Falling into You

by Abrams, Lauren

  “I’m going to be apologizing for that forever.”

  “I’m not very good with forgiveness. We can add that to the list.”

  “The first step is to start picking up after yourself. Who leaves boots just lying in the middle of the floor like that? The pointy end on one of these things is a safety hazard.” The napkin comes right back at me, and I catch it in my hand before turning back to the food.

  “I don’t even know if you’re chewing. It’s more like inhaling,” she says, staring at my nearly empty plate before pushing another hunk of salmon onto it. “I would argue that your eating habits are a safety hazard. I never learned the Heimlich, so you’re totally screwed.”

  “I’m adding that to the list,” I manage, in between bites of food. “No first aid skills.”

  “I think we’re going to need a bigger piece of paper for this so-called list.”

  I quiz her about other possible shortcomings after all of my dinner is inhaled. She’s self-deprecating, listing a laundry list of faults. She manages to dodge the more personal questions with offhand remarks, a skill I admire but isn’t exactly in line with my objective of figuring out everything I can about her. We’re almost finished eating when I notice that her wine glass is still almost full.

  “Not a big drinker?”

  “I actually love wine with meals. It’s the one kind of drinking my mom doesn’t completely hate. Once she realized that I loved food and I was going to be taking care of all of the cooking, she would usually let me have a little glass.” She takes a long sip. “Don’t worry. I can get my drink on like anybody else. Just don’t tell anyone else in my family. They think alcohol is a sin.”

  I snort. “No, they do not.”

  She adopts a nasally tone and scrunches her face up. “’Alcohol is a sign that the devil is inside you. Praise Jesus that I’ve never touched the stuff.’” She pulls out of character. “That’s my Aunt Grace. My uncle sounds more like this. ‘A drop of wine is only acceptable when the Cleveland Browns win.’” She laughs and slips back into herself. “Since that never happens, alcohol is never acceptable.”

  “Alcohol is always acceptable for New Yorkers,” I say, picking up our plates and carrying them into the kitchen.

  “Then my refusal to imbibe is just another sign that I’m just following the roots of my Ohioan ancestors.” She giggles and drops the other dishes into the sink. “No really, though. Tonight, I have a job to do. Nate would never drink alcohol while he’s on the clock.”

  I laugh and start sticking plates in the dishwasher. “Nick is an alcoholic. It comes up later in the script.”

  “I should have known.” She smacks herself on the head as I come to sit on the couch with her, bottle in hand. “I follow the method approach whenever I think about an acting job, and in that case, I shall indulge.” She takes a big sip of her wine and lifts her glass in the air.

  “All ready to work,” she says as I top off our glasses again. She points to middle of the living room and I reluctantly follow her as she gets up and braces herself in her best tough-guy stance.

  We work on the scenes for hours. We review the one with Nick and James again, and then she plays James’ down-on-his-luck brother from New Orleans. His name in the script is Boudreaux, which puts her into hysterics. She tries on a Southern accent, and I think I finally find one thing that she’s not so good at.

  “You sound like…you sound like a bad cross between Australian surfer and British spy.” I’m laughing and pointing at her.

  “Shut up! My accent is so good, darling.”

  It’s not actually, and she knows it, collapsing in a fit of giggles. “Fine,” she says. “You try.”

  I give her my best shot, hunching over like I imagine Boudreaux might. “James, all I need is a little something to get me by. Just something to make it to the next stop on the tour.”

  She stares. “That is most definitely, absolutely, completely unfair.”

  I take a little bow and stumble around the room, mimicking her depiction of his drunkenness. “Boudreaux at your service, ma’am.”

  “No, you wouldn’t make a good Boudreaux,” she says after she tilts her head to the side, studying me. “I wouldn’t buy you as a drunk.”

