Fall for Me

by Jc Emery

  I should have fucking blown my load in my hand. I don’t even know when it possibly happened, but I should just stick to jerking my chicken from now on.

  “For Christ sake, Lyd. Have you taken the fucking test yet?” I yell. I can’t feel my nose. Or my cheeks. I should really close the freezer.

  It takes another minute for me to remove my head and close the freezer door. I walk around the kitchen into the bedroom and then the bathroom. Lydia is perched on the edge of the closed toilet, and she’s holding a little plastic stick. I’ve been having sex since I was sixteen and have successfully avoided this scene until now. I’m too young for this. I could be my dad’s age and I’d still be too goddamn young for this with Lydia.

  “Well?”

  “I can’t read it,” she mumbles and sniffles. I take the stick from her hands and can’t figure it out either. The box says there should be a plus sign for pregnant and a negative sign for not pregnant. The horizontal line is blurry, and I can’t tell if there’s a vertical line or not.

  “Let’s go get another one,” I say and check my watch. Shit. Family dinner. “After dinner. If we don’t show up, Mom will worry.”

  “Janet always worries,” Lydia says flatly. “When are our lives going to stop revolving around her worrying?”

  I bite my cheek to avoid commenting. I’m not up for the argument about my mother right now.

  “Dinner. We’re doing dinner. Then we’re getting another test. I need food and a fucking break from this shit right now. So food.” I take a deep breath and scrub my face. “I’m sorry.”

  “Okay.” Her voice is meek and she nods. I change my shirt and run a wet washcloth over my face real quick while Lydia freshens up and slips into a pair of flats. We make the walk to my parents’ house without a sound. She reaches for my hand a few times, but I dodge the contact by shoving my hands in my pockets and swerving to avoid potholes the size of my foot. I think she picks up on it, because a block away from their townhouse, she gives up and folds her arms over her chest.

  I CAN HEAR her—Mel—from the other room. She’s telling Hope all about what was supposed to be her entrance into society and how she ditched out of the whole thing. Hope laughs and smiles. I can hear it in her voice. Hope’s been having a hard time in school lately because of a few boys who have been picking on her. She doesn’t feel like she fits in.

  I walk around Bailey and Lydia, who are in a conversation about shoes. I can’t even tell what kind of shoes they’re talking about—what kind of shoes could possibly cause a ten-minute conversation, I don’t even know. I slip into the hallway and peer into the front room. Mom is in Dad’s arm chair with a drink in her hand. Her eyes are fixated on the little redhead and the pretty blonde on the floor by her feet who are playing with Barbies.

  “Was your mommy mad?” Hope asks in response to Mel’s admission that she refused to be a debutante.

  “For a little while, but you know what?” Hope bounces but doesn’t answer Mel. “My mom knows I didn’t want to be like everybody else. I wanted to be like me, and I didn’t want to participate.”

  “You don’t like pretty dresses?” Hope asks.

  “Sometimes,” Mel says. “It’s other stuff, too. But it’s hard to understand.”

  “I’m glad you could make it, Mel,” Mom says. She leans forward and brushes down a stray piece of Mel’s hair.

  A warm hand curls around my shoulder as Lydia steps beside me. She squeezes my shoulder and levels me with a firm scowl.

  “Yes, we’re so happy you could crash our family dinner,” Lydia says.

  Mel’s head shoots up as she looks from Lydia to me and back to Lydia again. Her eyes are wide as she lowers her head and doesn’t move. She doesn’t deserve this.

  “Mel’s my friend,” Royal says as she enters the room from the dining room. “Everybody loves her.”

  “Mel’s always invited to family dinners,” Mom says.

  Lydia’s hand turns into a steel grip on my shoulder.

  “By the way,” Royal says and perches herself on the edge of the couch. She eyes Lydia’s grip on my shoulder curiously. “How was Blood Red Night? It was way gory, but the lead dude is so freaking hot.”

  Mel snorts and smiles up at Royal.

