Fall for Me

by Jc Emery

  The range in our last apartment had rust on it, and I heard about that particular offense often. The flooring was a combination of cheap carpeting and laminate, but it was clean and mostly free of stains. The new apartment has solid wood floors, a junior-sized stainless steel range, and a classic pedestal sink. The petite range’s broiler is broken, and the back right burner doesn’t work. The plumbing is shoddy, and we probably waste a couple thousand gallons of water a year just waiting for it to run clear. But it looks nice, and that was her requirement. Personally, I liked the last place better, but whatever.

  I raise my hand to knock on Mel’s front door but pause. What the fuck am I doing here? What am I doing in a building that costs this much? Holding a bag of microwaveable popcorn in my hand, ready to watch a movie with a woman who makes me want to cross a line I never have before and never thought I would. My parents raised me better than that, but fuck if everything in me doesn’t urge me to just give in and go against all the bullshit.

  The door swings open, startling me. I quickly lower my hand and pass off the popcorn to Mel. She takes it and smiles happily. She’s got on a pair of fitted black sweatpants that cuff at the ankles with a matching off-the-shoulder sweatshirt that cuffs at the wrists. Her blonde hair is thrown up in a messy bun, and she looks like she’s only wearing mascara.

  “Gonna stand out there all night?” she asks with a flirty wink.

  “Still blocking doors, Lulu,” I say, leaning in. Her cheeks redden, but she doesn’t move. She does that same contented sighing thing she did the first time she blocked a door I wanted to get through. “Still beautiful.”

  “We need a nickname for you,” she says quietly. Her voice falls so low I almost don’t hear it. “What about Milo?”

  “No, Milo is a cat in a Disney movie,” I say. “Besides, I like the way your lips move when you say my name.”

  “Jameson,” she says all breathily with her chest rising and falling rapidly.

  “You’re a tease.”

  “Jameson.”

  “You’re the one who said you wanted me to be a good guy, so stop making it so hard to be what you asked.”

  “It’s hard,” she says with her voice lifting at the end. It’s not exactly a question, I don’t think. She purses her lips and a snort slips out. I smirk.

  “Baby,” I say and place my hands on her hips, “I’m hard in ways that you’d never forgive me for.” I walk her backward into the apartment and softly kick the door closed behind me.

  “Shoes,” she says. I nod my head and use my feet to pull off my boots.

  “Bathroom,” I grit out. She jerks her head toward the hall to my right and lifts her eyebrows.

  “You might want to lock the door. It has a tendency to swing open at the most inopportune times.”

  I stalk down the hall, doing my best to walk normal with the chubby that’s growing in my jeans. This fucking woman is testing my resolve in ways that would make Satan proud. To my right is an open bedroom door. Beyond the door is a messy-ass bedroom that I already know belongs to Mel. It’s decorated in a beach-like color scheme, with light blue, teal, khaki, and crisp white materials accented with bright gold metallic finishes. There are clothes on the floor and a dressing table in the corner of the room that looks like it’s been bombed with open tubes of lipstick and tissues that have been used to discard makeup with.

  When I realize I’ve stepped into the room, I back up and take a deep breath. It smells just like Mel—fresh and clean—despite the chaos. I don’t need the bathroom anymore. Never really did, I guess. I just needed the space to be able to be the guy I know Mel wants me to be. To be the guy I want to be. I’ve been with Lydia for so long, just going through the motions and dodging questions about where we’re going—if anywhere—that I haven’t had to worry about not being a good guy in a long time. Like anybody, I’ve been faced with temptation and questions of right and wrong before. It was just never this difficult before.

  I never wanted anything this much.

  I push all of the shit out of my mind as I make it back down the hall. We make it through the pizza delivery with the dude making a single suggestive comment about the sausage on the pizza that has Mel blushing so bad that I find myself looking for ways to get her to do it again. She’s so confident and says what’s on her mind, so catching her off guard is a treat. We eat our slices of pizza and drink a few beers at the breakfast bar, and I try to ignore how everything in this place is expensive. After pizza, I move over to the large sectional that faces a fifteen-foot-wide wall where the TV hangs above an electric fireplace while Mel gets the popcorn going in the microwave. The wall is surrounded by windows so expansive that the wall looks more like a supporting structure for the view.