  “I have the right pedigree.” I didn’t mean to say it, and it came out wrong, all bitter and harsh. The silence is deafening. She doesn’t respond for a long minute, and we stare at each other. Her eyes are an invitation for me to keep talking and there’s no judgment there, just room for me to spill my guts. I haven’t talked about him to anyone since I was a kid and Diana set me up with a shrink. It only took one session and a broken chair to ensure that there wouldn’t be any more shrinks in my future.

  The blue of her eyes is endless. “My dad’s a drunk,” I say. “Certifiable.” I cross my legs beneath me, and she joins me on the floor.

  It’s another long moment, and she nods her head. “I’m sorry, Chris.”

  My words come out in a long rush. “That’s why I’m here, actually. I mean, not here, in this room, but here in New York.”

  She nods in encouragement.

  I can’t believe I’m talking about this, but the whole story is coming out and there’s no stopping it.

  “He always drank too much, but then his career started to fall apart and he just fell out of his own skin, you know? He stopped being himself and started being an extension of the alcohol. My sister Diana tried to keep the family together, but my mom was never around much and things fell apart after that. There were rehabs, centers, meetings, but nothing ever seemed to work. And two years ago, the doctors told us he had cancer. They tried chemo for a while, but now it’s pretty much over. He came home to die.”

  I look for pity in her eyes, but she’s steady—waiting for me to share as much or as little as I need to. “And so you came home?”

  “For Diana. Not for him. Never for him. I used to think that it was my fault when I was a kid. The alcoholism. All of it. I tip-toed around him because I was always afraid that I was going to make him angry. None of it mattered. He was angry anyways.”

  She nods again at me. “The alcohol made it worse?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “He was never the happiest guy, but after he started drinking—really drinking—he would fly into these rages and he couldn’t get out of them. He would come home from the bar and break all the dishes in the kitchen. He even picked up our couch and threw it against one of the windows once. When I was really little, I would hide in my room and make all of these elaborate plans to help him find a way to come back. I just wanted him to be himself again, and so I kept drawing him pictures and writing him little notes, but he would just tear everything up and call me a stupid bastard. And then I grew up, and one day, I got angry at him instead. I’m still angry.”

  “You have the right to be angry.”

  “I don’t know how not to be.”

  “He broke your trust.”

  “Yeah, he did.” The worst of it spills over. “I can’t even bring myself to care about the fact that he’s dying. I’ve tried to tell myself that he’s going to be gone soon and that this might be my last chance, but I just don’t care. I’m here for Diana. Not for him. Never for him.”

  She nods at me. Her eyes are troubled and I get the sensation that she’s looking all the way inside me, but she just gives me a steady gaze, concern written all over her face. It’s not fair to her to be going on and on about my problems with my father when she’s just told me that hers is gone.

  I sigh and lean back on my hands. I’m far enough away that she can’t just reach out to me. For the first time all day, I’m begging her silently not to touch me. One touch of her hand and I would fall into her, and that’s not what I want. Not like this.

  Instead, she offers silence. It’s exactly what I need.

  She takes another sip of wine. “Your sister must be glad you’re here.”

  “She is.” I think.

  “Then that’s going to have to be enough for no
w.”

  She offers her hand by placing it near mine. I grab it. “Thanks.”

  For me, the conversation’s over. There’s nothing left for me to say and I don’t think I will ever find the right words. I’m pleading with her silently to leave it alone and hoping that she’ll figure it out.

  She does. Maybe it’s because she’s thinking about her own father or she thinks that I’m a heartless asshole. But by some miracle or another, she understands what I need without words.

  “Well, then, Boudreaux,” she says a little bit too brightly. “Are we ready for the next scene?”

  I’m grateful beyond words and nod my head. I had meant for this to be a seduction. Instead, I’m pouring my heart out to her about my drunken father and she’s giving me the only responses that wouldn’t make me want to break every piece of furniture in the room.

  As we start the next scene, I’m distracted and the acting is crap, but she doesn’t say anything about it. Her accents get sillier and even more over-the-top, and I know that it’s all for my benefit. I halfway forget about everything I just told her and try to immerse myself back into the script.

