Don't Fall

by K. S. Thomas

  “That I like crocheted blankets, always use coasters and make use of way too many floral patterns in my decorating?” That last part really is Aunt Edi. I just can’t bring myself to change it. I’ll probably leave it even longer now that she’s gone.

  “That you’re responsible, all about doing the right thing all the time. You treat everything with care. And you’re exceptionally serious for someone your age. You leave nothing to chance. Depend on no one,” he says like it was just sitting there at the tip of his tongue, waiting for me to ask.

  “You got all that from the floral wallpaper?” Jokes. The exceptionally serious girl falls back on jokes to cover up the painful scab he just ripped way open.

  Without lifting his head, he turns toward me. “I got all that from the anal way you fold your towels.” He smirks to let me know he’s teasing me. But it’s a brief reprise. His serious tone sets in as soon as he opens his mouth again. “You a have fairly new – and I assume custom made - color-coded mail rack, every slot labeled with the bill and due date designated for it. Your dishes, they’re old china. Family pieces most people only use on special occasions and keep locked in a fancy cabinet most of the year. Not you. You use yours. And it’s no worse for the wear because you take the time to care for it properly. Gently.” He pauses, waiting to see if I object. I wish I could. “You possess a limited amount of current technology but have books lining every free inch of stackable surface in this place. And I’ve scanned the titles. They’re not light reads either. What limited fiction you expose yourself to is a far cry from the light-hearted chick-lit your buddy Drunky Drea is probably reading.”

  “I’ll have you know, she’s into the sappy shit. If no one’s gonna die at the end, she won’t even bother with it.” It’s all the argument I’ve got here.

  “Forgive me, I haven’t had nearly enough time to study her.” He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “Nor do I intend to.”

  “And when exactly was it that you decided to make time to study me?!” I don’t recall the last time I found myself flip flopping between emotions the way I do around Lane. He freaks me out. A lot.

  “It was never a conscious decision with you, Tessa. Wasn’t until you were collapsing at the kitchen table, near tears, telling me about your aunt and this condo that it all started sinking in. All the pieces were already there, you just made them fit together.”

  I nod, trying to convince myself to accept this revelation of his. “So, because I read non-fiction and know how to pay my bills like a big girl, that makes me someone who’s afraid to take a risk and can’t commit?”

  His brow furrows. “I didn’t say either of those things. I said you were independent. Covered your ass. And I didn’t just get that from the apartment. I figured that out the moment you were charging at me, umbrella swinging at my head. You could have bolted at the sight of a strange man in your home. Could have ran across the hall to get help. You didn’t. Didn’t even occur to you. Because you were ready. That umbrella wasn’t sitting in that corner, stashed out of sight in case of rain, it was there in case you ever needed it to bash someone’s head in. Not an ideal weapon of choice, by the way, but I can see why you chose it.” He folds his arms over his chest to finalize his point. “Like I said. Depend on no one, leave nothing to chance.” Then he leans in closer. “But since you brought it up, want to talk about those commitment issues?”

  “No!” I huff, forcefully shoving my way into the opposite end of the hammock only to have gravity send me toppling back into the middle and damn near into his lap. “What I want, is for you to stop psychoanalyzing me. You’re my roommate. Not my therapist.”

  “Who’s psychoanalyzing? I’m just trying to get to know you, given the whole living situation that just seems like the civilized thing to do.”

  I twist my mouth back and forth thinking about this. It doesn’t seem that simple from where I’m sitting. “You’re also my professor. How much forthcoming and getting acquainted do you suppose will keep us within the realm of an ethical teacher student relationship? I mean, we can’t become friends.”

  He shakes his head. Clearly, he agrees. “We blasted through the ethical realm straight into inappropriate dimensions the second you saw me naked.”

  Okay, maybe I don’t read him quite as well as he reads me.

  Not agreeing. Not at all.

  “There’s no coming back from that,” he continues, “but not to worry, I have a plan.”

  “You do?”