  “You’re training to be a firefighter—how was it too gory for you? We see worse crap on a daily basis,” I say and scoff at the idea. Mel’s eyes dart from Royal to me and then to the floor. Shit. I guess she wasn’t talking to me.

  “When did you see the movie, Jay? You were just complaining about missing it in theaters.” Royal raises her eyebrows and eyes Mel curiously. She follows Mel’s gaze right to me as she puts the pieces together. “This is awkward.”

  “We hung out the other night and decided to watch a movie,” I say. My stomach sinks. Lydia’s hand leaves my shoulder, and she takes a step back. Mel shifts awkwardly on the floor and fidgets.

  “Oh, cool,” Royal says with a nod. She’s way too peppy for it to be casual, but I’ll give her props for trying to brush it off like my hanging out and watching a movie with a woman who’s not my girlfriend is not a big thing. Because it doesn’t have to be. It shouldn’t be. I should be able to have friends. Men can have female friends. Can’t they?

  Shit.

  “NO WAY. HE did not,” Mel says with a laugh and a shake of her head. The dinner table has relaxed some since Lydia stepped away a few minutes ago. Mom and Dad keep giving each other strange looks, with Dad shaking his head dismissively and Mom raising her eyebrows as though she’s ignoring him.

  “She speaks the truth,” I say and pop a crouton into my mouth. I smirk across the table at Mel, who just shakes her head.

  “I just can’t picture you ditching class, let alone nearly getting expelled.”

  “Picture it, Lulu.” I’m teasing her now, but I probably shouldn’t be.

  “Tell me you were a perfect student,” Hennessey says. He leans into her and nudges her shoulder.

  “I had my moments but nothing so ballsy as almost getting expelled for lack of attendance.” She narrows her eyes and shakes her head in disapproval. “Mostly I stuck to the clubs I participated in and ignored the politics as best I could. What were you like in high school?”

  Her gaze leaves me in favor of Hennessey. I could kick him right now. Just for existing.

  “With this face?” he says and grins so large that his dimples show. “Chick magnet.”

  “Yeah, ask him about the cheerleader he thought he knocked up,” Royal says. Hennessey shoots her a dirty look and raises his hands in the air.

  “It wasn’t mine,” he says in a warning tone while eyeing Mom carefully.

  Lydia comes back from the restroom and takes her place beside me. She’s silent as she eats her dinner. I give it a few minutes before leaning in and checking on her.

  “You okay?” I whisper.

  She nods slightly and ignores me for a solid minute. Her eyes cut across the table at Mel. She’s shooting daggers at her and very likely plotting her demise. Shit. I have to figure out a way to shut that down and soon.

  “I got my period,” she whispers into my ear discreetly. I place a hand on her leg and give no other response. Inside, though, I’m scoring a winning fucking touchdown. I almost want to shout something completely inappropriate at the dinner table to show my relief. Thank fuck.

  Chapter 7

  Melanie

  The waves crash lightly against the shore as they roll up on the sand. It’s so dark I can barely focus on the rolling water. The sound, though, is crystal clear. I close my eyes and sink further into the lounger. This party wasn’t my idea, but inviting Jameson—and, by extension, Lydia—was. I could have totally left it at Royal and Hennessey, but no. I just had to invite Mr. Gorgeous and Miss Cranky Pants. Regret is a powerful thing, and coincidentally, so is whiskey.

  I have more than I need of both right now.

  I grip the neck of the bottle of Jameson and take a sip. It burns, making my stomach protest, but I manage t
o get it down without too much of a fight. Over the past few months, since I met the Hayes family, I’ve built up a tolerance to different kinds of whiskey. Still, I’m not a badass, and it takes some steady breathing, a fair amount of concentration, and mentally bribing myself with a new pair of shoes in order for me to get it down without issue.

  My eyes are still closed as I suck in the salty ocean air and let it calm me. Mom and Dad have had this house since I was in middle school and Dad’s company started to really take off. This was Nathaniel Kincaid’s first large purchase. I remember the first weekend we spent here like it was yesterday. Dad had been working so hard at building his brand, and he’d missed Claire’s birthday and had actually slept at the office for nearly a week. He would have kept going on like that if Mom hadn’t put her pretty heel down and demanded he spend time with the family. They screamed and said nasty things to each other before Dad lost his shit.

