This Is Falling

by Ginger Scott

  “You don’t want to see the real me,” I swallow, and look away.

  “Sure I do,” he says, and I can feel his eyes on me. They’re burning, and I know I can’t wait this one out.

  “Tell me about Ty. How’d he get hurt?” His hand drops from mine, and he grips both sides of the bench underneath him, lifting his entire body up a few inches from the seat, like a gymnast. He lets out a big breath when he rests his arms again, folding his hands together in his lap. His gaze stays there the entire time.

  “Ty was sixteen. I was twelve. We were at this big lake, near New Orleans. My grandparents owned some land there. Ty taught me to swim in that lake when we were real little. I mean, that place was like a second home. So many memories.”

  Watching him remember his youth is incredible. The way he talks about his brother just gushes with affection, and I’m envious he has something in his life that feels like that.

  “Well, this one year, we were both feeling a little adventurous. There was this big ledge that I had watched some teenagers jump off of the year before, and the entire year after, all I did was talk about that ledge to my brother, begging him and making him promise to take me back there so we could jump off together. Only, when we climbed up on the ledge, I got really scared. I’m not really good at heights, and I started crying. Now, keep in mind, while twelve sounds kind of young to you right now, it’s not that young for a boy who’s crying. I felt like a loser, and my brother felt bad for me, so he said he’d go first and show me how easy it was. He, uh…he didn’t come back up.”

  I’m covering my mouth because I don’t want Nate to see the complete reaction on my face. I know I can’t mask my eyes, and I can feel the tears pooling already, threatening to fall down my face.

  “He injured his L2 and L3. No, I’ll be blunt—he smashed them to pieces. I ran down the hill and screamed bloody murder. A few fishermen heard me and helped me pull him out. Getting to the hospital is all one giant blur, and I remember my thinking the entire time that my parents hated me. I hated me. Because I made my brother do something so stupid.”

  “But it wasn’t your fault,” I say, reaching for his hand on instinct. His breath pauses when my fingertips touch him, and he hooks his fingers into mine a little more this time.

  “I know that now. Ty snapped me out of it pretty quickly. You may have noticed, my brother doesn’t really do pity,” he says, his eyes still watching our hands as they fight to hold on harder to one another.

  “You’re brother is pretty awesome,” I say, waiting for his eyelashes to flick up and for his gaze to reach mine. But he keeps his eyes down, at our hands.

  “Yeah, he is. I’m good at baseball because of him. He always wanted to play professionally, or at least in college. When he couldn’t anymore, I made it my dream. I wanted to get here for him,” he says, a faint smile pulling up at the corner of his mouth.

  “I can’t wait to see you play,” I say, and his eyes finally meet mine, piercing my heart the second they do.

  “You can come to practice. You know…if you want. Anytime,” he looks down again, biting at his lip. I can tell he’s embarrassed about asking me to come.

  “I will,” I say, and his smile grows bigger and he nods.

  “Good, that’s settled then.” Nate’s expression starts to change after that; soon his brow furrows, and he’s chewing at the inside of his cheek. “I have to ask you something. But I’m scared of your answer.”

  My heartbeat stops completely when he says this. I know what he’s going to ask, and I know I have to start to let my story out for others to hear. If I ever want friends—real friends—the kind that help you heal, then they need to see every part of me. “You want to know about Josh,” I say, and his fingers stop moving with mine, his hand becoming strong and rigid. Nate just nods once and looks up at me, his mouth in a tight, flat line.

  Deep breath. “Josh was my high school boyfriend. I guess you could call him my high school sweetheart or whatever. He was the only boy I ever…you know,” I can feel my face grow warm, but when I look at Nate he just smiles, urging me on. “Anyway, Josh played for my dad. He started on varsity as a freshman. He was tall and pretty strong. He was a pitcher.”

  “Typical pitcher,” Nate says, rolling his eyes and laughing lightly. He lets go of my hand and leans back on his hands; I miss his touch instantly. “Sorry, I was just kidding.” He pushes his foot into mine, letting me know he’s sorry for the joke, and then he leaves it there.

