Fall Into Forever

by Beth Hyland

  Oh God.

  I’m suddenly and painfully aware that I look like I’m on the verge of utter homelessness. I shift my backpack to my other shoulder.

  And then I remember what Marla said about him. Arrested? Kicked out of high school? A player? I can totally see it.

  My cheeks are on fire and so are the tips of my ears. I’m glad I’m not wearing a coat, otherwise I know I’d be sweating. At least my sleeve with the stain is still rolled up. I run my tongue over my teeth to make sure I don’t have a piece of lettuce stuck somewhere. I’m not sure if I’m embarrassed because I look like a slob (I’m seriously cursing myself for not listening to Cassidy) or because he’s so damn sexy.

  Who am I kidding? It’s both.

  Keep calm. Act normal. He’s just a guy. “Hey, Jon.”

  “What brings you here?” The low timbre of his voice shoots straight to my core.

  I try my best to ignore the sensation. He grins, and that’s when I notice that one of his eyeteeth is slightly crooked. It occurs to me that imperfect things are much more interesting than perfect ones.

  It feels like it takes me a year to collect my thoughts. I debate whether or not to thank him again for his help on Friday night. But if I say nothing, it implies that it was no big deal. A topic not worthy of bringing up. A non-issue. Yeah, right. As if I could ever forget what happened. “I’m just—”

  “What up, bro?”

  I breathe a huge sigh of relief as two guys approach us. I’ll use that as an excuse to break away and get to class.

  But before I can move, Jon is suddenly right next to me, his hand on my arm, like he knows that I’m planning my escape. A niggling of panic shoots from out of nowhere and skitters along my spine. I tense.

  He must sense my discomfort, because he frowns and lets go of my arm.

  “Hold on, okay?” His breath whispers across my cheek. It smells spicy sweet. Like he just ate a cookie.

  I really should keep going. Class is about to start and I don’t want to be late. There’s nothing stopping me, but my Toms are rooted to the concrete at the base of the steps leading into the building.

  He turns to his buddies. “Heading to class, then I’ve got to run to the station for a few minutes. How about you?”

  “Heading home,” the tall one says, pointing to one of the frat houses. He’s got a painful looking pimple lodged between his cheek and his nose. “We’ll just be hanging out. Swing by when you’re done.”

  “Will do.” One of Jon’s arms is slightly stretched out toward me, his fingers open, as if to say he hasn’t forgotten about me. Or that he doesn’t want me to go on without him. “We all set for Saturday?”

  The short guy rubs his hands together and grins. “Almost.”

  Must be another party.

  I don’t need to hover around while they discuss their wild weekend plans. “Catch you later.” Turning on my heel, I take the steps two at a time.

  I enter the building without looking back, and the door whooshes shut behind me. It feels good to simply walk away because I want to. To leave without being stopped. The sign for rooms 110 to 116 directs me to the left and I head that way.

  “Ivy, wait up.”

  Boots hit the wood floor behind me.

  Jon comes up next to me, matching me stride for stride. “What class are you going to?”

  I don’t look over. “Photography.”

  “Right on,” he says, as if—

  Hold it. My eyes widen and my step falters. “You, too?”

  “What are the chances that Ivy on the Roof is in one of my classes? I’d say that’s fate, wouldn’t you?”

  I almost choke. Fate? Ivy on the Roof? Is he making fun of me?

  My slight chagrin turns to irritation. Sara said they talked about fate at the tutoring center. Does he think girls like that kind of crap? That we can’t see right through a super-lame pickup line? At least some of us can. One thing’s for sure. The last thing I need are people who believe in fate and destiny, whether it’s a cutesy pickup line or not. That BS is fine in movies and song lyrics, but in real life, not having the free will to make your own decisions is suffocating, smothering, and really freaky.

  I stop in front of room 116 and reach for the door. “Fate seems to follow you everywhere.”

  His hand gets there first, brushing mine in the process. Even though I pull away quickly, the echo of his touch sends a spark of awareness up my arm.

