

  “Yet another thing I like about you.”

  “There’s a list?”

  “A list I’ve only started.”

  “So smooth.”

  He recoils as if I’ve slapped him. “Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I’m just nervous. Forget it.”

  “Forgotten.” He stretches his leg so that his foot nudges my hip. My hand covers the curve of his shin. “Does it make you nervous that you touching my shin makes me crazy?”

  “No,” I lie.

  He nudges his leg closer, stares at me for an eternity. A car drives slowly through the cul-de-sac before its engine fades. Otherwise, the early evening is calm. Quiet. Holding its breath for us.

  Chilled air spirals around our bodies. I draw my coat closed at my neck.

  “Please don’t.” Alec opens the collar of my jacket, separates the sides. He lets the back of one finger slide down the trail of my exposed neck and my lungs surge, push out toward him. Cool air floats over my skin, making gooseflesh rise. He hears my breath catch and withdraws his hand. He floats above me, half hanging from the bar above us. Disappointment floods through my veins, which he senses somehow. A Cheshire grin lights his face. “You like when I touch you.”

  So much. God, too much. My insides skip and I throw a nervous laugh. “I do.”

  “Would it be weird if I asked you to say it?”

  I force the words out, my nerves tripping over their own edges. My insides blush with the admission. “I like the way you feel. Next to me. Your hands. All of it.”

  He nudges his knee between mine and I open my legs enough to let him in. The seams of our jeans rub together.

  “I want to go slow if that’s what you want.”

  It is. And isn’t. “No.”

  Alec’s fingers drop to find my neckline. He cups the cu
rve of my neck, lets his thumb travel my tapering collarbone. I tilt my head back, giving him more room, more permission. His fingers glide to the V of my peacoat. He reaches inside and with one hand, he unbuttons two . . . then three buttons of my shirt. I try to look down, but he catches my chin, moves my gaze back on his. His fingers are so delicate I can hardly feel him at all. Instead, I feel the coil of desire twist between my legs.

  He gently slides my jacket, my shirt down off my shoulder. I feel the cool air lick the slope of my chest. I wonder if my skin glows in the fading light. I wonder if he likes it. I arch my back, begging for him to touch me. But he doesn’t. He leaves me like that. Exposed and wanting.

  “Is it too cold?”

  “No.” The cold is a rush.

  He sits next to me. Lies back. Props himself onto an elbow and stares at me. I try to breathe. I study his long body, the lean, rippled muscles that peek out from between the lip of his pants and his fleece that has hiked up just that little bit. I want to run my fingers over that band of skin, but I’m afraid I won’t do it right.

  His eyes drop to my chest. He breathes in. Stares. Breathes out. Stares. “Can I see you? Out here?”

  “I’m right here.” Even though I know what he means.

  He rests his hand against his own chest, gazes at mine. “I want to see more of you. Just a little. Just for a second.”

  “Uh, no.” I dart my eyes around the yard.

  “There’s no one here.”

  “I can’t.” I’m not even comfortable being on display when I’m fully clothed.

  “You can.” He shoots me a measured, steady glance. “It’s only a matter of if you want to.”

  I let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t want to.”

  “Okay,” he says as he crawls to me. He lingers his lips to mine. “But you should know that I want to see you. That I’ve never wanted anything more.”

  The electricity of his words melts me. My hand drifts to my bra, but then stills. Alec sees my hesitation.

  “Only if you want to, Zephyr.” He looks around. “It’s just you and me. I’d do it for you. Anything you asked.”