This Is Falling

by Ginger Scott

  “Ah, well…nice to meet you, three thirty-three. I’m three fifty-seven.” He gives me his hand, and I shake it, feeling every cell of his fingers spark against mine. The feeling is foreign, and scary, and amazing all at once.

  “You going to any of the parties tonight, Thirty-three?” I like it when he calls me by my number, and the fact that he’s suddenly given me this nickname makes my stomach feel warm, regardless of how trivial and meaningless it probably is to him. It also makes me realize that I never gave him my name. I should do that. Shouldn’t I do that?

  “No, I’m pretty exhausted. We drove straight through from Arizona. And you can call me Rowe,” I say, my heart racing just to get through this part of the conversation. I don’t know why, but for me, every interaction causes the same internal struggle others feel while giving a speech. Only for me, it’s the tiny speeches, the one-on-ones, that strip me completely.

  “Rowe.” He smiles after saying my name, and my god do I want to hear him say it again. At the same time, I keep looking toward my room in my periphery, the other part of my brain—the dominant part—trying to convince me to go back to safety and hide. “I’m Nate. And I’m really glad I decided to take a shower tonight.”

  This is flirting. I remember it, vaguely, as he smiles and walks backward to his room on the other end of the hall, his eyes lingering on me just long enough to send a rush down my spine. I mimic him, and don’t turn away immediately either, willing myself to keep my smile in place, to leave the night on this high, to burn the look on his face into my memory—a new face, brand new to my life, and worlds apart from the demon that haunts me every night in my sleep.

  I take advantage of my roommates being gone and push my bed a few more feet away from the door, almost flush to the window. Cass will notice, but I’m pretty sure I can convince Paige that the bed was always this way. And for some reason, I think Cass will back me up on it.

  Getting my bed ready is always a process. I have four pillows and two blankets. Not because I’m cold, but because I’ve learned my mind rests easier if I have some sort of barrier pushing against my body. I know that the foam and cotton of the quilts will do very little to protect me in reality, but for some reason, they make sleep come easier. So I go to work, rolling and folding until I’ve built a fort of sorts along the side of my mattress—something to lay against so I can feel hidden while I sleep.

  If I sleep.

  Then come the medications. There’s the first dose I took a few hours ago—melatonin. I take the Ambien now. I fought taking pills for a long time. I didn’t want to go through life being drugged up. But I wasn’t sleeping. Like…at all. And it turns out not sleeping messes with your brain, and you start seeing things—things that you should only see in your sleep.

  Even three stories up, I can hear the chirp of the crickets outside my window. I like their sound. It’s even and steady—something to focus on. So I keep the glass open, letting the warm air mix with the air conditioning as it spills in through the screen. I pull my laptop into bed with me, cross my legs, and log into Facebook. Writing to Josh has become a ritual, and my string of messages to him is more of a diary now. I never read them again once I hit send, though. I just pick up where I left off each time, starting a new thought but never going back.

  So I made it. I’m a college girl. College. We were supposed to do this together, remember? And I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to end up in Oklahoma. I know, I know—my fault totally on that one. I picked it. It’s actually a pretty nice campus. The buildings are all made of red brick, and the trees here are enormous. Everything is so…green. I have two roommates. I like one of them. I guess I can live with the other one. It’s orientation week. I’m not sure I can hide in my room the entire time. I don’t want to. This is my great test, what I’ve worked toward for two years. But my courage diminished with every mile we trekked on our way to Oklahoma, and I fear my tank’s close to empty. One of my roommates, Cass, the one I like? She fought hard to get me to go out tonight. I think I’m going to have to give in on some of the social things, so it might as well be the school-sanctioned ones.

  I went to see your mom before I left. My mom took me to the house. She looks good. Your dad wasn’t around, so I didn’t get to say goodbye to him, but I’m sure I’ll see him during my fall break. That was part of the deal with my parents. We pre-booked every single one of my flights home for the semester. I get to come home four times. The first one isn’t for about a month, so that’s going to be hard. Of course, I also have to get on an airplane. Alone. I know I don’t have to explain any of this to you. I guess that’s why I write.