  “You sound skeptical, like you don’t believe in the inevitability of certain things happening.” He steps aside for me to enter. There’s an alcove and another door that leads into the actual classroom.

  Maybe the guy does have a few manners, but then I remember how he checked out my chest the other night.

  “You mean like being in the right place at the right time?”

  “Yeah, sure. Or the opposite. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And no matter what you do, there’s no fucking way you can change what’s going to happen.” A shadow flickers behind his eyes.

  “That’s an interesting way to look at it. But I don’t believe in fate. If I did, I wouldn’t be here. Fate, if you can call it that, is what we make ourselves through our own actions.”

  His dark expression disappears, replaced by a wide grin that spreads across his face. It takes me by surprise. What did I say?

  “God, that was so fucking cool.”

  I frown. “What was?”

  “You quoted Terminator 2.”

  “I did? The movie?”

  “Yep.”

  I raise a brow. “Sorry to disappoint you, but that’s unlikely. I’ve only seen the first one.”

  “You paraphrased it, but that’s one of the themes of the film. Fate isn’t set in stone. We can change our future no matter how impossible we think it might be right now.”

  Change my future. That’s what I’ve been trying to do. It’s the reason I’m here at PSU in the first place. However, considering what happened this weekend, I have my doubts that I’ll ever be able to completely shake my past. Not unless I do something drastic. Like join a convent and move to South America. But even then, it’d probably find a way to haunt my dreams.

  The instructor isn’t up front yet, and people are still standing around talking, so we’ve still got a few more minutes.

  My tongue is as dry as if I’d been chewing on a bath towel. I reach for the water bottle tucked into a pouch on my backpack and take a drink. “And you believe that?”

  He shrugs, a faraway look in his eye. “I don’t know. I guess I hope it’s possible.”

  Me too.

  Changing one’s future does come with a huge price. I know that better than most. If I believed in fate and destiny, I’d be in Lincoln Falls and Chase would still be alive.

  * * *

  Jon

  The photography classroom is one of the smaller ones, with maybe forty or fifty students in the class. Rather than individual desks, there are rows of long tables and chairs like you’d find in one of the chem labs. The prof is walking to the front of the class, so Ivy and I need to find our seats.

  That Terminator quote was so fucking cool, even if she didn’t do it on purpose. I spot a couple of empty seats in the back. She turns toward the front instead, but all I see are single chairs.

  I hesitate and consider sitting separately. She can go up there, I’ll sit back here, and that will be that. When class is over, I’ll gather up my crap and slip out. After a few days, these routines will become habits, and Ivy will just be a cool girl I talked to a couple of times. I do still have her coat, though.

  Don’t let her go.

  She waits as a few students brush past us.

  “Nice talking to you,” she says, throwing a glance at me over her shoulder. That’s when I notice the tattoo on the nape of her neck. It’s a small Chinese character that you wouldn’t see when her hair is down. I didn’t peg her as the type to have ink. I wonder what it means.

  The problem with Ivy is that what little
I know of her intrigues the hell out of me. When I got off my bike in the front of the building and saw her walking toward me, my heart lurched in my chest. It’s not often that a girl surprises me the way she does.

  No, I don’t want to sit apart. I want her beside me for the next hour. Maybe she’ll want to get something to eat afterward.

  Without thinking, I grab her hand. “Ivy, this way.”

  Her ponytail whips in an arc around her shoulder as she snaps her head in my direction. Panic flares in her widened eyes as she stares at our joined hands.

  I quickly let go. I must make her uncomfortable, because she tensed when I touched her arm outside, too. I thought I’d imagined it, but I guess not. I’m used to girls loving my attention, not being intimidated by it. What has made her so fearful of being touched? She even crawled out on a roof to get away from someone.

  Shoving my hands into my pockets, I point to the seats with my elbow. “Empty spots. Back here.” When she doesn’t move, I know I need to say something else, but I’m not sure what. She’s got me tongue-tied, something I don’t have much experience with. “Do you…want to sit together?”

