Fall for Me

by Jc Emery

  I scrub my hands over my face and take a deep breath. My entire body coils up like a spring. My muscles ache from the tension, and my lungs burn for enough oxygen to keep me from getting lightheaded.

  “Did she really? And why the fuck did you think it was okay to confront Mel? And when the fuck did you confront her?”

  “At the firehouse, last August.”

  “Is that why she won’t talk to me?”

  “You have no idea how painful it is to be in love with a man who’s in love with someone else!”

  “That’s not her fault!” The ferocity in my voice surprises even me.

  “Yes, it is!” Lydia screams right back, her voice breaking in the middle. “Everything was fine until you met her. We used to talk about getting married and having kids and growing old together.”

  No, we didn’t. There’s a reason we’d been together for almost five years and I hadn’t proposed. I may not have met Mel until last summer, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew Lydia wasn’t the woman I wanted to give my last name to. My eyes fall to her small stomach, and I suck in the hate I want to spew at her. She’s most certainly not the woman I want having my kids. Fuck that.

  “No, you talked about that shit. I just went along with it because I didn’t know any better. It wasn’t until I met Mel that I realized how entirely fucked this entire situation is! Do you get that? I was never going to ask you to marry me, and you certainly were never going to have my baby.”

  Lydia places her hand over her mouth as her body convulses, and she pulls herself inward. Her tears move from violent to soft and back to violent again. She’s like a tidal wave, the way she moves in and out of her break down.

  “You can stay here until the lease is up,” I say and head to my dresser where I pull out a fresh pair of boxers and a pair of sweat pants. “I’ll stay with my parents, what I should have done months ago.”

  I dress quickly, needing desperately to get the fuck out of the apartment before we tear each other apart even more than we already have. I don’t move fast enough. The insults come quick and with a sharp honesty that hits me harder than I want to admit.

  “Do you have any idea what it’s like to sleep next to a man who wishes you were someone else every night? And every day you withdraw a little more, and when I ask you about it, you just pretend I’m crazy.”

  “Keep justifying your choices, Lydia,” I say snidely and with as much hate as she said Mel’s name earlier.

  “Did you fuck her? At least be honest enough to tell me that,” she yells.

  I’m hopping on one foot when she delivers that little line. I practically fall over with how quickly I shove my foot into my sock and stand straight. How dare she try to pass the blame. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I’m standing so close to her that the fabric of my sweatpants are almost touching her bare skin. I’m towering over her, leaning my head in close to her face. Very quickly, and with an honesty and directness that I’m going to regret, I tell her every vile fucking thing I’ve kept quiet for the past six months.

  “I almost took her in the bathroom the night we met. She was so, so beautiful and witty, like nothing I’d ever seen. I wanted her that night. I figured it was lust, but every time I hear her laugh or see her smile, that intensity comes back and every part of me wants to claim her more than I think is healthy. And I haven’t touched her, but God do I want to.”

  “Except for that kiss?” she asks. The sorrow in her voice has taken on a dark tone that puts me even further on edge than I already was.

  “Know what? I should have done a lot more than just kissing her. I should have followed my gut and tossed your pathetic ass aside the moment I met her!”

  “Stop it,” she snaps.

  “No, you wanted to know, so I’m going to tell you.”

  My parents would be disappointed as fuck in me right now. They didn’t raise me to be cruel and unforgiving, but they also never really covered reproductive manipulation in their lessons about life. I push the guilt out of my mind and give in to the hate that’s running through my veins and poisoning my heart.

  “When I finally take Mel, it won’t be to fuck her. I’ll make love to her, and I’ll do it so goddamn slow and tenderly that she’ll be begging me to stop torturing her, but I won’t because I’ll savor every single second of it. And when she’s ready, one day, I’ll make sure she has my baby. And my ring. And my last name. And every single thing on this planet I can give her. Because that’s what she is to me—she’s everything.”