  Wish you would write back.

  Love, Rowe

  He won’t write back. He never does. But that won’t stop me from writing him. I move my curser to log out when the sound of a new message startles me. My mom is really the only other person I connect with on Facebook anymore, but that’s not whose picture I’m looking at right now.

  It’s a picture of Nate, on a beach somewhere, without a shirt. I don’t think that man ever wears one. I click it open, my hand shaking with nerves, and my brain starting to slow from the effects of my dose of sleeping medicine.

  So the first message I sent went to a girl named Row. She was twelve, and that was awkward. And I’m pretty sure her parents have now put me on a block list since her mom was the one to intercept. Anyhow, found you. Rowe, with an e…at least, I think this is you? Wanted to see if you wanted to check out the area with me tomorrow? Take a walk, around 11? Let me know.

  -357 ;-)

  I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to do any of this. And I’m not in a good place for this. Flirting is one thing. It’s harmless. I could make that a hobby. Not that I’m good at that either, but making plans? Plans lead places. And I can’t go places—places feel like relationships. And I definitely don’t know how to do relationships, having had an entire one in my life. Besides, I would just be someone’s poison.

  I shut my laptop and push it away from me, like a child does to a plate of vegetables. The crickets are still chirping outside, and in the distance I can hear the music pumping from someone’s apartment balcony. If I listen closely, I can almost make out the sounds of girls giggling and guys celebrating. Maybe it’s all in my head—the soundtrack I’ve imagined for college, based on all of the movies I’ve seen. Or maybe it’s real. I’ll never know because I’ve kept myself on the periphery, too afraid to be in the middle. I hate myself for being so afraid.

  My hair is still damp, so I reach under my bed for a dry towel to cover my pillow. When I catch my reflection in the window, it gives me pause. Nothing about me is extraordinary. My hair is long and straight—the color of a pecan, just like my eyes. I used to be good at sports; I was on the tennis team before I left the school system, and I continued to play with my dad, so my body is lean. I’m nothing like Paige—things on me don’t curve, and there is nothing voluptuous happening. Taking my personal inventory has me laughing at myself now, and laughing hard.

  Nate probably won’t remember me in the morning, and here I’ve gone and imagined some crazy scenario where we’re a couple, leaps and bounds away from reality. I’m one of a handful of girls to arrive to the dorm so far; a pleasant waste of time until something better comes along. And if anything, he’s a potential friend, and maybe my only hope of upping my number in my inner circle from one—if Cass even counts yet—to two.

  I know that in about two more minutes I’m going to become so sleepy that I might accidentally agree to donate all of my organs to Nate, so I open the screen on my computer and type fast, using this strange mix of rationality and courage that has suddenly taken over my body.

  Sounds great. I’ll meet you at the elevator.

  -333

  Chapter 3

  Nate

  I know the second he finds out Ty is going to give me shit. She’s totally my type. I know I have a type. People have types for a good reason, to help weed out all of the jerks on earth.
And my type looks exactly like her.

  I have pretty good instincts. It’s why I’m a catcher—I can anticipate the bad pitches, the short swings, and what the batter is going to do. But my instincts run deep. I can read people off the field, too. And Thirty-three? She’s not the kind of girl that spends an hour getting ready to go out for the night. She’s blue jeans and T-shirts. Burgers and fries.

  Her fingers were bare—no annoyingly long fake nail shit or sparkly colors. She was wearing an old T-shirt to bed, not some special outfit that probably costs more than everything in my closet. And, while I know this would probably mortify her that I noticed, her underwear was simple—plain-white, cotton. Not granny panties. They were tiny and delicate and far from granny panties. In the slight seconds they were in my hand, I imagined them on her, and believe me, that fantasy is going to haunt me for the rest of the night.

