Don't Fall

by K. S. Thomas

  “Good.” I nod, satisfied with my efforts. “Now then, can we finally order some freaking food. I’m starving.” I am. In an empty pit for a stomach sort of way. Just hadn’t noticed before thanks to the surge of adrenaline and nauseating emotions running rampant in my system all morning.

  “Yes, please.” She giggles. It’s the best thing I’ve heard all morning. Well, almost. Maybe it’s tied for best thing. Guilt fills my empty pit and hunger wanes again. It’s wrong to be thinking about him, here with her. Right? He shouldn’t warrant enough of my attention to distract me from my breakfast date with Riley.

  “I think I’m going to order pancakes,” Riley blurts, interrupting my self-loathing.

  “That seems a little drastic, no?” I laugh, not sure where the sudden desire to sway from her tried and true French Toast is coming from.

  “I think it’s time for a little change. Also, you look like something’s up. But I’m not insightful and selfless yet, so I don’t know how to smoothly go where you’re not going without making drastic pancake eating announcements,” she explains, folding her hands on the table.

  “Nothing is up,” I assure her. “And please don’t feel like you need to give up French Toast on my account. I’m pretty fond of blunt and straightforward. Believe me, when I’m not trying to be extra tactful with you, it’s my go-to approach for tackling conversations.”

  “Oh, alright then.” She leans forward. “Cut the shit, what’s going on?”

  I nearly bust out laughing. “Well, if you must know...I’m sleeping with a really hot guy I have no business sleeping with...because he’s my professor.”

  Her eyes light up. “Continue.”

  I lean back into the booth, smirking. “I would, but I made him swear we wouldn’t tell other people, so, you know. Can’t.”

  She gapes at me. “Totally unfair.”

  “I know.” I pull my phone from my pocket. “Wanna see a picture?”

  A wicked flash of mischief flares in her big eyes. “Uh-huh.”

  I pull up one of Jules’ fifty thousand social media pages. Given the whole phone debacle, I know damn well she’s posted pictures from the other night and we all know Lane will have been the star in every single shot.

  “Here.” I hand her my phone when I find a picture where Jules isn’t trying to dry-hump him.

  “Damn.”

  “Right?!”

  She ogles him a little more until our server shows up and we finally get around to ordering. After that, the conversation takes a more age appropriate turn and by the time breakfast is over, I’m feeling a renewed sense of hope we may actually feel like real sisters again someday.

  Lane

  Classes drag on forever today and more than once, I catch myself searching for her anytime I move across campus. She doesn’t land in any of her usual spots all day, and by the time I leave, I can’t help but wonder if she’s avoiding me after all.

  I’m halfway home when my phone rings.

  “Where are you?” Alexis yells into my ear.

  “In my car. Why are you shouting?”

  “Oh, sorry.” There’s a click in the line and the next time she speaks, the volume is back to normal. “I had it turned up while I was out running and talking to Jeff.” Her husband, the most boring guy I’ve ever known, until he’s around my sister. It’s like she’s the switch that turns him on. It’s weird and fascinating all at the same time.

  “Well, now that you’re not trying to kill my sense of hearing, want to tell me why you’re checking in on my whereabouts?” I ask, pulling up to the intersection which will take me home but having a twin sense, I have a feeling I’ll be turning in the other direction.

  “I’m on my way over to your house. Meet me there,” she demands in typical Alexis fashion.

  “If by my house you mean the place I’m pretending the ocean washed away, you’re on your own. I’m not going there.” She has about three seconds before the light turns and I’m heading to my apartment, ending this conversation for good.

  “Stop being so stubborn. I have a plan. A good plan. But I want to tell you about it in person. At the place the ocean washed away...you know, in imaginary land.”

  She’s being vague and condescending, two things she knows will push my buttons faster than just about anything.

  “Fine.” I sigh, flipping my signal off and pulling back into the other lane to make a right turn instead of left. “I’ll see you in a few.”

