After the Leaves Fall

by Nicole Baart

  The room went still. I held my breath and waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, I cautiously filled in the gaps. “With me?” I asked, the words barely making their way past my lips.

  “Yeah.” His response was equally as soft.

  My mind made one last frantic attempt to hold on to Parker and all I had built for myself, but it was useless. My heart was screaming, Do you? Do you? Do you? Am I unresolved? Do you have feelings for me? Do you love me the way that I have loved you since you smiled at me over a stolen stop sign on a glacial winter night?

  He answered me as if my thoughts had been whispered in his ear. “I don’t know.” He repeated to himself, “I don’t know.”

  And then, because he saw the hope in my eyes or because he needed to know for himself or because he knew he could never go back to Francesca without saying in utter truth that there was no one else, he put his hand on my face. I could feel the lingering imprint that his mother’s hand had left there only hours before, but when Thomas touched me it was different. He considered my cheeks and my forehead and my lips, and when he brought his gaze to my eyes, they collapsed somewhere beyond my reach. He leaned in toward me, and whatever defense I had built against him had been so obliterated that I met him in the middle.

  We paused, and the exhalation of his doubts danced with my own timorous hope for the split second before he kissed me. It was the merest gasp of a kiss, the slightest glancing touch, and then he pulled me to him hungrily. I responded with all the longing, all the trapped and wretched waiting of the years that I had loved him. We kissed and held and drank each other in desperate, reckless gulps, and when I was ready to cry with the fullness of the ache that I had felt for so long, Thomas pulled away.

  He covered his mouth with his hand for a moment, and his eyes were unreadable as I struggled to regain the air that he had stolen. I reached for him, and his hand left his mouth to catch my own while he filled the room with a laugh that left me reeling.

  “Oh, Julia!” Thomas swung my hand like a delighted little child. “We’re still best friends!” He gave me an exuberant kiss on the cheek. “That was like kissing my sister!”

  Free Fall

  A FLASH LIKE LIGHTNING sparked through my soul as Thomas smiled at me with triumph and relief blazing in his eyes. He was oblivious to—or intentionally ignoring—the feelings that were dripping from my face like phantom tears that I had yet to cry.

  I wanted to hit him. I wanted to take all the frustration and even rage that I felt for him and contain it in my closed fist, give it back to him so that I didn’t have to hold it pressed to myself anymore. But as quickly as the emotion surged, it ebbed and flowed out of me like a wave falling back into the immensity of the sea. I was left on the dark, empty beach—cold and wet and in pain.

  I tried to say, I have to go, but my mouth was incapable of speech, and in a haze of numbness and shame, I pulled my hand from his and staggered from the couch.

  “Julia?” Thomas sounded surprised. “Where are you going?”

  I didn’t answer or look back or even acknowledge that I had heard him, and when I mounted the steps to leave, he didn’t move to stop me.

  “I had to know,” he said.

  I kept walking.

  “I’m …” I thought he was going to say sorry, but he didn’t. Maybe he knew what he had done, and he silently hated himself. Or maybe he was already thinking about Francesca and was relieved that I was simply going to walk away. Whatever he felt, when my argyle socks were all he could see of me, I heard him say, “Good-bye.”

  It felt irrevocable.

  Somewhere inside me a backup generator began to run, and it powered me through the great room when I was sure that there was not a hope in the world of acting even marginally normal. I managed to return Maggie’s hug, smile gratefully as Mr. and Mrs. Walker said polite good-byes, and even nod when Mrs. Walker furtively whispered in my ear, “Is he going to be okay?” The fact that my bottom lip was tucked between my teeth seemed to be lost on her.

  Only Grandma noticed the current in the air around me, and she joined me at the door as I slipped into my shoes. “Julia, what’s wrong?” her voice was low and warm.

  I stopped her as she reached for her own shoes. If she spoke to me like that again, I would fall entirely to pieces, and I was sandbagging furiously against just such a flood.

  “You don’t have to come with me, Grandma,” I croaked, choking a bit on the first words that I had uttered since inviting Thomas to break my heart by whispering, “With me?”

