Break My Fall (Falling #2)

by Jessica Scott

  Because I haven’t told her all of it. She only knows the part of my secret I can barely summon the courage to put into words. But she doesn't know all of my shame.

  And when she finds out, there will be nothing that will keep us together. But until then, I am selfish enough that I cannot let her go.

  Abby

  I think I am not as surprised by his revelation as I should be. There was always something more with him, something he wasn’t ready to let the world see.

  In a million years, I wouldn’t have guessed it would have been this.

  He’s young. He’s healthy.

  I can’t imagine living with this. Not as a guy our age, when everyone else around us is talking about hooking up.

  I curl into him, needing nothing more at the moment than to be where I am. I don’t know what to say.

  “You’re surprisingly okay with this,” he says after the silence stretches between us.

  “You clearly overestimate the value of a penis in this equation.” I lift my head to make sure he sees I’m joking.

  “I have no idea what that even means.”

  “It means there’s a hell of a lot more to sex than a penis brings to the equation.” This could not be any more awkward. “You didn’t just pound away like a jackhammer. So things were…well, let’s just say you did everything right.”

  His lips quiver. “So you like what I do with my mouth?”

  I swallow, thinking of him there again, his tongue against my heat. “A little bit.” The words squeak out.

  He draws me closer. “What about my fingers?”

  Heat floods through me and I squeeze my thighs together again as the ache builds once more. “That too.”

  His mouth moves along my throat. “Tell me what you want?” he whispers.

  I close my eyes, letting the pleasure of his touch stroke over my skin. “You have too many clothes on.”

  “Say, ‘I want you naked, Josh’,” he whispers.

  It’s a game. Light, teasing words to take away from the seriousness of it all.

  “I want you naked.” The words are almost lost in the haze of pleasure I get from his hands on my body.

  “Josh.”

  “Josh,” I repeat. My mouth is dry. “Can I touch you?”

  “Yes please.”

  He lifts the t-shirt over his head and I watch the glory that is his body twisting and arching.

  I love his chest. The way the black ink contrasts sharply with the burnt cream color of his skin.

  The sheet falls from my body and I lean forward, pressing my breasts to his chest, my hand against his hard, flat stomach. His skin is warm and rough against mine. He is still as I explore the sharp edges and planes of his body.

  My hand slips lower, brushing against his hip bone. He catches me, halting my movement.

  His grip on my wrist hurts.

  And when I look up, it is not arousal looking back at me.

  It is shame. It is sadness.

  It is a thousand pieces of emotion looking back at me. “Don’t.”

  A single word guts me. I know instantly what I’ve done. It hits me like a wall of disappointment.

  He drops my wrist and sits up, turning away. The names on his back flex with the movement.

  “Josh.” He does not respond. He reaches for his pants and yanks them on. “It’s okay.”

  He rounds on me then. “No. It’s fucking not okay. It’s not o-fucking-kay that I can’t get a hard-on. It’s not fucking okay that you still want to reach between my legs for that useless piece of skin. It’s not fucking okay, Abby.”

  I hold the sheet to my body. It is a useless shield.

  “I thought I could do this.” The bitterness in his words slices at my heart. “I was wrong.”

  He drags the rest of his clothing on.

  I am mute. Unable to take back the hurt. Unable to fix it.

  Unable to find the courage to ask him to stay. To fight…for us, for this thing we were trying to start.

  In that moment, I hurt him. I reminded him of everything he cannot do, even after I told him it didn’t matter.

  And there is no way I can make it up to him. No way to end the offense I didn’t mean to cause.

  And his silence makes it worse. I want him to rail at me. To tell me how fucked up it is that I assumed I could fix what doctors could not.

  I slip from the bed, removing myself from the offense. Shame crawls heavy and dark across my skin as he dresses in heavy silence.

  And my heart breaks into a thousand pieces when the door closes behind him. Leaving me alone.

  And hurting.

  Just like always.

  Chapter 20

  Josh

  I had to go. I had to leave and get away from the strange disappointment in her eyes when she realized that no, I wasn’t going to magically get a hard-on.

  It hurt. It fucking hurt.

  I knew it would. I knew we wouldn’t be able to do this.

  That I wouldn’t be able to do this. I could fuck her six ways from Sunday with my mouth, my fingers or any of a thousand different things and it still wouldn’t be enough.

  And it hurts.

  I default back to what I’m good at. Drinking and fighting. Except that Eli isn’t at The Pint tonight. Which is strange because he's always here. It's his bar.

  And now I really need to know what the hell is going on.

  But Caleb is there and he’s drinking hard and this is not good. Caleb drunk on a good day isn’t easy to deal with.

  Where the hell is Eli?

  No, this is not fucking good at all.

  "Funny thing about war," Caleb says as he tosses back his shot. "It's never really over."

  I watch him pour another shot, feeling helpless and weak and fucking impotent. Just like always.

  There's no reason to pry. It'll come out if he wants to talk. Otherwise, I'm just there to keep him from drinking alone. Because for some reason, getting hammered together is functional and okay. Getting plowed alone in a bar is something only people with problems do. At least, that's what the Army always told us in every fucking safety briefing and death-by-PowerPoint slide show on suicide awareness.