  “We dated for a year and a half. I mean, that first year, it wasn’t really much. When you’re fifteen, you pretty much kiss all the time, and that’s about it.”

  “Yeah, you can skip the kissing part,” Nate says, pushing his fingers in his ears. “La la la la.” His little act makes me smile—I love that he’s jealous, even if it’s only pretend jealous.

  “It was the last day of school our sophomore year, and we were all in the cafeteria, signing yearbooks. All of a sudden, there was shooting. There was a man in all black, wearing a ski mask. He was in his twenties, and he didn’t even go to our school—never did. People were screaming and climbing over one another to get to the exits, but we were right in the middle. We always sat in the middle—it was our table.”

  I’m crying now, and my body is shaking a little. I haven’t told this story out loud to anyone other than the investigators, my parents and Ross, and at this very moment, I would give anything to rewind time and take it all back. I want to share it with Nate though. I need to, so he’ll understand why I am the way I am, and why I’m not the kind of girl you think is beautiful and that you flirt with on a baseball field in the middle of the night.

  “You can tell me,” he says, reaching for my hands again, holding them tightly within his, his grip on my wrists unwavering.

  I close my eyes, and when I squeeze them shut, the last of my tears slide down my cheeks, coming to rest on my collarbone under the warmth of Nate’s shirt.

  “The man, his name was Thomas. He was suffering from a psychotic break—thought there was a plot against him, and somehow it involved our high school. Josh…he…he put himself over me. The man shot Josh in the head, and he ended up with severe brain damage. My best friend died right in front of me. Her name was Betsy. She was the first one Thomas shot, and she was one of two people who didn’t survive. The other was a teacher, Mrs. Sharring. She was going to retire.”

  Nate doesn’t speak any more. He doesn’t ask any more questions, even though I know he must have dozens. He just reaches up to touch my face, and slowly slides the remainder of my tears away, then he tucks the few strands of my hair that are blowing across my face behind my ear.

  “That’s why I never know how to answer that question,” I say, looking away from him, because I know if I look in his eyes I’m going to fall in love.

  “What question is that?” he says, his voice soft and gentle.

  “Is Josh still my boyfriend?” I say, my eyes letting the lights in the distance blur together out of focus. “He stopped being Josh the second the bullet cut through part of his brain. He’s on feeding tubes, and he can’t talk or do anything for himself. Even his parents are ready for him to die. I know that sounds awful, but he’s come close so many times that they’re just there now. You know, mentally?”

  “I’m so sorry, Rowe,” Nate says, and I turn to look at him, his face so honest and forgiving. I can tell with this one look that he would give anything to take what I’m feeling away from me.

  “Thanks,” I say, allowing myself to stare long into his eyes, the next round of tears lining up, but my will holding them in. And it happens all at once—just looking at him, I fall in love. But it doesn’t matter—because I can belong to no one.

  Chapter 11

  Rowe

  I told him.

  Miss you,

  ~ Rowe

  Chapter 12

  Nate

  For an hour, we sat there in the dugout—completely quiet. I wasn’t going to go home until she said s
he was ready. And I wasn’t going to ask her anything else until she was ready to tell it.

  When the groundskeepers started showing up, we left, not wanting to have to deal with breaking in. We were quiet all the way back to the dorm, but somewhere during the walk, her fingers found mine again, and I held them tightly until the elevator opened to our floor.

  Then—it was like she disappeared. Cass says she’s been in the library all week. But I don’t know. Knowing what I know about Rowe’s past now, I get the feeling places like libraries are hard for her. I understand why she wasn’t hip on eating in the cafeteria, why she likes to sit in corners, why she’s skittish and nervous all the time.

  My parents are coming up for the weekend, and they have extra tickets in the nice seats—the expensive ones—at tonight’s football game. Cass is coming, and there’s one more seat open. I really want Rowe to fill it.

  “Dude, I am so sick of your moping around. Come with me,” Ty says, grabbing one of my shoes from the end of my bed and throwing it into the hallway.