  “Ok,” she says eventually, looking at the clock. “It’s 2 am. If we plan to fit the next one in before sunrise, we better get started.”

  For a second, I’m momentarily confused. Marcus only sent me three scenes to read. Then, I remember my brief flash of brilliance in the park. The fourth scene, between James and Jane, includes a kiss. It definitely wasn’t included on the list, but I added it because I knew that if all else failed, I could basically trick her into kissing me. Not my finest moment, but you have to use what you’ve got.

  “Ok.” I grab our wine glasses and refill them with the last of the bottle. This was going to require liquid courage. “So, we have James and Jane. They’re stuck in a warehouse and they’re surrounded by bad guys. Jane is afraid she’ll never get out of there, and James is just trying to get an escape plan.”

  She nods, and looks at me expectantly, for some further insight into the characters or the scene.

  “That’s pretty much it.”

  “It’s not exactly the best screenplay ever written.” She’s trying to hide a smile.

  She is most definitely right. It is not the best screenplay ever written. “Nope. But it’s the only one we have right now. Unless you want to start performing the scene with the candy monster and the wrappers.”

  “Save me!” she exclaims. “No, it’s okay. I think we’ll be sticking with James and Jane. If only to save you from having to add ‘terrible writer’ to my list. Do we know anything else about Jane?”

  “We know absolutely nothing about Jane except for the fact that she has terrible taste in men.”

  “All right, then. At least you’ll be spared another attempt at an accent. Unless she’s Russian or something?” she adds a bit hopefully.

  “You’re out of luck. American.” She puts an exaggerated frown on her face and laughs. I hand her the script, and she’s absorbed in it, mouthing the words as she reads over the page.

  I’ve memorized the layout of the lines, the stage directions, and the kiss is on the next page. I’m hoping she doesn’t see it and right through me. She raises her eyebrows a couple of times, but she doesn’t turn the page. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Ready,” she says. “I’m Jane. You’re James. Got it.”

  I’ve been waiting for what feels like hours. I jump into James Ross’s skin. “Listen. We are going to get out of here.” She’s on her feet and I move closer to her, touching her arm. She glances down at it and back up at me.

  “But we’re surrounded. How will we ever escape?” She bites her lip and she’s shaking, trying keep from laughing at the trite dialogue.

  I’m barreling through the scene. “I’ve got a plan. Now, I’m not saying it’s much of a plan, but it’s something. And something’s all we got right now.”

  “James, I’m scared.”

  “Listen, Jane. It’s all going to be all right.”

  She flips the page and I know that she sees it—the kiss. I know she thinks that the scene is over, that we’re going to skip it. My genius plan was supposed to tell me whether or not she wanted me to kiss her, whether the flames between us were real or entirely imaginary.

  I’m still not sure, and I realize that the plan wasn’t going to work anyways. I want her to know without a doubt that it’s Hallie I am kissing and not Jane.

  “Hallie.” I murmur her name and move closer to her, running a hand through her hair. It spills like silk over my fingers, and her eyes are bright and endless.

  I pull her to me and touch my lips to her cheek, waiting for her to push me away. I almost jerk back when I feel the heat radiating between us, but her body is falling into mine and I grab her chin and touch my lips to hers.

  She tastes like honey and mint and sunshine.

  Unable to stop myself, I take more and more when something changes in the air. She’s running her fingers up and down my arm and I part her lips further, pushing the tip of my tongue inside. I want to stay entwined with her forever in this moment. She lets out a little moan, and I kiss her harder, needing more and knowing that there will never be enough of this, enough of her to satisfy me.

  And without warning, her hands are on my chest and she pushes me away slightly. Our bodies are still tangled up in each other, but there’s a question in her eyes. I try to find words to answer it, but nothing seems good enough. My mouth closes on hers again and that’s enough for now.

  For now.