  Beyond the wall and the windows is a large patio that looks like it doubles as a small urban vegetable garden. Mel pops in the scary movie she picked out and dims the lights both on the terrace and inside the apartment then sets the bowl of freshly popped popcorn on the coffee table. We stay silent throughout the process of deciding where to sit. She fluffs the throw pillows in one corner and eyes the center of the sectional nervously. Finally, I decide that it’s best if I just choose a cushion and claim it. So I do. I choose the one that’s to the left of the middle and plop down. First she chooses the seat to the right of the middle, but when the movie starts with a teenage prankster jumping out of a closet to scare his friends, she lets out a little peep and wiggles over. Halfway through the movie, she’s fully on the middle cushion and very nearly touching me.

  “Friends can cuddle friends when they’re scared, right?” she whispers. I tense from head to toe but nod my head. She must sense that I’m hesitant, because she doesn’t move. Like an asshole and an idiot, I reach out and wrap my arm around her, tucking her into my side. It’s crossing a line to even be here, but this—this is fucked.

  The movie ends with Mel curled into a tight little coil at my side. The credits roll, and I breathe a sigh of relief. What the fuck was I thinking coming over here? What the fuck was she thinking inviting me? It was an obvious ploy, putting on a scary movie and cuddling up beside me, but the bad part about it all is that I don’t care. I don’t care that she obviously hates my girlfriend. I don’t care that she tempts me and that I want to give into it.

  She uncoils herself and sits up, her feet tucked underneath her so that we’re almost the same height. Our faces are close—too close—and I can feel her breath on my chin.

  Every thought I tried to push away as we watched the movie comes flooding to the front of my mind. That time Lydia spent her portion of the cable bill on a new pair of shoes. The time she threw a fit because I had to work Christmas. The numerous times she’s complained about my hanging out with Mel at my parents’ house. The times she’s asked me if we’re okay, if I like Mel, and if there’s something I haven’t told her.

  Then the guilt settles in. The time she forgave me for forgetting her birthday. The time I thought she was lying about working late and I showed up and accused her of cheating. She really was working late. Every little offense I try to come up with is so small and stupid that I can’t convince myself they’re equal to what I want to do right now.

  “You’re such a chicken.” I’m whispering. Breathy. Like a chick. It’s pathetic, really.

  “I’m like a baby deer,” she whispers back. “I scare easily.”

  “Cuter.” I clear my throat and suck in a deep breath. All I smell is her light, clean, airy perfume. God, she fucking smells amazing. I bet the crook of her neck smells even better. Tastes even better. Feels even better.

  “First beautiful, now cute,” she muses. I’ve gotten closer without realizing it. The tips of our noses graze and my breath hitches. Shit. She’s affecting me in ways I don’t expect and can’t handle. Not while being a good guy. Not while being the guy Mel needs me to be—the guy I want to be. “By the end of the night I’m going to be downright acceptable.”

  I don’t move or speak. There’s nothing good I
can say right now.

  “What are you thinking?” she whispers.

  “It’s selfish to want you to want em when I’m not available, but I want you to fall for me. I want to be what keeps you up at night and what puts a smile on your face in the morning.”

  She leans in and places her hands on my pecs. Her nose slides along the side of mine, and we both close our eyes. Our lips touch, but just barely, and she freezes. She sucks in a deep breath and her chest presses against mine. God, that feels good. More than good.

  “I’ve already fallen,” she murmurs.

  I don’t even think about the decision I have to make. I lean in and press against her lips. She sighs as I slide my lips over hers and drink in this incredible fucking feeling.

  This is wrong.

  So fucking wrong.

  And it feels amazing.

  Holy fuck does it feel amazing.

  In a single moment, she’s gone.

  When I open my eyes, the regret I feel is instant. Shit. I’ve become that guy. I’ve become the fucking asshole who doesn’t deserve beautiful women who cuddle during scary movies, or block doors, or tease me about fire poles. I wipe my hands over my mouth and let my head fall into my hands. Fuck.