  Her eyes invaded mine, and I tried to make the upward turn of my lips look convincing. “I’m just tired. I need to get back to school. I’m so behind. …” I pulled my jacket off the antique coatrack and gave it a hard shake as if to beat off a fine layer of dust—the very residue of air from the Walker house—though none existed. I slid my arms into it, happy to have something, anything, around me.

  Grandma was still searching my face, and I didn’t want her to find what she was looking for, so I put my chin against her shoulder as I hugged her and said, “Please stay and enjoy the afternoon. It would be such a waste for you to go home. I’m going to pick up my things and leave. I’ll be gone in five minutes.”

  I knew I hadn’t convinced her, but when she sighed, I also knew that she would comply with my request—even if it was against her better judgment. “I don’t know what happened, but—”

  “Shhh, Grandma, just don’t. Nothing happened.” I blinked hard, then pulled away and smiled at her. “I’m fine. See? I love you and thank you and I’ll see you soon.” The words tumbled out almost mechanically, and I quickly asked her God to let her know that I meant them with every ounce of my being even if it didn’t sound like I did.

  Outside, the air was cold and sharp, and everything seemed to have edges that I hadn’t noticed before. The crunch of dry leaves beneath my feet was raucous and harsh, the naked trees were vulgar and exposed, and the breeze that had formerly held the fresh, clean scent of impending winter was biting and cruel. I hurried from the Walker house half afraid that someone would come after me, that they would all find out what had happened. The thought spurred me into a jog, and I tripped over the uneven earth with my hands crammed deep into my pockets and my head tucked heavily against my chest.

  Grandma’s farmhouse was so quiet and empty it felt like a tomb. I rushed around in the shadows, not bothering to turn on the lights as I stuffed clothes, toiletries, and the odd book into my backpack. It was obvious that when I arrived back at Brighton I would realize I had left something behind, but I didn’t care.

  Before anyone at the Walker house could think twice about my departure, I was gone. I didn’t buckle my seat belt or turn on the radio or look once at my speedometer. I drove. It was a reflex action, and anything else would have required me to move—to move my arm, my eyes, my mind, or my heart. I was imploding, falling into myself because the alternative would require me to think or feel. It was like curling into a tight, small ball and taking shallow breaths to stave off nausea. If I am still, if I don’t move or breathe, I’ll be okay. Occasionally a thought would rise to the surface, and I’d wish for less than a heartbeat that I had never come home for Thanksgiving. As quickly as it entered my mind, I would push it almost violently away and return to a state of immobility. I was anesthetized.

  It wasn’t like I planned to go to Parker’s apartment, so when I pulled up in front of his place, I was almost surprised to come out of my trance and find myself there. But it felt wholly right, and as a tear finally slid like a token offering down my cheek, I had to stop myself from throwing open the car door and rushing into the comfort of Parker’s arms.

  I gripped the steering wheel to ground myself and found the capacity to think logically still hiding somewhere in my shaken mind. Parker couldn’t know what had happened. He had been apprehensive of my visit home in the first place; in some impossible way he had doubted Thomas and my ability to read him. If Parker knew about the kiss, if he knew that I le
t it happen and that I was crushed by the outcome, it would change everything.

  Acting completely normal and unchanged was almost too much to ask, but I couldn’t stand the thought of returning to my dorm room alone. Becca would be there full of questions, or worse, she would be gone. Or worse yet, she would be there and not be full of questions. Each scenario left me cold. And, I reasoned with myself, I needed a little tenderness right now. I needed someone to hold me, to look at me as if I was worthy of time, attention, maybe even love.

  I erased the tear from my cheek with the tip of my finger in gentle, sweeping strokes. The skin could not be red from pulling, and my eyes could not be bloodshot. I blinked a few times and took deep breaths through my nose and practiced a quick smile in the rearview mirror. Digging in the cup holder, I found a stick of gum and popped it in my mouth as I smoothed honey-flavored balm on my lips. The result was almost natural. I looked fine. Maybe a little tired. Maybe a little hollow behind the eyes. The long drive would excuse that. Parker wouldn’t suspect a thing.