  I don't miss the endless briefings. Not by a long shot.

  "What do you miss about the Army?" I pour my own glass.

  I have no idea why I’m sitting here with Caleb, watching as he crawls further and further into the bag.

  I can’t help but feel there is something different tonight. There’s a darkness in Caleb that isn’t usually there. Or at least I’ve never seen it behind the bravado and false machismo. Which is good because then I won't feel like I've betrayed everything that I ever thought I believed in by drinking with him.

  "The guys. The stupid shit we used to complain about." I know what's coming. The drinking didn't work. Not as a distraction. Instead, the door is wide open for whatever is tormenting him to escape and fill the dark bar with shadows and pain. "I want it to be worth it. I want to know they died for a reason. That it wasn't some stupid boondoggle."

  It hits me then that I’ve judged him harshly and wrongly. I never saw beyond the bullshit war stories to ask if there was anything more.

  I stare into the shot glass, seeing the past and the hurt and the anger that I've tried really fucking hard to ignore the last few months since getting out. The shame that had damn near choked me after I realized I hated him because he put into words the thing I hated about myself.

  "I can't say it's worth it. I wish I could." I raise my glass, a silent salute to the brothers we’ve lost.

  It hurts. Goddamn it, it fucking hurts.

  And yet, it's a familiar hurt that only someone who's been there understands. I can't drink with people from campus. They don't get it. No one does. Unless they've been there.

  "You ever wonder why we went?"

  I pour two more shots for both of us. "Drink. If we're drinking, bottoms up, brother."

  He frowns into his glass, swirling the liquid. Some sp
ills over the side and onto the back of his hand.

  I don't know what set Caleb off tonight but now that I'm here, my own bullshit is rising up. The onslaught of anger and bitterness drowns a little beneath the haze of alcohol. I've been trying so hard.

  "And yeah. It surprises me sometimes," I say after a moment.

  "Huh?"

  "Like I'll be listening to the radio and a song will come on from one of my deployments and I just…I go back. This one time, we were on patrol and the LT had speakers hooked up in his truck. We’re getting the shit kicked out of us and then all of a sudden Raspberry Beret comes on loud as hell. In the middle of a firefight, Prince. He never lived that shit down." I grin wickedly at the memory. People who have never been there are horrified when they realize what we can laugh at. The worst times in our lives, the blackest moments, and someone can crack a joke that will have us damn near pissing ourselves.

  There’s no laughter now. It's going to be a rough fucking night.

  "How do you turn the shit off? When you start thinking about it?"

  I don't answer for a long moment. I can't. Because my throat is blocked by something I can't swallow. And it hurts. It's like a giant lump stuck in my chest.

  "I don't. Sometimes, I can distract myself by going for a run or something. Other times, not so much. That's when Uncle Jack comes into play."

  He's got a death grip on that glass. "You don’t like me, do you?" His voice breaks a little.

  "We've all got our demons, brother."

  "I know you think I’m full of shit." He smiles and it’s sad and biting and cold. “I thought maybe…maybe you’d get it. More than the other guys. You worked for the general. You know what it’s like at those levels of the game.”

  I frown. “You were in my unit?”

  A division staff is huge. And no, I don’t remember ever seeing him before.

  “Yeah, man. I worked for one of the brigade commanders. I saw…I know…I was there when Blackjack Nine died.”

  Fuck me. Blackjack Nine was Second Brigade’s sergeant major. He died in a massive bombing when the insurgents started using ten-thousand-pound bombs in dump trucks.

  “I’m sorry, man.” What else can I say when I’ve been a complete prick to him?

  There is nothing left to do but pour another shot. Wishing I could make the memories stop. For him. For me.

  But I can’t.

  And sometimes, the only solution is to drink until they leave you alone.

  Chapter 21

  Abby

  The hurt doesn’t magically stop after you cry yourself to sleep. And no amount of Ben & Jerry’s helps either.

  I am raw and tender and bruised, and I have to somehow drag my ass to work and smile and pretend that my soul isn’t lying crushed and bleeding on the ground.

  I skipped classes today. Every single one of them.

  But I can’t skip work if I want to pay the rent this month.

  And as is the way with friends, they notice when things have gone to shit, no matter how much you try to hide it.

  "What happened?" Graham opens his arms and because it hurts, I go to him. He is the only thing holding me upright at the moment. “Things didn’t work out with Captain California, did they?”

  "How did you guess?"

  “I’m psychic. A key life skill as a bartender.”

  I tip my head and step out of the comfort of his embrace. "Why do you call Josh anything but his name?"

  I’ve never stopped to ask why before now. As far as I know, Graham has only talked to Josh once, that day a while ago when he was drinking before noon.

  "You know that song by the Eagles, ‘Hotel California’?" He sets a glass on the bar and folds the towel he'd been using.

  "Yeah."

  "He’s in his own private Hotel California. He can never leave, no matter how much he wants to."

  I lean back against the table, letting Graham’s words sink in. “He’ll never leave the war behind, will he?”