  “I have to apologize,” she says. I lift my head and watch her shake her hands wildly as she turns to face me. Her face scrunches up as she says, “I like you, a lot, more than I should. But you have a girlfriend, and I have to respect that, and I’m sorry for pushing the boundaries.”

  “I pushed,” I say quickly and stand from my seat. “I’m trying to be a good guy.”

  “You are a good guy.”

  “Then I have to go.”

  Because now that I know how she tastes, there’s no way I can be a good guy if I stay here. And I want to be a good guy so, so fucking much.

  Chapter 6

  Jameson

  I didn’t sleep a wink that night after I left Mel’s place. It was miserable, coming back to the apartment I share with Lydia, knowing what I’d done. Lydia asked me how work was, if there were any big fires, and if I needed a back rub. I’d have felt like the biggest scum on earth if I didn’t know her as well as I do. Lydia has her moments, for sure, but she never offers more than she has to unless she wants something. She tried to play it off like it was a gift to her to make me feel better, but that was bullshit.

  That was three days ago, and she’s asked me about how work is going twice since then. Once, two days ago, she told me she wasn’t feeling well, and because I’m feeling guilty as fuck, I tried to baby her. She’d said some shit about how I’m such a good caretaker and how I’m always there for her. It’s not normal, the way she’s acting. Lydia’s not this appreciative. She doesn’t fawn over me and she’s certainly not as helpless as she’s been acting. I just don’t know how to call her on it without confessing to what I’ve done. Letting Mel get close enough for me to kiss her was a bad move. There’s nothing left between Lydia and I. I just don’t know how to end it without Lydia spiraling out. I already know that she won’t move back to Maine and there’s nobody in the city close enough to her to help keep her stable.

  The front door opens, and Lydia walks in with a big smile on her face. She’s got a slight skip in her step, and when her smile lands on me, she nearly giggles. I pause the video game I’m playing and set the controller down on the coffee table. I smile, a genuine smile, at her happiness. I don’t hate the woman, not by a long shot. Just because we’re not who we used to be doesn’t mean that she can’t be it for somebody else. She closes the door behind her, leans back against it, and blows out a heavy breath.

  “You look happy,” I say and lean back into the couch.

  “I might be. I don’t know. I could be. I don’t know.” Her words rush out, and she squeezes her eyes shut and taps her fingers against the door behind her. She pushes off the door, drops her purse, and kicks off her heels as she beelines for the couch and climbs up next to me. “We need to talk.”

  With raised eyebrows and a tad of paranoia, I mumble, “Yeah.”

  “We’ve been together for a long time, right? Years, I mean, like five years.” She’s talking really quickly and her chest rises and falls, like this conversation is difficult for her to bring up.

  I suck in a deep breath to keep myself in check. She’s not the only one who finds this conversation difficult. We’ve had it before—the “where is this going” conversation—and it never ends well. We were dating a year when we moved in together, and she—and just about everyone else—assumed I would propose within a few months. I went ring shopping once, but I left when the guy behind the counter made a comment about the permanency of marriage. It didn’t sit right, so I left, and I never considered trying it again. After we’d been together for three years, my mom suggested that we should get married so we can have kids. Then last year, both our families started in on the whole “you’re not getting any younger” crap. Maybe I should have known years ago that she wasn’t it for me. Maybe I should have let her go before I fell in love with someone else.

  “And we’ve been living together a long time and, well, this is going somewhere. I know it is. It hasn’t yet, but we’ve been together too long for it not to, right?” I open my mouth to respond to her frenzied pleas, but she keeps going. With every word, her mood darkens. “Anyway, remember how I’ve been feeling kind of sick lately?”

  I nod my head and proceed with caution. The last two times we had a conversation about our relationship, she approached it very differently. It was direct and without all this lead-up. If I remember correctly, we were sitting here, watching TV, and when a commercial came on, she straight-up told me she favors white gold jewelry over yellow for when I buy her ring. I only remember the details because she had me repeat them back to her.

