This Is Falling

by Ginger Scott

  “Cookie is his itty, witty teddy bear, and big ole Tysie wysie can’t sleep without him,” she slurs, her lips pouting in the most fucking adorable way ever.

  “Yeah, you go ahead and play this out, Rowe. We’ll see who’s laughing about Cookie at the end,” Ty says as we walk away, and I can tell by his tone that he’s a little embarrassed. I almost feel bad, too. But then I remember all the times he punched me and told me not to fussy fuss, and my smile comes right back to my face.

  “You little evil genius. I love you for this,” I say, kissing her head as her eyes fight to stay open.

  “That’s the only reason you love me?” she asks, her lids finally closing completely as she pulls in tightly against my chest.

  “Sweetheart, your pranking skills are merely the tip of the iceberg,” I say, kissing her head and swinging her up in my arms for a better grip.

  She dozes off for most of the walk home, but the elevator ride somehow registers with her, and by the time we make it to our floor, I have to rush her to the bathrooms. “Just a few more feet, hang on,” I say, rushing into the women’s restroom, hoping like hell no one is in there. Thankfully, the floor seems empty for the night, so I rush her down to the big handicapped stall at the end and get her to the toilet right in time for pretty much everything she drank tonight to come rushing out.

  “Ooooooh god, this…this is awful,” she says, laying her face on the rim of the toilet.

  “I know. That’s another first…maybe I should have warned you. Your first time getting drunk is usually followed by your first post-drinking vomit-fest,” I laugh, looking under the stall door to make sure the bathroom is still empty. “Hang on, I’ll get some wet towels. And you should probably not put your face on that…I doubt it’s clean.”

  “Yeah…but I sorta don’t care,” she says, her voice barely able to project.

  I pull the paper towel dispenser open and grab a good handful from the metal before pushing it closed again. I run them all under cold water and carry them, sopping wet, back to Rowe, who has somehow slid down to completely lie on the small-tiled floor.

  “That’s one of those firsts I don’t care to repeat,” she mumbles.

  “Yeah, I know. I said that too. But then, I did it again,” I admit, as I lift her up into my lap and smooth her hair away from her face. She’s covered in a light sweat, and I can tell she has the chills by the tiny bumps all over her arms and neck. “Here, let me see your face.”

  She tilts her face to me, but her eyes are almost glued shut. She’s seconds away from passing out, and as bad as this sounds, she’s beautiful—even like this. I take a handful of the wet towels and run them over her forehead, cheeks and neck, trying to cool her and make her feel less like a speed-race of bile just cleared her lips.

  “There, that any better?” I ask, and she moans, her mouth too weak to fully frown. “You think you need to do that…again?” I lean my head toward the toilet, and Rowe cracks one eyelid open long enough to see before closing it again. She shakes her head no, bringing her hands to her mouth to wipe again. “Okay, come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

  Rowe’s legs are sexy as hell, but carrying them drunk has me wishing she were five-foot-two instead of the extra six or seven inches she is. Lifting her body from the floor is tough, probably because she’s not helping. Like…at all. I nearly jar her head into the doorway of the women’s shower room as we leave, and when the small mousy girl from down the hall exits the elevator and catches us, she blushes.

  “She got a little carried away tonight,” I whisper, and she smiles and rushes back to her room.

  It takes me a few seconds to get the keys from my pocket and unlock our door, but I finally do. Rowe manages to sit up at the edge of my bed, and I pull her shoes off first, then the long baseball socks she had on with her costume. “You want one of my shirts?” I ask, working the buttons of her shirt off until I get to see the entire bra that has been teasing me for most of the night. Well fuck. This night could have gone so differently.

  “Can I have your green one?” she asks, and I head to the closet to begin sifting through my hangers.

  “You mean gray? I don’t have a green one,” I say, finding the long-sleeved shirt she usually sleeps in and flipping off the light before I shut the closet door behind me.