  “Yep. To offset the seriously weird and way too intimate ways in which we already know each other, I will simply ignore you the instant I step on campus.”

  Now I really can’t read him. Is he being serious? “You’re my teacher. You can’t ignore me. You’re not screwing me on my education just because you can’t sleep in pajamas.”

  “Oh!” He gapes at me, pointing accusingly. “What about you?! Miss half-naked in a towel?”

  I suck in my upper lip and bite it, temporarily facing defeat. “Not the same. Half-naked is totally different from completely naked.”

  “As is busting in versus being busted in on.” Lane’s accusing finger is less assertive now, it’s more upright, supporting his argument rather than threatening to stab me in the eye with it. There’s also less shock to be found in his expression. Mostly, he’s just back to enjoying himself. Which would be annoying if I wasn’t grinning from ear to ear myself. This banter is fun. Probably too much so. Case and point, being student and teacher may become a problem after all if we start busting out with private jokes in the middle of class, especially any that involve nudity.

  “Seriously, though.” It’s not easy making my face match my words, but I do the best I can. “What’s the plan? I need a plan.”

  “Yes, we know.” His mouth quirks at the corners, but he gets it under control before I have to fake being offended again. “How’s this? You avoid the front row from now on and pick a spot in the back somewhere. Obviously, you can talk to me when class is in session, but outside of a polite nod hello if we cross paths, there isn’t any rule that says we have to interact for you to get a proper education.”

  There’s really no reason to object to this. No legitimate reason anyway.

  His elbow nudges my side, getting my attention. “What?”

  My brows rise innocently. “What, what?”

  A subtle headshake occurs before he answers, “You know what. What don’t you like about my plan?”

  I inhale deeply, making one last attempt to keep in what should really be kept in, and then I exhale, letting it out anyway. “I don’t want to sit in the back.”

  “How did I know that was it?!” He throws his head back, slapping his knee.

  “Because your handy-dandy psychology superpowers told you so?” Am I trying to be cute? Am I freaking trying to flirt?! Why would I do that?

  “You can sit in the back, Tessa. Know why? Because you’re not going to miss anything, even from the last row. And, if you do, guess what? You live with your professor! You can get one on one time over coffee on the balcony every night if you need it.”

  “Every night? Wow, one of us doesn’t plan to have much of a life this semester.”

  There’s an exasperated intake of air and a playful jab at my knee. “And one of us, really can’t be pleased.”

  I give in. It’s time. I put up a good fight and I got more than enough to count it a win. “I’ll sit in the back. But, if my studies suffer for it, I’m blaming you.”

  “I expected as much.”

  I nod, solidifying the agreement. “Well, on that note, I should probably get to bed. I’ve got a long day tomorrow, and none of my other professors have agreed to private tutoring on my balcony as of yet.” Slipping out of the hammock as gracefully as I can while also holding an empty mug in one hand is not an easy feat.

  “Hey, it’s just the first day of school. Give it time. There may be other naked teachers lurking, waiting to be clobbered and subsequently talked into private tutoring that
you don’t know about yet.”

  Reaching for the handle of the sliding door I almost have to force myself to open it. I’m not ready to go in. Not ready to end this...whatever this is. But I should. I will.

  “I’ll keep my Aunt Edi’s umbrella handy just in case.”

  Lane smiles and does a small salute with his mug and I accept the silent goodnight and go inside.

  Lane

  She’s gone but I can still smell it; the combined scent of sweet, hot coffee and her coconut shampoo hit me as soon as I stepped out into the warm breeze and they haven’t left me yet. I breathe in deeply and hold it, letting the air that holds her in it settle in my chest.

  I close my eyes and try to shake it off. Shake her off.

  Stretching out in the hammock I now have all to myself, I try to zone in on the way it swings me back and forth, staring out at the darkness, hoping it will help to clear my head of all things Tessa. At least all the things about her I’m not supposed to be thinking about. Not just for the obvious she’s my student reasons, because, let’s be real, I’ve already blown any and every aspect of propriety there. Far worse is knowing that I like her, but am completely incapable of liking her enough.