  The clock on the dashboard read seven-thirty, and I wished aloud that Parker would be home. Home alone, I amended. Lights glowing in the living room had already informed me that someone was there, but I knew I could hardly count on it being Parker. I had told him I wouldn’t be back until late Sunday night and that I would not see him until Monday at the earliest. I crossed my fingers as I walked up the sidewalk.

  Parker opened the door before I had a chance to knock. “Julia!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” He was wearing his coat, but his shoes were untied and he was holding a nearly bursting garbage bag.

  “I came home early,” I said with a shy smile and a shrug. “I thought I’d stop by for a minute since it’s not too late.”

  Parker put his hand around my neck and pulled my head toward his so he could kiss my forehead. “I’m glad you’re here. I just have to take the garbage out.” He held up the bulging bag and explained, “Garbage day tomorrow. Go on inside. I’ll be right there.”

  I let myself in and hung my coat on the hook, kicking off my shoes with a sigh. I had been right to come here. Just being near Parker made Thomas’s basement seem very small and very far away. But even that tiny thought made my stomach pitch, and I hurriedly pushed it out of my mind.

  No one else was around as far as I could tell, so I sat down on the couch to wait for Parker. There was a football game on TV, and I stared at it blankly for a minute before finding all the color and noise and movement irritating.

  I looked around the room. The coffee table had been pulled close to the couch, and I put my feet up on it just as I was sure Parker had been doing only minutes before. There were papers scattered across the table and weighted down with Heineken bottles—two empty and one half full. I picked up the bottle with beer still in it and sniffed. It smelled like yeast. I remembered my dad once saying that too many people drank to forget. It sounded good. I took a gulp.

  “Julia!” Parker reproached from the doorway. “You’re not old enough!” He winked at me playfully.

  “Are you going to stop me?” I retorted, taking another swig and trying not to grimace.

  He laughed. “Nah. It’s warm anyway. You finish it.” He shrugged off his coat and stepped out of his shoes, then bounded across the room to jump on the couch beside me. “Chug, chug, chug,” he teased.

  I gave him a wry look and complied.

  “Hey, I was teasing,” he said soothingly, taking the now-empty bottle from my hands and adding it to the others on the table. “Was Thanksgiving that bad? I mean, my family’s messed up, but I thought since you don’t have one it couldn’t be too terrible. …”

  “Ha-ha,” I muttered, rolling my eyes at him. Then I mustered up the courage to lie to his face and said, “Thanksgiving was nice. I’m just glad to be back.”

  “I’m glad you’re back too,” he announced and leaned in to give me a kiss.

  I shrank, wondering if Thomas still lingered on my lips somehow, if Parker would know that I had kissed someone else in my absence. But the kiss was a brief peck, and if Parker noticed my hesitation, he hadn’t read anything into it at all.

  “So, did you have fun?” he asked.

  “It was great to see my grandma,” I answered, trying not to add more lies to the one I had already told. “And the food was good.”

  “Better than my spaghetti?”

  “Never,” I assured him though I nodded as I said it.

  He pinched my arm playfully, but I brushed his hand aside and laid my head on his shoulder.

  “You into the game?” Parker inquired.

  “No.”

  “We don’t have to watch it,” he said. “I’m a Vikings fan—but don’t tell anyone.” He switched off the TV.

  I didn’t want to talk or be serious or do anything other than sit in silence, and the only way I could imagine that happening was if he finished watching the game. I had wanted to rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes and just be still, listen to the sound of him breathing beneath the announcer’s play-by-play, but I didn’t know how to convince him that I actually wanted to watch the game after I had stated that I wasn’t interested in it. I had ruined it for myself, so I said, “What do you want to do?”

  He was quiet for a moment, as if considering his choices. “Actually,” he finally admitted, “I want to talk.” His pause told me he already had a topic chosen. After a few heartbeats he said, “I was hoping you’d tell me about your family.”