  “No, the green Boston one…with the Red Sox logo on the front,” she says, pulling her arms from her bra and laying back against my sheets, letting out a big breath while her body sinks deeply into the blankets scrunched up around her.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that shirt is in your head. Come on, give me your arms—I got your favorite gray one,” I say, lifting her body enough to pull my shirt over her head and down her arms and body. I tug her pants from her legs, and she crawls up to the head of my bed after I drop them to the floor, gathering the entire blanket up in her arms, squeezing it tightly, her face buried and her hair a tangled mess.

  Once I flip the light out, I kick off my pants and shirt and slide in between her body and the wall, doing my best not to shake her. She moans a few times, and I know she’s still feeling dizzy and sick, so I start to stroke her hair, trying to tame the wild mess she’s managed to create.

  “I hope you find it, Joshy.” I pause, my breath held and my hand an inch away from her head, frozen in my almost touch.

  “Find what?” I say, the knot in my throat impossible to swallow.

  “The Boston shirt. It was always my favorite. I hope you find it.” And that’s the last word she utters before her breathing turns heavy and her throat gives way to the tiny vibrations of a snore.

  Joshy. Not Josh, or I was thinking about Josh’s shirt, or sorry, was just thinking about Josh. But Joshy. An intimate pet name, full of all kinds of…shit, I don’t know what the fuck it’s full of—but that one word. That goddamned name! That name I can’t even hate because Josh is dead. And Rowe has no clue. And clearly Joshy is still alive and well in her subconscious.

  For the next hour, I stare at her, watching her small movements while she sleeps. Every flit of her eyelid makes me jump, just waiting for her to tell me she needs to go back to him, or find him, or talk to him, or see him. And she can’t. Not because she let him go, but because he’s gone. And whether I like it or not, I’m competing for the girl I love…with a ghost.

  Chapter 27

  Rowe

  “Come on, just one more party…before you leave me to go home with my boyfriend and yours.” Cass has been dropping little hints ever since the Halloween party about not going home with Ty over Thanksgiving, but Ty seems to be pretty good at ignoring them.

  “Why don’t you just tell him you want to come with us? I’m sure he’d love you to be there,” I say, pulling out my oversized sweatshirt and leggings to change for an evening of finals studying. Cass pouts when I do, knowing she’s probably lost her battle to drag me to a party tonight.

  “Because…” she says, letting her lips flap while she flops on her back on my bed behind me, her face still in full-sour mode.

  “Because you’re afraid you like him more than he likes you?” I ask, wondering when I got so bold with my questions for others. These kinds of things seem funny coming from the girl who barely woke up from a two-year social slumber. Cass is staring at me, not saying anything, but her eyes flash with a brief moment of sadness before she rolls her head to the other side, and she starts picking at the corner of my corkboard.

  “No. Yes. I don’t know,” she says, pulling her knees to her chest. “Come do Pilates with me.”

  I lie back next to her and let out a similar lip-flapping breath. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t Pilates,” I say, holding my knees into my chest and rocking slightly like Cass is.

  “I know, but I like to pretend it is. It’s really just wallowing, but it makes me feel better…you know, if I call it Pilates?” she says, pulling her face tightly to her kneecaps, masking the small tears I see forming.

  “Yeah…it does,” I say, pulling my knees to my chin and
turning to look at her with a soft smile. “Tell him you wanna go.”

  She shakes her head no. And I don’t blame her. I was afraid once, too. Still am. We both rock slowly, keeping our eyes locked so we can talk silently, like I’m trying to pull her sadness out of her heart and cure it for her. I think Cass would be content to lie here like this next to me in our small safe cocoon for the rest of the night, but the soft knock on the door wakes us from our trance, and Cass sits up quickly, heading to the mirror to finish straightening her hair.

  “Hey, study buddy,” Nate says, walking in with his heavy backpack loaded with probably every book he owns. “Can I crash your big night-out plans?” The grin on my face is probably making my response obvious.

  “Gah! You two are cute, but when I want to be pissy—you kind of make it tough. I’m heading to Paige’s party. I’ll be home late,” Cass says, stuffing her phone, wallet and keys in the back pocket of her jeans.