  Even her name was perfect. Rowe. No room for bubble letters and hearts. Just four letters that cut right to the chase. Okay, so I’m probably still a little buzzed from the party I bailed on an hour ago, and her personality could totally blow it tomorrow. But tonight, I’m deciding to believe this girl is perfect, and I get idealistic and romantic after I drink, so I’m going with it.

  I’ve dated lots of chicks, and some have come close to perfect. But somewhere along they way, there’s always that one big issue. Sadie, my ex from high school, was really close—all the way until she slept with my best friend at our graduation party. That was her big issue, and apparently it had been her big issue for a few months. I just hope I don’t uncover Rowe’s tomorrow, because I’d like to enjoy this for a while.

  Thank God for Facebook. I promise I’ll do something good for the world later this week, because people are supposed to thank God for things far more important than some geeky billionaire computer-developer’s invention. But, right this minute, I’m giving the grand ole mighty shout out to Facebook.

  She doesn’t seem to post much on her page. Maybe it’s private? I feel lame sending her a friend request, but I guess I already sent her a message, so what’s one more level of stalking? I wish like hell she had a picture posted. Probably would have spared me my first attempt that went to some pre-teen in Arkansas.

  “What’s that smirk on your face for? Are you watchin’ porn?” Yeah. Here comes Ty’s shit.

  “No, asshole. I do that on your bed.” I’m not even surprised when his notebook flies at my head. I duck just in time, but he gets me with the follow up of his hat.

  For a guy who can’t move his legs, my brother is pretty nimble. He’s lived with paralysis for almost six years now, and he’s half the reason I decided to come to McConnell. He’s here for grad school—an MBA. And part of the deal when I committed to play here was that we’d get to room together.

  Ty is the good in me. For some, it’s hard to see that, because my brother can be blunt and crude, and he’s a real asshole to women. But he’s also exactly who he is—no apologies, no pretending. The day he woke up in the hospital and the doctors told him he wouldn’t be able to walk anymore, he asked them what he could do. And he’s been putting all of his energy into those things ever since. It’s probably why he’s so damned good at school.

  I tried harder in baseball because of him. He was better than me, and even as a junior in high school he was being scouted. But then he tore his spinal cord. Baseball became my dream then. At first, I did it because I felt like I owed it to him, like a tribute or something. But he slapped me around over that more than a few times, so now I play for me. And like Ty, I don’t apologize for who I am or what I want out of life. And right now, all I want to do is find out more about Rowe.

  “Are you cyber-stalking girls? Fuck, man. That’s creepy.” Ty’s chair has me pinned to my desk, so no use hiding this now.

  “Met a girl,” I smile.

  “Oh God. You’re going to get all sappy and shit. Man, we just got here! All right, who is she. Show me who we’re stalking.”

  I tilt my computer, and Ty slides it over to his lap. I get nervous when he smirks at me, and it only gets worse when he starts to click on things. When I reach to grab my computer back from him, he just twists away, jamming my leg into the side of my desk and pushing me away with his massive forearm.

  “She wrote you back, dude,” he teases. I’m somewhere between wanting to punch my brother and dying to know what Rowe said. “Rowe, huh? That’s cool. You know who she looks like, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know; I have a type. So sue me.” I reach again, and he turns completely away, pushing off to the other side of the room and holding his arm out to block me again.

  “She says she’ll meet you at the elevator. Oooooo, whatcha doing in the elevator? Have you been reading my Penthouse?”

  “Don’t be a dick,” I grunt, kicking his wheel enough to twist him toward me so I can get my laptop back. Ty can tell he’s pushed me far enough, so he eases up…for now.

  “You know you have workouts tomorrow, right?”

  “Fuuuuuuck!” It’s like I thought I was on vacation or something. I completely forgot about workouts.

  “It’s not mandatory,” I say, hoping he’ll corroborate my plan to play hooky.

  “Right. Yeah, you could skip. It’s just one workout. It’s not like you’re a freshman fighting for a starting spot or anything. I mean this elevator appointment is really important. It could determine your future with…what was her name?”