  I pull back and finish dressing and storm out of the apartment. I circle the neighborhood a few times, wandering and feeling a little lost. I’m done with Lydia and her bullshit. I’m done making sure she’s okay and pretending to be fine with our relationship for her sake. I’m fucking done with all of it like I should have been years ago when I first wanted to be done. I’ll call Lydia’s parents and tell them we broke up. Whatever she goes through isn’t on me. Not anymore.

  Tell me right now that she doesn’t deserve better.

  Hennessey’s words from earlier ring in my head on repeat until I’m driven to head over to the bar I know they’re going to be at. Most of the house drinks at Port of Call because their drinks are cheap and strong and the place is owned by a retired smoke eater. Ernie, the owner, displays his department pride through the place, which makes it fertile ground for picking up badge bunnies and impressing a date. It’s more of a hole-in-the-wall, but women always seem to feel like they’re being included in something when they’re brought to Port of Call.

  I survey the scene from outside on the sidewalk in the freezing fucking cold. The wind picks up and chills me right down to my bones. Of course the temperature has to drop tonight of all nights. Tonight the bar is pretty full, with only two empty barstools tucked into the corner. Seated in the center of the lounge area is my girl.

  Mel’s curled up in one of the leather arm chairs. Her blonde hair is down and tucked behind her ears. It’s longer than it was the last time I saw her—just one more thing to remind me how distant she’s been. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out why she’s been pulling away from me. I knew it wasn’t our kiss because she was fine for weeks after that. I thought it might have been that stupid necklace I bought her, but she seemed to like it. She touches it all the time.

  Now I know.

  Mel never told me that Lydia said shit to her, but if she had I’d have done something to make her feel better about the situation. All I knew until now was that toward the end of summer she started to act strange and pull away from me. She still thought about me a lot—touching her necklace—and we continued to talk, but she was so guarded compared to how she had been before. She only asked for space once the fall semester started, but she’d called me three times—each time when she was drunk—to ramble into the phone for half an hour about how much she wished I was there. But when she was sober again, she wouldn’t talk about it. I tried to get her to talk to me, but those phone calls were all I got with the exception of a few cute replies on Facebook. Eventually, I got the hint and backed off because I was starting to sound like a stalker.

  In a matching arm chair to her left, Hennessey is leaning back in a casual way. He leans back and laughs heartily at something. Mel smiles and nods, then leans over and slaps at his arm. He catches her hand and holds it in place.

  And I’ve seen enough.

  The snow falls down around me in delicate waves, and I decide I kind of like the numbness that’s creeping in. Every inch of me is freezing, nerves pinched and head pounding. The tightness in my muscles and soreness in my joints will fade, though I wish it wouldn’t. The discomfort is, at the very least, distracting from the real pain.

  A few miles later and I’m at my parents’ townhouse, letting myself in. Inside, I try to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake Mom, Dad, or Royal. If I try to head upstairs, the treads will creak under my weight. Dad might think I’m a burglar and try to shoot me. I wouldn’t put it past hi
m, so I opt for sleeping on the couch. I pass the liquor cabinet in the formal dining room on my way to the sofa in the family room at the back of the house and consider helping myself to a bottle of Dad’s whiskey.

  I could numb the pain and cloud reality a little bit, but part of me welcomes the discomfort. As angry as I am with Lydia, as scared as I am for what might come, I know I’m not totally innocent here. In a way, I guess I drove her to that insanity. If I had Mel next to me every night and knew she was thinking of someone else, I might do the same just to make sure I got to keep her. As fucked as it is, I can almost understand Lydia’s choices.

  Stretching out on the couch and pulling over me the throw blanket Mom keeps on the back, I stare into the darkness for as long as I can before I succumb to images of H holding Mel’s hand and looking into her eyes like she’s the only person in the room.

  That should be me.