  “Awe man, I was comfy. Why’d you do that?” I say, pulling myself up from my bed to a sitting position, slipping the one shoe still in my possession on my right foot.

  “Because I know you. You like things in order, and your shoe hanging out there in that hallway is going to drive you bat-shit crazy.” His smile is smug, but he’s right. I’ve always been a neat freak. And I hate only having one shoe on my foot now. I follow him into the hall and reach for my sneaker, but before I get there, he blocks me and scoops it up, cradling it like a football.

  “Come on. Give it to me,” I beg.

  “Oh you can have it. Down there,” he says, tossing it to the other end of the hallway. With a clunk! it hits the wall near Rowe’s room. I roll my eyes at him and limp on one foot to their door. Ty is behind me, so the option of turning around is not an option at all.

  Cass opens the door and smiles at Ty. “Why Nate, what a surprise. Please, come on in.” She’s acting weird, but when I see her wink at Ty and notice Rowe’s legs folded up, and her face looking down while her ear buds are tucked in her ears, I understand.

  I’d hate them both for tricking me, but I’m really glad they trapped her in one place for me—finally. I take a deep breath, walk over to her bed, and jump onto it so my legs are stretched out long and I’m sitting next to her. She startles, covering her heart, and pulling the headphones from her ears—which instantly makes me feel bad. Rowe is not the kind of girl you startle, and I get that now.

  “Sorry, didn’t realize your music was up so loud. Thought you heard me,” I say, hoping my stupid grin will earn me forgiveness. “Whatcha listening to?”

  “The Black Keys,” she says, her ear buds still clutched in her hands, and her arms stiff.

  “Mind?” I ask, reaching my hand toward hers. She hands me one of the earpieces, and I tuck it in, at first a little surprised by how loud it is. Damn, it’s a wonder she isn’t deaf. She watches me with her brow pinched for a few seconds before finally putting the other end in her ear.

  “What are you working on?” My voice so loud that Ty and Cass turn to look at me and then start laughing. “Sorry. Apparently Rowe is hard of hearing, because she has this thing set to, like, seven thousand.”

  “It only goes to thirty. You’re being hyperbolic,” Rowe says, a hint of her smile creeping in.

  “So vocabulary, then? That’s what we’re working on?” I ask, challenging her sass with my own.

  She holds my gaze for a while, her eyes shutting until she squints at me. I think she’s trying to intimidate me, but I just mimic her face, squaring myself with her until our noses touch. When I do, her lips twist into a smile.

  “I’m working on art history. I had to pick a painting and write about how it made me feel,” she says, scooting her notebook over to rest part of it on my leg. She wants me to see her notes, and I’ve never wanted to read an assignment more.

  “Okay, which one did you pick?” I ask, reaching for the full notebook and bringing it to my lap. My hand grazes hers when I do, and the feel of it almost makes me want to hand it back to her—just to reach for it again.

  “I picked this one.” When she leans forward, her shirt lifts a little; I notice a few deep red scars along her side. They surprise me, but I don’t want her to know I see them. I move my eyes to the notes on my lap before she turns to face me. She opens her book to a painting of a woman wearing a pearl earring. I recognize this one, and it feels like it fits her, not that I know a damn thing about art.

  “That’s pretty,” I say, and she laughs. “What? I mean…the dude—it was a dude painter, right?” She nods, still laughing. “Okay, well, the dude picked nice colors, and her eyes are all symmetrical and crap. She doesn’t look like a stick figure, but a real person. Sort of. Yeah, so I’d hang it up.”

  She’s laughing harder now, and it’s beautiful. Ty and Cass are lost in their own world, cuddling on Cass’s bed. I take a risk, and lean in, kissing her quickly on her cheek. Her laughter stops immediately, and her eyes go wide. “Don’t, Nate,” she says, her smile completely gone now. Well, shit.

  “Sorry. You’re really pretty when you laugh, and a man can’t be held responsible for how he reacts to you laughing. You should be mindful of that. You could end up getting kissed by waiters at restaurants, professors, frat guys. No, wait. No frat guys. Just ugly waiters and old professors.”