  “Perfect!” Then she hangs up. I can still hear her smugness ringing loudly in my ear when I make the turn and head for the ocean, silently wondering if I want to pretend it will come and wash her away as well.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tessa

  After successfully avoiding both Lane and Drea all day, I call Cara after track practice and beg her for a ride to my car. She shows up ten minutes later.

  “Dude, I almost didn’t recognize you,” I say, pointing at her preschool teacher get up as I slide into the passenger seat. “Do you really wear glasses? Or do they just go with your teacher persona?”

  “I legit have bad eyes,” she explains woefully as she turns out of the parking lot and onto the road. “My hearing rocks though.”

  “Yeah?” I mean, that’s good news and all.

  “Absolutely. Give it go. Lay it on me. Let me do some serious listening,” she prods until I finally pick up one of the hints she’s so blatantly dropping.

  “Oh. You want, like, an explanation.”

  “Bingo.”

  “God, that’s a real thing today with people.” I scooch down into the seat, imagining what it might feel like to be swallowed up and hidden away within the stuffing.

  “Listen, you can’t go around leaving the club with some hot guy, then calling for a ride the next day when we both know you live with said hot guy...and go to school with him. Not to mention, Drea’s gotta be around here somewhere too. And yet, I got the call. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to take the call, but why did I get the call?”

  I twist my mouth back and forth to give her a visual of the distaste this conversation is stirring up for me. Then I sigh, loudly, dramatically, and begin, “Hot guy, let’s call him Casey, is a very nice guy, but we’re not close in the sort of way that I could ask him for a ride. Plus, on campus we agreed to ignore each other, so that’s what I do. I take long, lengthy walks from class to class, just to make sure I’m extra good at it. And Drea and I had a fight. So... there you go.”

  “She doesn’t like hot guy? And no, let’s not call him Casey. Casey’s that douche you were dancing with the other night who hit on every girl on his way out before leaving with Nat.”

  “No!”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh, yeah!”

  “Gross.” Not for either one of them in particular. It’s a very generalized gross. “Fine, we don’t have to call him Casey. Unless Drea asks. Then, you call him Casey.”

  Her brow arches and her lips purse briefly. “My ears, man. So damn good.”

  I laugh. “Fine. Here it is. Drea hates him but she’s overjoyed at the thought of my hooking up with a man last night, so, rather than face the obvious writing on the wall across the hall, she opted to conclude that I wound up with Casey...somehow. Whatever. It makes her happy.”

  “But, then why are you fighting?”

  “Because she went on to give this whole speech about how screwed I am with Lane and how I need to stay away from him unless I want him to keep taking advantage of me. I don’t know. It went in a few different directions, most of them really offensive. To me. She can think whatever she wants about Lane, but me, she knows!”

  “Lane. Yeah, that’s what we’re calling him.” She winks. As if nothing else I said ever made it in.

  “Seriously? Your awesome hearing may not be as on point as you think,” I mutter, sitting up taller when I realize we’re coming up to the club.

  “Oh, no, girl, I heard you just fine. Drea’s mad because you’re not acting like the responsible one, which mea
ns she has to and she’s not any good at it. So, you have to cut her slack, ‘cause she’s trying and she’s gotta let you do your thing, and Lane is going to keep taking whatever the hell he wants because you sure as hell wanna give it to him.” She wiggles her brows at me, grinning.

  “Wow. That was pretty spot on.”

  She points at her right ear. “So. Damn. Good.”

  The car comes to a stop beside mine and I reach for the handle to get out. “Thanks for being a pal.”

  “It’s our thing,” she reminds me.

  “And the whole Lane thing,” I pause, not sure what I really want to say here.

  “Is nobody’s damn business,” Cara finishes for me.

  I couldn’t have said it better myself.

  Drea’s car is still gone when I get home. It’s been a long day, but I’m still not ready to talk to her, so I’d just as soon she stays out for a while, Lord knows, she’ll be banging down my door as soon as she gets back.