  The Forever Summer

  Chapter 12

  Melanie

  The beginning of summer

  The past few days are as close as Jameson and I have been in months—both figuratively and literally. Now he sits beside me in this smelly cab and he’s silent. The city passes us by in a blur, and it’s like no time has passed at all. I’ve missed the blaring horns and the screaming cabbies as they race through city streets that are marked by construction and crowded with people. New Orleans was a great experience—one I’ll never forget—but I’m a New Yorker through and through. It feels good to be home.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say in an effort to break up the insufferable quiet.

  “How many times you gonna thank me?” he says like it’s no big deal.

  But it is a big deal. I graduated last week. My parents and sister flew in the weekend before, and that was awesome. But the real gift came when Claire dragged me to the airport the day before the ceremony and, much to my surprise, Royal and Jameson were waiting for us. Not gonna lie—I burst into tears at the sight of them. I hadn’t invited them, because it seemed selfish. Flights are expensive, and they’re busy. Especially Royal, who finally got her transfer approved for Ladder Company Number One. It was killing her, working a different house and especially working engine when she’s wanted to be on ladder since she started on the job last year. The girl paid her dues, and for that, I’m proud of her. My parents, Claire, and Royal all flew out two days after graduation. Jameson and I stayed behind for two extra days.

  Two days alone that should have been bliss.

  Two days that should have been filled with kissing and making love and sightseeing and exploring new territories we’ve never been to. Two days of never leaving my apartment, and two days to be us and to love one another without real life getting in the way.

  It should have been the beginning.

  It wasn’t.

  “Until you talk to me,” I say with wide eyes and a shrug of my shoulders. It’s incredulous that he doesn’t seem to see the problem. Last I checked, he’s Jameson and I’m Mel and we’re both finally single and I’m back in the city for good and there should not be a single fucking problem.

  “What the heck is going on with you?”

  “What?” he says and leans over, placing his hand on my knee. With a firm pat, he pulls away. It’s all very friendly. Too friendly. I don’t want Jameson to be friendly. I’d rather he be loving, sexy, bossy . . . anything but this distant friendliness that makes me feel further away from him than ever.

  “No really,” I say. “What the hell is that?” I gesture to my knee and then his hand.

  “I patted your knee?” He tilts his head to the side in confusion. “That cross a line?”

  No, idiot. It didn’t cross a line, which is exactly the problem. Inside my head, I’m screaming at the top of my lungs and throwing myself into his lap while shaking him senseless and telling him I want him to cross a line with me because for Pete’s sake I haven’t had anyone cross a line with me since I met this gorgeous, infuriating, amazing man.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt the question out. Despite the confused look on his face, I don’t regret asking it. He has to know that we spent all of last summer being flirty and building up to this moment when we could be together and not feel any guilt about it and now he’s keeping me at bay and it’s killing me. I thought for sure when I saw him and Royal standing on the curb at the pick-up/drop-off at the airport that I’d run to him and he would wrap me in his big arms and spin me around and we’d kiss in an epic way that would make my entire body burst into flames and it would embarrass both of our sisters. And it would be worth it because it’s us and we’re worth fighting for and I’m not going to give up on us. He was the one to ask me not to give up on us, and I haven’t. And now it’s like he’s changed his mind. I feel like such a fool to think I mean more to him than I do.

  “Nothing steady,” he says. His voice is calm, but his blue-gray eyes are blank. I know him well enough to know that something is going on behind that void expression, but he won’t let me in until he’s ready.

  The cab is now a whole new kind of quiet. It’s that painful quiet that’s laced with fear and love and knowing how everything could be riding on this single moment. If he’s over it—whatever we had—then it’s probably best that I know that. If he’s not, he should know that he’s still everything to me. All it really takes is for one of us to be honest.

  Jameson, I love you.

  Jameson, I’m scared you don’t love me.

  Jameson, please love me.

  Please.