  “Ty’s wearing…an interesting T-shirt,” Nate says, biting his cheek and smirking knowingly at me. My latest bribe to him was that he had to wear this special shirt Nate and I ordered for him. It reads: “It’s past my bedtime, and I want my milky wilky and my widdle teddy weddy bear named Cookie. Wah!” When I sent the ransom text a few days ago, I told him he could find his next party shirt in his mailbox, where we left it.

  “Oh great! I better get something out of this little grudge match you three have going on. You know, in this scenario, I’m the one who’s with the guy with the embarrassing shirt,” she says, and Nate and I both seem to get the same idea at the very same minute. And it only takes Cass a second or two longer to catch up with us. “Oooooooh no! You two are not pulling me into this! No getting creative ideas to make shirts for me!”

  “Oh, but come on, Cass…” Nate starts. “You know you want a shirt that says something like ‘I’m with Teddy Bear man’…”

  “Or ‘My boyfriend wears tutus,’” I pipe in, barely able to finish my words I’m laughing so hard. Cass, on the other hand, has her arms crossed while she stands at the door looking at the two of us, cracking ourselves up.

  “Are you done yet?” she says, her lips pulled up to the side, and her face irritated. This only makes us laugh harder, and Cass rolls her eyes and holds up her hand. “Good night, children!”

  It takes us almost fifteen minutes to settle down enough to actually open up books on my bed and dig in for some studying. We both have big final exams the week we get back from Thanksgiving break, and I have an essay project due for my art history class. I really want to finish it early so I won’t have to focus on any homework while I’m with Nate.

  At first, I was a little anxious about going to his parents’ house for the holiday—worried that I was intruding, and maybe missing, just a little bit, the traditional thing I always did with my parents. But the closer we got to break, the more excitement bloomed in my belly. This—and just being close to Nate, period—was making it extremely hard to study tonight.

  Somehow, I’m able to read two chapters, and my brain seems to retain most of what I read. Nate is sitting on the opposite end of the bed from me, his legs stretched out next to mine, and every so often he nudges me with his toes.

  “Keep your stinky feet to yourself,” I say, pushing his socked foot to the side, which of course only makes him drop it completely on my lap and kick it around under my nose.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I…in your space?” he teases. I pick up my heaviest book and open it, resting it on his ankle, pretty much trapping his leg in my lap. He chuckles, and folds his book closed, laying back a little and resting his chin in his palm, his elbow holding up his weight. I can feel him staring at me for several minutes, and I’m no longer even coming close to paying attention to the words on my pages. I close my book and turn to the side, my face flat against it like a pillow—and we lay still like this, quietly studying one another, for several minutes before either of us talks.

  “Do you still think about him a lot?” I’m not surprised by Nate’s question, but it causes my pulse to race, and my stomach to twist tightly, nevertheless. He’s chewing on the cap to his pen, his face so kind and regarding. It’s not a jealous question—not like how he is when we joke about Tucker. No, this question is one of genuine interest, of wanting to know me that much deeper, know how my insides work, and how my head routes the thoughts of everything that happened.

  “Yes.” I can see a hint of sadness color his features when I admit this. “But not as much as I used to. It’s a little less…everyday.”

  More silence settles in, but it’s comfortable. We’re still for several minutes, and then Nate reaches his hand for my foot, and he pulls it into both hands in front of him, digging his thumbs into the bottom for a massage.

  “Is it bad that I don’t think about him as much as I used to?” I ask, and Nate’s hands pause. He takes a slow deep breath without looking at me, and I can tell he’s really thinking about my question, putting himself in my shoes.

  “Honestly? I think it’s human,” he says, his thumbs circling my foot again. “Either way…I think it’s okay.”

  We don’t talk about it anymore, and after a few minutes, Nate picks up his books and hauls them back to his room. He has early workouts in the morning, and we’re leaving for his parents’ house later in the day, so he said he wanted to let me really focus to finish up my paper. And in my gut, I felt a little pang over him leaving, like there was something else, something unspoken. He didn’t want to be here. But I also didn’t fight to make him stay. That small conversation put something in both of our heads. And I was thinking about Josh tonight…more than I wanted to.