  Since it’s my night off from the basement, also known as my catch up on everything I’ve been putting off all week night, I take advantage of having the apartment to myself which can only increase productivity as far as I’m concerned.

  I’ve got the first load of laundry running, the dishwasher is started, and my bedroom has been vacuumed, when I choose the largest area of carpet in the living room to plop down on. Spreading out my books and notes in a half circle all around me, I examine my options and decide on the speech I’m supposed to give tomorrow morning. My notes thus far include the topic. And nothing else.

  I slide my laptop out from underneath a pile of notebooks I have stacked to my left and I dive in. Research. It’s my favorite part. I love gathering information. Learning it. Breathing it. Taking it in until I understand every angle of it. It’s what I find most appealing about journalism too. Knowing I get to learn everything first, piece the puzzle together before I share the completed story with the rest of the world.

  Breaking only to move clothes from the washer to the dryer and the hamper to the washer, I spend the next three hours submerged in studying. I’m so deep into the speech I’m writing, it takes me a second to pull out of my non-stop running train of thought and fully register the sound of a key turning in the lock.

  I hold my breath, wondering which one of the two people who have a key I would prefer to see walking in right now. It’s kind of tied. Drea’s still not off my shit-list, but Lane...is on my what the hell do I do when I see him now list? We agreed to no expectations. No relationship. Just, well, sex, I guess. But what does that leave us with in between? And how often are we doing the sex thing? Like, if he walks in here two seconds from now, how appropriate is it for me to tackle him and strip naked? I’m speaking purely theoretical of course. Not that I would really do that. But, I still want to know if I could.

  Groaning in slight frustration over being left in limbo behind the closed door, I unfold my legs and get to my feet, purposely dragging them over the carpet as I go because I’m super unimpressed with having to contemplate all of this right now.

  Well, I was. Now that the door is open and I’m looking at the sexier half of my contemplations, I’m experiencing a warm fluttery surge of pleasant emotions all throughout my body. And I’m really re-evaluating the likelihood of my tackling theory being welcomed by him.

  “You know, a guy could easily start to wonder about your lack of regret when he doesn’t hear from you all day following a stormy exit from his bed first thing in the morning.” His brow is cocked to match the smirk on his oh-so-sexy lips. Oh, he would so be up for being tackled.

  “Sorry, I don’t know the standard protocol when it’s not a one-night stand but it’s not a relationship either. Was I supposed to call?” I tease, though I am sort of wondering. Our arrangement hasn’t been the most conventional sort thus far. I’m obviously not clear on how to proceed.

  “A text might have been nice. A naked greeting at the door when I got home would have been better.” Tackling next time for sure. He steps in closer, his hands finding my waist almost as naturally as his lips find mine.

  “I had stuff to do,” I mumble into his open mouth.

  “What sort of stuff,” he asks, our kiss continuing in spite of this conversation.

  “Studying and laundry stuff.” I wrap both arms around his neck and pull him closer. My paper can wait. This, the hot-guy-wanting-to-kiss-me business, cannot.

  I back up until I reach the sofa and carefully slide my way over the backrest down into the cushions, Lane skillfully coming down on top of me. This obviously isn’t his first sofa. But I’m not thinking about that.

  I’m not sure I’m thinking about anything.

  Thoughts aren’t possible when his hands are moving over my skin the way they are right at this second. Nor can anyone expect me to think when his mouth is crushing mine, tongue tantalizing me in ways that make me want to roll my eyes back into my head and just give myself over to him to do with as he pleases, because God knows it would please me.

  And please me he does. Several times before we both wind up hanging haphazardly off the side of the sofa, gasping for air with super cheesy matching grins plastered all across our faces.

  “I’m hungry. You hungry?” he asks, his hand moving through my hair, gently cupping the side of my head.

  “I could eat.” Like a boatload of nachos. Or an extra large pizza with extra everything. I’m freaking starving.