  Timing is bad. For both of us. She’s grieving. I’m currently devoid of all feelings. We both need something the other can’t give. On the other hand, I suspect we both want what the other is more than willing to offer. Comfort. Distraction. Mind numbing, earth shattering and reckless, yet entirely meaningless, sex.

  Chapter Five

  Tessa

  After a much-needed night of dreamless sleep and solid rest, I wake up the following morning feeling unusually confident about my life. Sleep will do that I suppose. Or maybe it’s just that total exhaustion has the opposite effect and I spend a great deal of my life in that state of sleep deprived existence.

  Dick curled over my arm and pressed to my chest, I stumble my way out into the living room just in time to see Drea swing the front door open and wander in. It occurs to me somewhat too late that telling Lane about Drea’s busting in tendencies would have been a good idea last night. On the upside, Drea nearly always has pants on.

  “Did you know you left your phone over here yesterday?” She swings her leg over the back of the couch and the rest of her follows in a plop on the cushions.

  “That explains how I made it through eight hours of sleep without being woken up even once.” I wander toward her and the corner of my bulky rubber case peeking out from under a stack of junk mail, both of which are in her outstretched hand, ready for the taking.

  “I’ve heard it jingle about three times since I’ve been up. No calls though. Just texts. I would have woken you up otherwise,” she explains but there’s no need. I know she would have let me know if she thought it was important.

  Breath catches in my throat when it sinks in. I wonder how long it’ll be before I have to worry about missing important calls again. The last few years where Aunt Edi was living up North, every call from her was a priority. But, she’s the only one who’s ever held that status in my world. Outside of Drea, I can’t even think of anyone off the top of my head I’d bother answering for. Honestly, I’d rather people just text me anyway.

  When I peel the phone out from the pile of envelopes, I see her name at the top of the screen instantly. I figured it’d be her.

  “Miriam.” Aunt Edi’s youngest daughter and the only one who wasn’t pissed that I got the condo.

  She nods, her focus on the TV she just turned on. “I saw. You going to call her?”

  I’m scanning the messages as we speak. “Probably just send her a text. She was just checking to make sure I made it home alright.”

  Drea laughs, but it’s at something she’s watching. Then she remembers we’re having a conversation. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

  “Never mind, dude,” I shake my head, chuckling at the lost look on her face. Early morning Drea is about as coherent as drunk Drea.

  I move into the kitchen and automatically find myself in front of the coffee maker. Lane already made some. God love him.

  “Want some coffee?”I let the sugar pour into my mug an extra count. All summer long, Aunt Edi’s oldest, Meredith, spent her mornings shaming me into drinking my coffee severely under-sweetened, reminding me repeatedly of her diabetes, and when that didn’t work, pointing out just how much having me there was adding to her grocery expenses. Apparently, sugar wasn’t even on her shopping list before I got there.

  “Are you offering me backwash and grounds or a for real cup of coffee?” Drea calls over from the couch where her eyes are still glued to the screen.

  “A for real cup. Mind you, it will include both by the time you near the end, but what you do when you get to the backwash and grounds is entirely up to you.”

  “Creamer,” she announces, as if that’s a complete sentence.

  I’m not sure we have any. We. Weird.

  My head hidden in the fridge in search of a flavored milk substitute, I miss his entrance until I hear him.

  “Good Morning.” Lane has a pleasant morning voice. Of course, he’s already had his coffee, so that probably helps.

  “Professor Michael,” Drea chirps, clearly suppressing a giggle.

  “It’s Lane,” I correct her, retrieving the creamer and pulling my head back out of the fridge. “Does he look like he has Michael hair to you?”

  She drops her head to her left shoulder, curiously investigating his head. It’s a nice head. Even when he’s glowering at me. Which he’s doing right now.

  “I’m gonna grow it out. And slick it back. Or maybe, maybe I’ll get it cut into a mullet. What are ya gonna call me then, huh?”