  Plane rides were definitely better with Nate. It took about three hours to get to New Orleans, and another hour or so to get from the airport to Nate’s parents’ home in Baton Rouge. Their house isn’t large, but it’s old. The grass out front seems to stretch forever until you get to a porch flanked by white posts and stretching the entire expanse of the home. It’s yellow, like sunshine, and with the sun setting behind it, I swear I’ve stepped into a postcard.

  “I love your home,” I say, and I realize it comes out kind of corny, like the thing you’re supposed to say to be polite. But I mean it—I really love his home. It feels like I fit here. I keep that part to myself, though, because that sounds crazy.

  “Yeah, I guess it’s nice,” Nate shrugs, lifting our bags from the back of their family van. Nate’s father picked us up from the airport, which made it nice since there were three of us. Nate pulls Ty’s chair from the back and unfolds it next to the van; I watch as Ty lifts himself into it. The move takes seconds, and I wonder how long it took before it was easy.

  “Your mom ordered pizza; I hope that’s okay,” Nate’s father says as he pushes Ty’s chair up the sidewalk to the ramp at the side of the porch. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen Ty not push himself, and when I realize I’m staring, I shake my head and look away quickly, hoping nobody noticed.

  “It makes Dad feel good to do it sometimes,” Nate whispers into my ear. I just mouth oh and smile.

  Pizza was the perfect idea after our trip, and maybe I was just starving, but the slices were gone from my plate in minutes. With dinner done, Nate pulls our bags to the bedrooms down the hall, and he gives me a quick tour of his family’s home. The living room and kitchen are one big room with a giant stoned fireplace and a TV mounted to the wall above it. The floors are long, wooden planks, and every wall is adorned with a collection of family photos or art. I notice a few paintings in the kitchen—signed by Nate’s mom, Cathy; I wonder if the others were done by friends.

  “I like these,” I say, running my finger along the bottom of an ornately carved frame.

  “Thank you,” Cathy says, coming up behind me, her hand on my shoulder in a way that feels nice—like acceptance. “I painted them in college.”

  “What about these?” I ask, motioning to the ones I know are done by someone else.

  “Those,” she starts, but pau
ses, her face sliding into a large smile. “Those are Ty’s.”

  “You’re kidding!” I’m unable to mask my surprise. I get closer, and I can recognize the signature now, and I’m blown away. The paintings are oils. Abstracts, but full of color, the shapes almost making something recognizable, but always not quite—they remind me of dreams.

  “He still paints sometimes. For fun,” she says, turning to look at Ty who is lost in some basketball game playing out on the TV while he talks with his dad. “My boys are full of surprises. I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen everything they’re capable of yet.” She watches him with pride in her eyes for a few seconds before taking a quick deep breath and turning her attention back to Nate and me. “Come on, let’s get you settled in your room.”

  The Preeter home is one big circle, with a hallway that starts and ends in the family room, looping around to four bedrooms—all with views of the big yard and giant trees that surround the back of the house. My room is next to Nate’s, and I can’t help but wonder if he’ll sneak in to see me at night. I sit down on the full-size bed, and I can tell the lavender quilt was washed recently, the smell of fabric softener still strong in it.

  “This is lovely,” I say, wondering where this sudden formal version of myself is coming from. Nate mocks me behind his mom, mouthing the word lovely and holding his hands up to his face with wide eyes. I glare at him, and he laughs silently.

  “I’m glad you like it here,” she says, reaching around me and hugging me to her side, filling my body with even more warmth. I notice the stare she gives to Nate as she leaves, like they have a silent conversation about me, but I look away when Nate comes toward me.

  “Oh, Mrs. Preeter, your home is simply divine. I must have your decorator,” Nate jokes, putting on his ridiculous, high-pitched girly voice.

  “Oh my god! I do NOT sound like that,” I say, shoving him into my bed.