  “We need a phone,” he says, stretching his hand out over the floor and lifting the first article of clothing he can reach. My tank top. Not gonna find any phones in there.

  “How about a laptop?” I ask, my fingertips just barely reaching the keys if I push them out as far as I possibly can.

  “That will work.” He flips on top of me, his long arm moving over mine until he can grab the computer and bring it to us. I’m not sure if this is an act of ridiculous laziness or simply a desire to bask in the comforts of a post sex wrap up, where you’re still blissfully unaware of how awkward it is to be naked in front of another human being, either way, I like it.

  My eyes move to the screen, wondering what he’s craving tonight and if it will turn out to be anything my taste buds are into.

  “How’s Chinese sound?” he asks, pulling up the website to Wasabi Box, this great little place right down the street from us.

  “Sounds kind of amazing.” They make the best noodles. My stomach starts to growl just thinking about them.

  We scour the menu for several minutes before placing an order far too massive for two people to ever consume, and then, we’re back to dangling in a tangled up mess on the couch.

  “Is it weird that we’re adding food to our arrangement?” I ask, after silently contemplating whether or not it’s a question I even want answered.

  “Roommates eat takeout together all the time,” he answers, a relaxed lull to his deep voice.

  “Right. That makes sense.” I’m not sure it really does, but I can roll with it.

  Silence sets in for a brief moment of peace before the next question hounds me, begging to be verbalized.

  “So, am I like a rebound thing? Is that what the whole nothing more than sex thing is about? Because you know it’s not real anyway?”

  His arm wraps around me loosely, his fingers lazily tracing up and down my spine. “You’re not a rebound.”

  “How do you know? I mean, it seems logical. Everyone does the rebound thing even though no one ever recognizes it for what it is while it’s happening,” I reason. I kind of want to be his rebound, if only so that I can label this thing and understand it better. And, naturally, feel as though I have some sort of control over all of it.

  “I already did the rebound thing. That’s how I know.”

  I lift my head to look at him. “You did? When?” Jules flashes in my mind for one horrific second, then I watch him grin, his eyes still closed like he’s hardly bothered by any of this.

  “Right after the whole wedding fell apart. Our wedding
planner, Jaelynn, and I were spending all this time together, canceling everything and trying to salvage whatever finances we could. It just kind of happened.”

  It takes a second for me to fully understand what he’s saying. “You dated your wedding planner?”

  He chuckles. “I know. It sounds bad. But she was like my one ally when everything was falling apart all around me. For a split second there, I think we both believed it was fate or something.” He shakes his head, eyes squinting open to catch my gaze. “Like you said, no one ever knows they’re doing the rebound thing while they’re doing it.”

  “Huh.”

  The hand traveling up and down my back catches a strand of hair and tugs it. “What? More questions?”

  I shake my head. “Nope.” At least none I have the balls to ask anymore.

  “You sure?”

  My fingers trace the outline of a mermaid displayed in full color on his lower arm and the want to know outweighs my reasons not to. “Your tattoos. You have all this amazing art all over your body. It’s stunning and unique and so much of it is so clearly a part of you, but then you wear the most boring clothes known to man and cover them all up. What’s up with that?”

  He shifts around under me and I get the sense I’ve made him uncomfortable. “Are we back on the khakis you don’t like?”

  “I mean, I wouldn’t be against burning those, but you seem to like them so far be it from me to try and talk you out of wearing them.”

  Lane’s chest steadies beneath mine again and his breathing settles into a calm rhythm as he contemplates my question. “I started getting them when I was seventeen, because I knew a guy. Of course, that meant keeping them hidden from my parents was a given. Even after I was of age, it was easier to just pretend I didn’t have any. Wasn’t until I was twenty and had the first full sleeve done that they ever saw me in a short sleeve shirt and realized what I’d been doing to myself.”

  “Seriously? They never saw you in short sleeves until the whole arm was covered?”

  He shrugs. “I was away at college. They hardly ever saw me anyway, so it was easier for them to miss than you might imagine.”