  Say yes.

  She chews on her lower lip for a moment, then her gaze locks on mine with an intensity that takes my breath away. It’s as if she’s searching for something. I won’t deny it. Most girls like what they see. I assume she’s going to give in, so I give her a Jon Priestly smile.

  I can almost see a curtain closing in front of her face. “I’m going to sit up front. I can see better up there. Thanks, though.”

  Hold on. Did she really just turn me down? Running a hand through my hair, I watch her walk down the aisle, her thick ponytail swinging and bouncing on her back, as if she’s happy to be moving away from me. I try to conceal my disappointment as I slump down into the nearest empty seat.

  She was searching for something in me and obviously didn’t find it. I fell short. An old but familiar pang gnaws at my insides. I try to ignore it, but it’s too late.

  You’re not good enough, Jon. Why can’t you see that? You’ve never been good enough. You were born a loser and you’ll always be a loser.

  I grab a notebook and pen from my backpack and toss them on the table in front of me, not bothering to open up a blank page. The professor welcomes everyone and says some shit about how this class can change the way we look at the world around us.

  I don’t give a flying fuck. Crossing my ankle over my knee, I pick at a frayed hole in my jeans.

  I had Ivy pegged as a hot mess anyway. I’ve had plenty of those girls in my life without adding another.

  chapter seven

  Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

  ~ William Shakespeare

  Ivy

  My fingers curl over the keyboard like claws. I’m trying to keep them from shaking. After taking my last pill, I don’t really have a choice. I have to do this.

  I open and close my fists as if I’m doing some preparatory exercises before using the computer. I need to log into my old email account and get the name of the doctor here at PSU that my therapist recommended.

  I take a deep breath and pull it up. I can’t believe I even remember the password.

  Sure enough, pages and pages of messages from people and businesses I don’t know fill the screen, many of them porn-related. And there are dozens of invites for pages and private online groups with hurtful names.

  You’ve been invited to like the page Ivy McAllister is a Psycho Whore.

  You’ve been invited to the group Ivy M. Suks Big Cock N Wants To Suk Yours.

  @MagicVaj_McAllister is now following you.

  I experience a little satisfaction that Aaron needs to take a few basic English classes and learn how to spell—but then that’s me, the secret nerd, for you.

  It was easier to abandon this email address and delete my social media accounts than to keep wading through this garbage.

  I do a search for Dr. Kramer and find the message I’m looking for. His colleague and former student is named Tess Mehta. He thinks I’ll like her.

  I pull up the PSU Student Counseling services website and scroll down to see if they have her listed. They do. Dr. Mehta looks to be about thirty years old, with straight, dark hair, dark-rimmed glasses, and a closed-mouth smile. I can’t tell whether she seems kind and caring or judgmental.

  Hands shaking, heart pounding, I dial the office number listed on the website.

  “PSU Student Counseling Center. This is Addison. Can I help you?”

  Addison? It sounds like the name of a student. Is the receptionist’s position a work-study job? How can I explain to a student that I need to make an appointment with a shrink? What if she asks what the nature of my call is? It’s not like I can say I have a sore throat and need to see the doctor.

  In order to make an appointment, I’ll have to state my full name. Probably give her my student number. I don’t want people to know who I am, and that I have “issues.”

  And what if we have a class together? This Addison chick will know me, but I won’t know her. What if she’s a grad student and she types up Dr. Mehta’s notes? Don’t tell me that’s highly unlikely—it’s probably not even possible given medical ethics and everything—but my brain keeps going there. Who says fears are rational? Addison could sit in the back of my Comparative Lit class and point me out to her friends. “That’s the girl I was telling you about. She’s a fucking psycho. She thinks she may have killed her boyfriend, but get this—she’s got amnesia and can’t remember if she did or not.”

  And then the rumors would start all over again. And the harassment. But this time from someone other than Aaron and his friends.

  “Hello?” Addison says. “Are you there?”

  I can’t do this.