  The thought of him with other women tears at my soul in ways I can’t vocalize. He didn’t ask me to, but I’ve waited for him. The closest I’ve come to dating was when I replaced my vibrator and named it after him. I don’t call it that, though, because that’s just weird. No, I keep the whole process very clinical and move on. Then there was that stupid moment when I told Royal I had a boyfriend when we were Skyping one night. She kept asking me about Southern men, and I kept brushing her off, and after a while, the whole situation just became too pathetic and I couldn’t stand the questions anymore. So I lied but made sure that John David and I broke up a solid month before graduation so I didn’t have to scramble for an excuse last minute. Aside from his double first name, all she knows is that we were never serious and he was mysterious and always coming up with reasons to cancel our plans. Because with how often I post updates about Netflix marathons, it just wouldn’t be believable that my fake boyfriend was around much.

  “Have you heard from Lydia lately?” I ask. I know nothing about how the relationship ended except for the fact that Jameson chose to keep in contact with her for a while after. At first I thought they were still hooking up, but then some bimbo tagged him in a photo of her sitting on his lap in a bar.

  I may or may not have gotten drunk that night and left him a few nasty voice messages where I threatened to hunt said bimbo down and pull her teeth out one by one. It wasn’t my finest moment, that I can admit.

  “What are you doing?” he says with a firm jaw and pained eyes. “If you have something to say, just say it and stop beating around the bush.”

  “Here,” the cabbie says and comes to a rough stop.

  “This weekend. At the beach house. Say you’ll come,” I say. He narrows his brows and watches me for a long moment. “Please.”

  “I can do Friday, but I’m on shift from Saturday night through Sunday night.”

  “Meter’s still running,” the cabbie says a little louder this time.

  I ignore the driver. “Okay. We can head down there Friday, and I’ll come back with you on Saturday. Sound good?”

  For the first time since we got in the cab, I have a genuine smile on my face. Jameson nods his head. I reach into my purse to pay for my portion of the cab ride because I know it wasn’t cheap, but Jameson’s large hand covers mine.

  “I got it,” he says. His eyes bore into mine, and he leans in and places a soft kiss on my cheek. “Go.”

  “You don’t have to.” The w
ords come out on a whisper.

  “Lulu, just go.”

  I cradle his cheek in my hand. We’re so close that if I turn to the side, he could kiss me. Or I could kiss him. But neither of us move, and I don’t know why. I mean, I know why I’m not moving. I’m terrified he won’t say all the things I’ve waited an entire year to hear. But the way he lets my nickname roll off his tongue . . . I swear it sounds like he’s praying every time he says it. He never runs over the syllables. They’re always firm and purposeful, even when his voice makes him sound like he’s in agony as he says it, and that has to mean something. It has to, right? I can’t come to terms with the idea that maybe what we had was more or less fleeting, because this is, this love is, anything but fleeting for me. Jameson Hayes took hold of my heart in a men’s bathroom and has refused to give it back ever since. And I don’t want him to. As sick as it is, I kind of need the pain of loving him. I never feel quite as alive as I do when I’m with him, or thinking of him, or just plain missing him.

  “God, I’ve missed you,” he whispers and leans into my touch. His eyes close.

  I suck in a shaky breath and can finally relax. This is my Jameson. The cold, distant man he was a few moments ago is a cheap impostor I kind of hate. This man, whose scruffy face tickles the palm of my hand and whose simple gestures mean the world to me, is going to be the death of me.

  I want to tell him everything.

  I’ve missed you.

  I love you.

  I need you.

  Please.

  And I don’t because the cabbie taps on the plastic divider between the front and back, and Jameson pulls away and pats my knee again as he leans over and opens my door for me. It’s the same pat as before, and I know I’m reading too much into it, but it almost physically hurts how much that pat makes me feel hollow inside.

  The cabbie climbs out of the vehicle and goes to the trunk where he pulls out my carry-on roller and places it on the sidewalk. Reluctantly, I slide out of the cab and take my suitcase in hand. Jameson barely looks at me as he closes his door. Moments later, the cab pulls away and heads for the Lower East Side to take Jameson home. And I’m still standing on the curb as I lose the yellow checkered sedan in the sea of cabs that look exactly like it.