  Graham swallows. “I don’t know. I wish I did.” He glances out at the darkness leading to the bar. He pauses then looks back at me. “We are the product of what we come from. But we don’t have to let that dictate our choices.” Graham takes a step toward me and pulls me into his arms once again. “You are the strongest woman I know.”

  “I’m not strong, Graham. I smile and wave and pretend to be something I’m not.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re wrong. The whole world has been trying to change who you are. And you haven’t surrendered.” He pauses. “If that’s not strength, I don’t know what is. If anyone deserves happiness, it’s you. And I don’t know if Josh is the right guy or not…but I’d let him eat crackers in bed.”

  “Oh god, that was terrible.” I burst out laughing, swiping at the tears that burn down my cheeks. "You know, for a guy who likes to pretend he's a dumb blond, you're pretty slick." I tuck my bag into the small space under the bar and tuck my shirt in. "You're also not wrong." I sigh hard, trying to release the tension in my chest. "Why does this have to be so hard?"

  "Because nothing that comes easy is worth it."

  "That's a shitty way of saying God has a plan or some other platitude, isn't it?"

  He shrugs apologetically. "No." This time, it’s Graham who pats my cheek. "I just think…that no matter what, we have to take care of each other. Even when we don’t understand why it hurts."

  Graham's words slither beneath my skin and strike a little too close to home.

  Because for a long time, I didn't understand why people stayed in relationships that are so terribly bad for them. Part of me still doesn't.

  It’s easier to end things with Josh than to ever face the hurt again. To ever feel it again. “I hurt him,” I whisper.

  It's easier to hold on to the anger, to the hurt, than it is to figure out just what the hell had been going on that night to make him lash out like he did. I screwed up but Josh…Josh went for the jugular.

  “You know how people say ‘I love you’ means never having to say you’re sorry?” Graham says quietly. “They’re full of shit. ‘I love you’ means admitting you’re wrong. It means not just saying I’m sorry. It means trying to do better.” He squeezes me and lets me go. “Do better. Take a chance. And start with I’m sorry.”

  This isn’t going to end well. I should leave him be. Let him go. But I’ve screwed up badly enough that I can’t let it end like this.

  He’ll be at The Pint. That’s where he always is.

  * * *

  Normally, The Pint is welcoming and warm and fun, but tonight it feels like all eyes are on me, frozen in the doorway. Times like this make me feel the darkness of my skin in ways that I don't when I'm around my friends.

  Josh is sitting–or rather leaning–at the bar.

  I have never felt this before. This pain.

  But it's new for me to have been the one to cause it.

  Josh glances up at me, his eyes glassy. He's swaying on his feet.

  I can't feel anything. All the sound stops.

  All I can see is Josh.

  And then he's approaching and he is all I can see. Maybe later, this will make sense.

  I thought I could do this. I was wrong.

  I can't. Because I'll give in to the emotions rioting inside me and I'll hurt him. That's what I do.

  Josh is right in front of me now. He's more than a little drunk. His voice is thick and slow.

  "I really don't want to do this right now." His voice is smooth and deep, even if his eyes are somewhat glassy from far too much to drink.

  I have broken us. Destroyed the fragile thing between us that had just gotten started.

  This is my fault.

  Josh

  She is braced for war. Braced for me to lash out, to cut her and when I do, I end her responsibility, relieve her of the pain she caused.

  "I really don’t want to do this right now." It is the most reasonable thing I can muster.

  She needs me to forgive her. The ratio
nal part of my brain should say the words she needs and let her go.

  At least now I can keep my shame buried. She’ll never know she did us both a favor by ending things between us before I got too attached.

  I can't think.

  “I just…I just want to say I’m sorry. That’s all. You don’t have to accept it. You don’t have to forgive me. I just need you to know.”

  And the words, the anger, boil out of me before I can stop them. I round on her, giving in to the anger and the hurt. Permanently cauterizing the wound. Stopping the bleeding and any chance of healing things between us. "I don’t want to fucking talk about it.”

  God love her, she doesn’t back down. “Don’t you think that maybe that’s part of the damn problem?”

  Oh fuck this. “Do you want to talk about the choices you make with your hair? Then don’t ask me to talk about the fucking war, Abby. Just don’t.”

  If I haven’t destroyed the fragile foundation of whatever it was we were building, I’ve done it now. I’ve crossed the line. Stabbed her where she is soft and vulnerable.

  Hurting her so that she’ll walk away.

  Hurting her so she’ll never have to know why I have to go.

  "So you run away? The first time things get a little difficult?"

  I recoil from her words. They hurt worse than if she’d lashed out and struck me. I can't stop myself from shouting at her. From lashing out. I see the hurt flicker across her face, and I am the cause. "You don't know what it's like to walk through life, to not feel any fucking thing. To feel completely cut off from everything."

  I will be ashamed later. Right then, the shame and the anger and all of it comes crashing down on me. Pouring out in violence and rage at the one person in this life I care about.

  She doesn’t back down. She steps into my space. “Because you run away from it. You just fight and drink and hope that it’ll be enough. It’s not. Not if this is the way it’s going to play out.”