  “I’m doing this for you and our girls. You want a better life—I’m giving you that,” Dad said.

  “I don’t need better!” Mom screamed at the top of her lungs. Claire and I were standing in the hall of our medium-sized two-bedroom on the Upper West Side as we watched our parents, who rarely fought, go at it like enemies in a fight to the death. It’s the last memory I have in that apartment.

  “Yes, you do,” Dad said. He pulled at his necktie until it unraveled and tossed it on the dining room table. He leaned over the table, placing his hands atop it, breathing heavy, and turning red in the face. “You need it, I need it! Our girls need it because they fucking deserve better than the bullshit public schools we grew up in. They deserve more than the hand-me-downs and seeing their mother fucking terrified that she can’t afford groceries for the week.”

  “Baby, stop.” Mom placed her hand over her mouth and stared at him in horror.

  Claire didn’t say anything, but she put her hand on my shoulder to let me know she was there. At five years my senior, Claire was a junior at Gramercy—a snooty-tooty private school on the Upper East Side where all the old money snooty-tooties live that Dad could barely afford tuition for until the past year when he rubbed elbows with the right snooty-tooty and landed an account that changed everything for us forever. She always looked out for me, even when she was sick of me following her everywhere, and she always tried to keep me from the fights Mom and Dad would have when money was tight or Dad was too absent—like now.

  After that fight, Dad bought this house and spent two entire days making us breakfast, playing in the water, taking us sailing, and grilling on this porch. To this day, this house is Mom and Dad’s safe haven. Anytime they struggle, they come up here and reconnect. The peace they find here makes it easy for me to relax here as well. It’s the place I feel most grounded and most myself. Like nothing bad can happen here.

  “There’s the birthday girl.” I open my eyes and turn toward my sister, who’s standing in the open doorway to the dining room. She comes and sits at the foot of my chaise lounge, shoving my feet aside. Claire has her long hair thrown up in a messy bun—much like mine—and she’s wearing a pair of comfortable jeans and a flowy tank. I never changed out of the sun dress I threw on over my swimsuit this afternoon. It’s chilly out, but every time I get cold enough to think about going back inside, I just take a sip of whiskey and wait for it to warm me up.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Just thinking.” I don’t lie to Claire, not now that we’re adults. Back when we were kids, I lied to her all the time. I never felt bad about it either, and why would I? Lying got my butt out of trouble, so I considered it a worthy sin.

  “About the man or the drink?” she asks and nods at the bottle in my hands.

  The breeze picks up, making me shudder, and I take another sip. “Am I that transparent?”

  “They don’t know you well enough to see it,” she says. “But my little sister, who can barely handle champagne and loves the spotlight, is drinking Jameson straight from the bottle, all alone on the porch, at her own birthday party.”

  “She sounds pathetic.” Another sip.

  “Not pathetic.” Her smile is warm and bright—that I can see despite the darkness. There’s little point in hiding out if you’re going to make it so everyone can see you. “She’s just young and a little spoiled. Used to getting what she wants and is sulking because, for perhaps the first time in her life, she can’t have her way.”

  I take a sip.

  And then another. The second is larger than the first and doesn’t go down nearly as smoothly.

  “Wow,” I say in fake astonishment. “You kind of suck right now.”

  “Curse of being the older sister.” She leans over and pats my thigh. I’m distracted by the move, and before I can stop her, she’s taken the bottle from my hands. I pout but don’t fight it. She’s right, I’m not much of a drinker and don’t really want to push it tonight. Puke-y twenty-firsts are so pedestrian.

  “Look, you’re going to get your ass up and go in there and celebrate your twenty-motherfucking-first birthday with your friends like you’re supposed to. You’re going to flirt with the hot single firefighter, and you’re going to let Royal convince you to do a shot with her. You’re going to smile when it’s time to cut your cake, and you’re not going to waste one more minute on a man who’s unavailable.”