  “I’ve already told you all about my grandma,” I replied, struggling to keep the frustration out of my voice. I didn’t want to talk.

  “Not your grandma, Julia. You said you’d tell me about your parents sometime.” Parker dropped his shoulder carefully and eased away so I had to sit up and look at him. There was a gentle expression on his face, and I couldn’t help but be touched that he genuinely wanted to hear my story.

  The floodgates were about to burst open, so I said hastily, almost harshly, “Not tonight, Parker. I’m not in the mood.”

  He looked slightly taken aback, but he gave in without a fight. “Okay,” he said after a pause. “No football game, no talking … what do you want to do?”

  I felt bad that I had come here to use him for comfort and was now being difficult. It crossed my mind that I should just tell him about my dad—he was a beautiful person to talk about—but I simply couldn’t muster up the energy. My gaze floated unenthusiastically around the room as I tried to come up with something fun or witty or interesting to say, but I was so heartbroken and uninspired. I wondered if I should just leave.

  And then my gaze stopped on the papers littering the coffee table, and it registered for the first time what they were. My head whipped toward Parker, and he realized that I had identified what was on the table.

  “Oh no, no, no,” he said instantly, leaning forward to quickly gather the papers into a pile. “Not now.”

  “Yes, now,” I said doggedly, grabbing for the papers even as he swept them out of my reach.

  “You can wait like everyone else. Do you think you get special treatment because the TA has a thing for you?”

  I nodded emphatically and without thinking climbed onto his lap to get access to the papers he was holding above his head. He rapidly lowered his arm to the floor and let the stack drop. He grabbed my wrists and held them tight.

  “Those are our statics tests, Parker,” I protested. “I could use a little good news right now.”

  Parker didn’t question why I needed good news, and he didn’t let his gaze drop from mine for a single second. He held my eyes carefully and said nothing while his grip tightened on my wrists and his eyes tried to communicate without words. It was only after he had stared at me so intently, so gravely, that I finally understood. Something in my face clicked, and he knew that I knew.

  “Julia,” he began softly, “it’s okay, really. It’s just one test.”

  “I failed?” I whispered falteringly, though I already knew the answer
to the question.

  “Not by much,” Parker jumped in, trying to salvage at least some of my pride. He didn’t understand that pride was such an insignificant corner of the whole picture.

  The pressure of all that lay concealed in my heart was too great to hold. I didn’t sob or make a noise at all, but the tears I had been collecting for months, even years, began to spill down my face too quickly to count.

  Parker didn’t seem alarmed as I sat on his lap and cried. Instead of trying to talk me out of my sadness, he pulled my head onto his shoulder and wrapped his arms around me. “It’s okay,” he consoled, stroking my back and scattering kisses on my head.

  I didn’t touch him or hug him or reach for him. I just sank into his embrace and let him hold me up because I didn’t think I was capable of doing it on my own.

  When I had soaked his shirt with my tears and was aware enough of myself to be horrified by the pathetic display he had just endured, I pulled myself from his embrace and slunk humiliated from his knees. “I am so sorry,” I breathed, not daring to look at him.

  “Don’t be sorry,” Parker said, catching my hand so that some small part of us was still touching. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about. I know how much you wanted to be an engineer.”

  Earlier he had assured me that it was just one test, but when he spoke of me as an engineer in the past tense, I knew that it was over. I couldn’t do it. I had given it everything I had, and I had failed. Failure seemed to be a bit of a theme for me on this day that I would have given a year of my life to erase. If before I had felt like I was falling, now I lay past the point of pain, splayed across the ground.

  “No, Parker, that was …” I couldn’t even think of a word to encompass how mortified, how despondent I was about the scene I had just made. All pretense—the cool and collected image I had refined for myself—had been obliterated in fifteen minutes of wet, messy sobbing.

  Thomas and the test faded to the background as I came to terms with the fact that I was back to square one. I was no better off than I had been when I was a little girl wondering where I fit in a family without a mother, or a teenager in a world without my father, and now a woman without . . . anything. Not even a sense of who I was or should be.