  It’s my turn to glower. “Nothing you wanna hear me say to your face.”

  “Ron!” Drea chimes in, like it’s a game or something. “Ron is totally a mullet name!”

  Lane glares at her, speechless, then redirects it at me. “Out of curiosity, how many people have keys to this place?”

  “Like, locally? Or nationwide?”

  He stops glaring and starts moving. “I’m going to assume that’s a joke.”

  “You totally can. As long as you keep in mind that assuming is resulting in accepting false information as completely accurate.” I hand Drea her cup of coffee and then mosey back to the kitchen where Lane is busy slicing a bagel in half.

  He notices me watching and looks up. “You want one?”

  “Okay.” I pretty much want one of whatever he’s offering.

  “Toasted?”

  “Yes, please.”

  His chin juts out in Drea’s direction as he reaches for the bag and gets out another bagel. “Same for Drunky?”

  She laughs before she realizes he’s talking about her. “Hey!” Then she gets up on her knees and turns on the couch to face us over the back. “I’m going to let that slide since you’re making me breakfast. And I like toasted. Crunchy toasted. With cream cheese. And chives if you have.”

  Lane stares at me in disbelief.

  I shrug. “Her boyfriend does most of the cooking at the firehouse...and for them. She’s a little spoiled in that department.” I lean over the counter and whisper, “I don’t like crunchy. And I like jam on my cream cheese.”

  “You’re used to him cooking for you, too, aren’t you?”

  I nod. “Yeah, kinda.”

  Lane drops his chin to his chest and pretends to focus on making our custom order bagels, but I can see his smirk and it instantly sets off a butterfly spitting sprinkler in my stomach. Just non-stop butterflies spraying against my insides. It stirs up an odd sensation which spurs the desire to vomit as well as burst into song. Deciding that neither is preferable for the time being, I opt to take a seat at the breakfast bar and wait until the sprinkler shuts off and the butterflies all die. Except, sitting here, watching him, seeing his muscles move under the exceptionally well fitted dress shirt he’s wearing is not helping. Nor is the inexplicably sexy way in which he prepares a bagel. />
  When he turns away to retrieve things from the fridge, I fully expect to get a reprieve from the hot flashes steaming my insides. And they might ease up, if I could avoid dropping my gaze down to his ass, but I can’t. I also can’t help but notice that today there are no pleated khakis. Today there are charcoal colored trousers which hug his perfect ass in a way no pair of trousers should ever be able to.

  I gulp. Then, to cover up the sound, I blurt out, “What happened to your old dude pants?”

  His head turns to look at me over his shoulder. “Nothing. They’re in my hamper. Why?”

  I point. At his ass. “Just, you’re not wearing them.”

  The refrigerator door closes, and he makes his way back to the counter where he stands across from me. “Did you think I wore them every day?” he asks, his tone making it all too clear he thinks I’m an idiot this morning.

  “I figured you had six more just like them.”

  He pauses, mid smear of Drea’s bagel. “You thought I owned seven pairs of the same pants?”

  “You seemed awfully fond of them last night.”

  “Did he refuse to take them off or something? Because that may not have had anything to do with the pants. Maybe he’s just shy.” Drea climbs over the back of the sofa and hurries over to continue her train of thought within better earshot of her audience, “Maybe he just had performance anxiety. Happens to older dudes.”

  Lane scowls. Then he drops the half-cheesed bagel on a plate and hands it to her. “Here. Yours is to-go.”

  She eyes it, gives it a sniff and shrugs. “Yeah, okay. I deserve that.” A quick peck on my cheek and she’s skipping out of our apartment again, humming as she goes. Food does that to her.

  “I liked her better when she was just my drunk neighbor,” he grumbles, popping my bagel into the toaster.

  “She’ll grow on ya,” I assure him, dedicating my mouth primarily to my coffee as to hide the grin I’m currently fighting off to no avail.

  He rips a huge bite off his bagel with his perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth. Chewing with one side of his mouth, he mumbles out of the other, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”