  She’s smiling again, not as big, but she’s not putting a wall up. Phew.

  “Do you want to read why I like the ‘pretty’ painting?” she says, quoting the word pretty just to mock me. I love that she does it. I suck in my bottom lip and study her, just like she did to me moments before.

  “Yeah. I do,” I say, flipping her notebook over, and scooting down to lay my head on her pillow. Her breath stops when I settle in, but eventually she moves down too, so she can look along with me while I read. Every single hair on my arm is stretching to touch her. But my kiss went horribly wrong, so I’m content to almost touch her for now.

  The Girl with a Pearl Earring, by Johannes Vermeer.

  “Right! I remember this one. They made a movie about it or something.” I sound so uneducated. My mom’s an artist—which, you’d think would make me more attuned to art, but instead, I just blocked it out. It just wasn’t in my wheelhouse. I’m more numbers, finance, and marketing. Our dad runs an accounting firm, and I take after him, so the creative side of my brain was sort of stunted.

  I look to my right to see her lying next to me, smiling, and I have to take a deep breath to remind myself what I’m doing here. “Sorry. Reading now,” I grin, and then she nestles in closely, her chin on my shoulder while she watches my eyes follow the lines on her paper. I feel every tiny breath she takes, and time actually stops. My god, I have never wanted to kiss a girl more in my life.

  I know she feels my chest puff with air when I have to take a deep breath just to calm down, because she backs away a few inches to give me space. But now that I know what that feels like, I’m not sure my shoulder will ever feel complete again.

  “You’re not reading. Is it that bad?” she asks.

  “No. I uh. You were. I’m reading,” I finally say, and I shuffle the notebook against my chest for a better view.

  I’m the girl in this painting. Not literally, but I identify with her. It is the only painting that stopped me completely, and I know it’s because when I look into her eyes, I see myself. She’s hungry, but she’s bound by duty. Every part of her body is cloaked, at least from what you see. Her head is covered, and her bodice as well. But she bothers to put on this one pearl earring, sort of a rebellion to the path she’s on, almost like a warning flair for someone. She’s begging to be saved. And her eyes are looking right at me, like she’s asking me to save her. And her mouth is barely open, about to tell me her secrets, but there is never enough time. Instead, we’re stuck—the girl and I—at this juncture. I have to decide if I want to break her free. And she has to decide if she wants to l
et me. And every time I open the book and look at the page, we do the same dance all over again.

  Rowe is staring at me. I may not know art, but I’m pretty sure there’s a reason Rowe made me read this. I’m just not sure if she wants me to break her free or if she’s warning me—if I pursue her, I’ll be stuck in a circle that never ends.

  “It’s good,” I say, pulling myself to sit up, just needing to break the electricity firing from my arm to hers.

  “Yeah?” she says, closing her book and reaching for the notebook, her fingers staying clear of mine this time.

  “Yeah, I mean, it’s probably like a B. You didn’t really talk about the pretty colors and choice of oil versus acrylic, but it’s all right,” I tease, and she purses her lips, fighting against her smile before finally smacking me in the chest with her notebook.

  “I can live with a B. I’m considering it done then,” she says, standing and putting her folder and book into her backpack. I notice she’s putting physical distance between us, and it makes me uneasy.

  “So, my parents are here this weekend. They’re taking us to the football game tonight, and we, uh…we have an extra ticket. Cass is coming. Maybe…you wanna come?” I ask her when her back is to me, and I’m still a stuttering mess.

  “You’re such a pussy,” Ty says, reminding me he’s still in the room. “Rowe, Nate wants you to come with us. He’s been a mopey douchebag all week because he was afraid you’d say no. Please, for the love of all that is holy, come with us and meet my parents so I won’t live in hell for another day.”

  I’m blinking and staring at my brother’s back as he goes right back to whispering with his girlfriend. Once again, I wish I had an ounce of his confidence. I shift my focus to Rowe next, and catch her chewing on her lip, her hand on her hip. Crap! A football game is a pretty big deal for her. I didn’t think, and when she looks at me, I wince and mouth, “I’m sorry.”