  I stab the End button, toss the phone on the bed, and wipe my clammy hands on my jeans. I’ve got a good thing going here at PSU where no one knows the real me, and I’d like to keep it that way.

  chapter eight

  I once had a thousand desires, but in my one desire to know you,

  all else melted away.

  ~ Rumi

  Jon

  There’s a big crowd of students at the Hardware Store tonight, so I’m lucky to get a booth. I don’t bother to look around for Kelly, Reese, and James, because they texted me a few minutes ago saying they were just leaving Kelly’s house.

  As I slide in, two girls stop abruptly at the head of the table. A dark-haired girl with her hands on her hips gives me an angry scowl. “We saw it first.”

  Before I can tell her that I’ve been waiting at the door to see if anyone was going to take it, her friend comes to my rescue. Great, it’s one of the students I’m tutoring.

  “Oh my God. Jon.”

  “Hey, Sara.”

  Her face lights up even more that I remembered her name. “Are you here by yourself?” I start to answer, but she keeps going. “Can we share the table with you?”

  Her boldness is borderline rude. “I’ve actually got friends coming. Sorry.”

  Her face falls and her friend looks even more pissed off.

  I look around. It is one of the big corner booths, though, and the place is packed. Chances are slim that another table will open up soon, especially since the band is getting ready to play. “Is it just the two of you?”

  “We’ve got other friends here.” She points over her shoulder. “But they don’t want to sit. I was going to order something to eat, so I wanted a table.”

  Is she talking about Ivy? Here at the Hardware? I jerk my head in the direction she’s pointing, but don’t see her.

  I wish I could put my finger on what it is about Ivy that I can’t seem to shake.

  “There’s probably room, then,” I tell Sara.

  I assume that the two of them will sit on the opposite side of the booth, so I don’t move over. Her friend does, but Sara doesn’t. She slides in right next to me. I have to shift away to keep my arm from touching her.

  “
So, is Ivy here with you?”

  With a big huff, Sara crosses her arms over her chest and dramatically rolls her eyes. “She’s supposed to be, but I haven’t seen her. It’s her birthday and one of the girls brought cupcakes.”

  It’s Ivy’s birthday today? Now I’ll have an excuse to talk to her. I frown. Since when do I ever need an excuse to talk to a girl?

  If anyone doesn’t look twenty-one, it’s Sara. She probably has a fake ID. “So I see you didn’t wear your Material Girl garb again.” She looks at me, a blank expression on her face. “Your Madonna look,” I add for clarification. Still nothing. I try again. “Your eighties costume from the party?”

  “Oh.” She laughs. I’m still not sure whether she gets it. “No, but I do have this.” She unzips her hoodie and pushes out her chest at me. The word Parishioner is emblazoned on the neon pink T-shirt that’s clearly one or two sizes too small. “I’m your biggest fan,” she says proudly.

  Great. She sounds like the stalker from Misery. I force a smile, but it’s hard because my face feels like stone.

  Some guys might enjoy having girls show them their tits like this. I don’t. It reminds me too much of the women my father is attracted to.

  “Uh, thanks.” I raise my hand and get the waitress’s attention. She nods. A pitcher of beer can’t get here fast enough.

  “Great show on Tuesday,” Sara says. “Friday, too. When I got home from the party, I tuned in and listened to you in bed. They should have you do that time slot every weekend. I could listen to you talk all night.”

  “Thanks,” I say absently as I watch the band finish setting up. There’s a cello. Interesting. “But if they did give me the Friday night time slot, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

  She laughs. Only when she moves a little closer do I realize that she thinks my remark was meant to be flirty.

  After a quick sound check, the band starts playing a strange mashup of hip-hop and folk/country. At first I don’t think I like them, but the cello player, a guy, is insanely talented and the lead singer, a woman, has a cool vibe. I’m tapping my fingers on the table top, watching everyone dance and before I can say no, Sara is pulling me onto the dance floor. We dance just the one song before I notice our pitcher of beer has arrived. “I’m parched,” I say, and head back to the table.