  Chapter 13

  HALLIE

  Two thoughts grip me as soon as I’m able to reconcile the fact that my entire body is not, actually, made of jelly. First, I’m still not sure if he was kissing me or if he was kissing Jane. Second, I don’t care.

  He’s looking at me with a mixture of doubt and awe and suddenly I’m pretty sure that kiss was meant for me.

  “Did you mean to kiss me?” I blurt out desperately.

  He doesn’t respond, but he does pull my face to his again. We’re wrapped all up in each other and it’s the best answer I could have hoped for. We fall onto the couch, a mixture of arms and legs and other body parts and he’s demanding more now, kissing my face and hands and running his fingers down my arms.

  “Sorry.” He’s running his fingers through his loose curls nervously. “I didn’t mean to attack you like that, it’s just…”

  Our eyes meet. I can practically see the whirring of his thoughts, but then he makes a decision. “It’s just that I’ve been needing to do that all day.”

  Oh.

  I hadn’t realized I had said it aloud, that and nothing else. He’s reaching for his coat when I stop him with a touch of my hand.

  “It wasn’t a bad oh. It was just an oh.”

  “Oh.”

  I almost never have a problem with finding words (usually, it’s more of the opposite problem), but I can’t seem to make a sound.

  “I think you’re the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met.”

  The most beautiful boy in the world, the soon-to-be movie star, is telling me that I’m the most extraordinary person he’s ever met? For another second, I wonder whether this is all some practical joke or if I’m just making it all up in my head or if he’s actually standing in front of me.

  I start to say something about how ridiculous his statement is, because I’ve never been good with compliments and I’m nervous and trying not to make a total fool of myself. Instead, I give up and take what he’s given me and hold it inside my head. “That’s definitely the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  “I think someone should tell you that every day.”

  Unable to stop myself, I lean over and kiss his cheek. I stutter. My brief ability to speak has utterly vanished. “I don’t know… how …this… Thank you.”

  And I’m kissing him this time, because words are silly and the feeling of his lips on mine earlier wasn’t enough, not even close to enough. I move
slowly into him, brushing my lips against his. I can feel the muscles in his face move next to mine, and I can tell that he’s smiling.

  His arms encircle my waist and his kiss is urgent again and he’s pulling at the bottom of my shirt and I’m yanking at his clothes and every one of my nerve endings is on fire. There’s no way that I’m able to resist him, and if that makes me a whore and his pretty words were only meant to get me into his bed tonight, well, screw it all. He can have me.

  He pulls away and I’m breathing heavily and wondering why he would want to stop. I withdraw back into myself just a little.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says simply. “I just need a minute.” He kisses my forehead and then we’re touching again, even though he’s careful to put more distance between us.

  What is that supposed to mean? I’m not beautiful, not like the girls in the magazines or even the girls that were throwing themselves at him on the balcony last night. I want to check a mirror, to make sure that my fairy godmother didn’t visit and magically rearrange my features in the middle of the night, but that would require pulling myself away from him and I’m not willing to do that, even for the faint hope of a magical transformation.

  When I finally pull back from him, he grabs my hand and brings it into his lap, wrapping my fingers up with his. We sit for a long minute as I struggle to breathe.

  “I want you.” It’s a fairly simple statement that is in total contradiction to his earlier words. But I can work with that. I inch closer.

  “No,” he says, pushing me away gently again. “Not like this.” His face is contorted and full of hunger and need for me. It lends me a temporary burst of confidence.

  I laugh. “What? You go ahead and attack me and then you decide that’s it? That hardly seems fair, don’t you think?”

  He looks concerned for a second, but then he laughs softly and lets his fingers linger on my cheek. “I don’t think I would call it an attack if the victim is willing.”

  “How do you know I was willing?” I teased. “You’re not actually James Ross with the impenetrable façade of coolness, you know. You’re not a real movie star yet. There might be some way that I could resist your charms.”