  I nod and pull myself up in the lounger so I can stand, giving her leg a little kick on my way to my feet. She stands and shifts the bottle to her right hand and wraps her left arm around my shoulders. We walk into the brightly lit house that’s full of people I actually like and care for, but it feels empty.

  “He said he’d come,” I say quietly. Obviously, I crossed a line the other day that there’s no coming back from.

  Claire squeezes me closer to her and places a kiss to the top of my head as she whispers, “I know, Sissy.”

  Granted, I didn’t tell him it was my birthday, but he should have come. He said he would, and I picked out beach games and music I thought he might like. It was stupid to plan my birthday to suit him, but I do stupid things, and this is just one more to add to the list, so it’s really no big deal. I know Jameson has a girlfriend—one he lives with, which is like way adult—and even though he still calls me Lulu every time he sees me, he’s given no further indication that he wants anything more than friendship from me. I’ve just allowed myself to concoct this alternate reality where he’s secretly pining for me and is waiting for the right time to make his move.

  But he hasn’t broken up with Lydia even though, by all accounts from his family, she’s not exactly a winner. Beautiful, sure, but rather cold, which doesn’t fit the Hayes family one bit. They’re a tightly wound unit, and each member cares for their family as a whole very deeply. It’s one of my favorite things about them.

  Enough about Jameson, I mentally chastise myself. I deserve better. I deserve a man who wants me enough to complicate his life to be with me. Not some stupid, hot, crazy, complex, difficult, swoon-worthy, gorgeous man with a pretty, awful girlfriend who doesn’t want me, or at least not enough to actually be with me.

  Claire and I move around the dining table toward the living room where she breaks off from me and darts toward the kitchen. The living and dining are open concept with the kitchen half tucked away around a corner. There are close to ten people here. Claire and two of her friends who’ve always been nice to me, a few of my friends from high school—you know, the ones I actually like and haven’t blocked on Facebook because of their petty bullshit—my cousins on my mom’s side, and of course Hennessey and Royal. It’s a small gathering, which suits me just fine. We only have four bedrooms, but thankfully not everybody is staying the night, or we’d run out of room. Even if we did have the room, I don’t have many people. I guess it’s a curse of being a serious homebody who prefers hanging with her sister to meeting new people. I got lucky with Royal and, by extension, her brothers and parents. Everybody is paired up and talking amongst themselves. How lame is it that I can�
��t bring myself to talk to my own party guests?

  “I hope I’m not too late,” Jameson’s voice sounds from behind me. My body tenses and ignites in a crazy excitement that I can barely contain. The grin that finds its way to my face is shameless. For the first time all day it feels like a day to celebrate.

  “No, not at all.” I spin around and let my eyes travel up and down his solid frame. I try not to be too obvious as I survey the scene before me. No signs of Miss Cranky Pants.

  “When you invited me, you forgot to mention that it’s your birthday.”

  “That was intentional,” I say. He tilts his head to the side, and his blue-gray eyes ask questions he won’t verbalize. “There’s always that discomfort about gift-giving and the added pressure to show up for birthdays. I chose to skip the hassle.”

  “Well, your plan sucked because . . .” He leaves his sentence hanging midway through and digs into his front pocket. He pulls out a small rectangular velvet box and hands it to me.

  Slowly, I reach out and take the box in hand. It’s an unusual shape—neither a traditional ring box nor a traditional necklace box—but it’s definitely a jewelry box.

  “You didn’t have to.” I’m almost afraid to open it. If it’s a great gift, it’s only going to make it harder to deal with being so close to him and yet so far from being able to have him.

  “Yeah, I did.” His eyes are full of sincerity and his voice is steady. He eyeballs the box in a nervous way, but everything else about him is so assured and calm. I force myself to look away and refocus my attention back on the box in my hands. I open it to find a brilliant gold wishbone attached to a sturdy-looking but feminine chain. It’s beautiful.