  “Say something,” she pleads.

  “Okay, yeah. We’ve been together a long time.”

  “How bad would it be for us to get married and have kids? I mean, really? How bad would that be?”

  That would be a fucking disaster.

  The kind of disaster that makes me want to throw up.

  “You don’t want to marry me,” I say and laugh nervously. “You really don’t.”

  She doesn’t. She can’t. I don’t want to marry her. She can’t want to marry me.

  “Yes, I absolutely do,” she mumbles. “There’s nothing that wouldn’t make me want to marry you.”

  “Yes, there is,” I say and take a deep breath. Shit. Shit. Shit. I hope Mom still makes waffles on the weekends, because if this goes as badly as I think it’s going to, I’ll be back in my old room for the better part of the next year and Lydia will be alone. I shouldn’t let it be my problem. I’d already stayed in this relationship longer than I wanted to when I met Mel. I just didn’t know if I could abandon Lydia the way everybody else has in her life.

  “I kissed Mel.”

  I let the truth of my actions hang between us and wait for her to react. It takes a minute for recognition to cross her face. Her mouth turns down, and her eyes fall. She places her hands over her face and sniffles. I reach out to comfort her but stop. She doesn’t want me touching her, I don’t think. I just told her I kissed someone else.

  “We, um, can get through this,” she says and raises her head, essentially shrugging off my indiscretion. “This is bound to happen after such a long time. It’s fine. It’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine, actually,” I say very slowly. “I kissed another woman. I . . . liked . . . it.”

  “She’s pretty. Of course you liked it,” she deadpans like it’s nothing. Shit. Now I want to break up with her right now regardless of the consequences. I’m her boyfriend, not her therapist and I have to start fucking acting like it.

  “What the hell is wrong with you? Shit. That’s not what I wanted to say.” I cover my hand with my mouth to avoid any more slipups. “Look, Lyd. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I need you to be honest with me. I’m being honest with you. I have feelings for ano
ther woman, and I don’t want to be an asshole about it.”

  “I think I’m pregnant,” she blurts out and then gasps, her eyes wide. She doesn’t take her eyes off mine, but I wish she would. Holy shit do I wish she would. I can’t very well fucking panic with her watching me this closely.

  “Okay,” she says, drawing the word out. “This isn’t ideal. I know. But, um, I have all the signs. And if I am pregnant, then this little crush you have on Mel is nothing. Not compared to a baby, a family, right?”

  I nod.

  “I mean, we’ve been together for five years, so it’s not like we don’t know each other.”

  Nod.

  “We know each other as well as two people can . . .”

  Nod.

  “And you’d be such a good dad.”

  Nod.

  “We would have such cute babies.”

  Nod.

  I shake myself from the panicked state I’m in and stand. My hands are shaking. The room is really hot. I pull at the collar of my shirt and pace from the single window in the living room to the back of the apartment where the kitchen is. It’s summer, but why the fuck is it so hot in here? Shit.

  “Baby, you’re sweating,” Lydia says. I close my fists and find that they’re really wet. I turn back to the living room and pull the window up and stick my head out while eyeing the fire escape. There’s no breeze. Why the fuck isn’t there a breeze? This isn’t helping. I ditch the window and race back to the kitchen where I open the freezer and stick my head inside. Finally. Fucking finally.

  “I have a test,” she says. “I can take the test.”

  I wave her off and give her a thumbs-up. I don’t hear any movement from the living room. Why isn’t she moving? Why the fuck isn’t she moving?

  “Take the test, Lyd!” I shout forcefully into a bag of frozen peas. My life flashes before my eyes. Lydia moves from the couch and makes some kind of loop through the living room. We have a one-bedroom. I guess we could get a two-bedroom. Kids need their own room, right? Shit. How did this happen? Shit. Shit. Shit. Oh God. If she’s pregnant . . . Dad’s going to make me marry her. I mean, he can’t make me, but he can shun me until I do what’s right. Mom would hate me for leaving her. Even Mel would probably hate me if I left Lydia pregnant.