  “Rowe,” I say, my lips pushed tightly as I try to hold in my frustration with Ty. I’m frustrated because he’s right. And I might still be a little drunk. And I might just be imagining how I felt when I ran into her in the hall.

  I mutter a few swear words under my breath and take my laptop back over to my bed to write Rowe back.

  I forgot I have something in the morning. Won’t be back until after lunchtime. You free in the afternoon? Or maybe going to the mixer? Let me know.

  - 57

  “Asshole,” I say, tossing my closed laptop down by my feet and pulling my pillow up over my eyes to block out the light…and to block out Ty.

  “Just your angel of responsibility, my brother. That’s what I’m here for,” he chuckles; I give him the finger before I fall asleep and dream about Rowe and those damn cotton panties.

  Chapter 4

  Rowe

  I feel like an idiot. I’ve been sitting in the hallway next to the elevator for twenty minutes now, and I’ve watched about a dozen more students move their belongings in. Almost every room is full, and parents are nagging their sons and daughters and some are crying about leaving. The whole thing is making me appreciate how fast my parents were with this process. But they had different motives—if they stayed too long, we all would have bailed on the plan. And I would never grow up.

  Paige and Cass were dead to the world when I woke up. That’s another element of the sleeping medication—when it’s done doing it’s job, my eyes are wide and ready, no matter how badly I’d like to keep them closed.

  I woke up a little after seven. My hair had dried overnight, so I just put on some eyeliner—to make myself look older than twelve—and slipped on my running shoes to go exploring. Being outside makes me nervous. Ross says I have a slight agoraphobia brought on by my trauma, and the best way to overcome it is to push myself a little more every day. I have four days until classes start, and if I want to show up to any of them, I have to push myself out the front door of our dorm. So that’s what I spent the first three hours of my morning doing. I paced the area around the front desk. Then I sat in the lounge. Eventually, I went outside and stood on the steps, forcing myself to count to fifty. By the time my breathing slowed down, I did a full lap around the building, and soon it was almost eleven. I’ve been sitting here ever since.

  He isn’t coming. What has me upset is that I’m surprised he isn’t coming. I’m starting to think I dreamt the entire thing. The Ambien makes me do that sometimes—and the dreams feel so real. I pull out my phone to check my Facebook messages
and see if that conversation is even in there, but while I’m waiting for it to load, a folded up paper airplane lodges itself under my knee.

  “Hey, mind throwing that back?” I look down the hall and my eyes are met with a face that’s oddly familiar. He looks just like Nate—or what I imagined Nate to be? But this guy is older, and he’s in a wheelchair. His smile is disarming, and I’m starting to feel like someone is pulling a trick on me.

  Getting to my feet, I bring the plane into my hands and look it over for bends in the folds before squinting my eyes to line it up in his direction. I give it a push, and it sails several feet past him, which for some strange reason makes me really happy. Yes, if airplane throwing were an Olympic sport, I would surely take home the gold.

  “Hey, nice toss. Thanks,” he says, wheeling back to pick it up again. I smile and nod, tugging down my shorts and the back of my shirt, which have crumpled from sitting in the corner by the elevator for so long. I’m about to slump back to my room when Nate’s mystery twin stops me.

  “You’re Rowe, right?” It’s strange how my heart speeds up just by his question. Maybe I didn’t dream any of this at all?

  “That’s me,” I say, folding my arms around myself and squeezing my stomach for strength.

  “You must not have gotten Nate’s message.” He’s coming closer to me now, and the closer he gets, the more familiar his features are. His face is almost an exact replica of the one I saw last night, but his eyes are a little different, and his cheeks are fuller. All I can do is shrug in response.

  “Nate had workouts this morning. I think he sent you something on Facebook,” he says, and I’m unable to stop myself from swiftly pulling out my phone to check. I’m sure I look desperate, but whatever—I’m not good at this. No sense in pretending. When I tap on my Facebook app, his message alert is the first thing I see.