When We Fall

by C. M. Lally

“Oh, I heard her, all right,” she shrieks in a restrained voice through gnashed teeth and a clenched jaw. “What I don’t understand is how YOU didn’t hear her. She clearly gave me directions on how to care for the strain, and what my limitations are. There were no instructions to stay with you and give you control over me.” She huffs a very loud sigh, blowing her breath out and twists her body to look out the window, disregarding me.

  I pull over to a side street and stop the car. I refuse to drive distracted while we argue. We sit in silence for a few moments. I collect my thoughts and calm down, while she twiddles the ribboned hem on her shirt.

  “Bella,” talking softly to her, I touch the soft spot on the crease of her elbow and try to get her to turn her face towards mine, but she shrugs me off. “I’m not going to apologize for wanting to take care of you. You’re hurt for Christ’s sake. Caring for you is not controlling you.” My voice raises on my last words, and I have to take another deep breath to ease the tension rising in my chest. She remains silent, and I know I’m losing her.

  “Please look at me,” I beg. The silence is deafening within the small space of her car. “There is nothing wrong with letting someone take care of you in a time of need.” She huffs her breath again. Damn, she’s a stubborn woman.

  “Just because I want to take care of you doesn’t mean that you aren’t still a strong woman,” I explain, feeling completely lost and out of words to get through to her. “Fuck. You’re one of the strongest women I know. Maybe I want you to need me. I want to feel that I matter to someone, and I want that someone to be you.”

  The only sound in the car is our mixed breathing; hers in anger and mine in frustration. Giving up, I twist the keys in the ignition and her hand reaches out to stop me.

  “I’ve been doing everything for myself practically since I was eight years old,” she sighs heavily. “My parents were always working. I’ve had to bandage my own cuts and scrapes, pull glass from my foot, tweeze splinters from my own hands, and...heal my own heart when it’s been devastated. It isn’t easy giving that up when it’s all you know.”

  She leans over and puts her head on my shoulder, lacing her fingers within mine. “I’m sorry for every hurt you’ve ever experienced, but let me make this one better,” I whisper, kissing her forehead. “And if I do a good job with your ankle, maybe you’ll let me take care of your heart?”

  She gasps and squeezes my hand tighter within hers. “I’m not sure you’ll want that job after you’re done with the other task,” she murmurs, looking up into my eyes. The moment is solemn and sobering because she isn’t teasing, but sounds sad. “No one else has ever wanted it before. Even my parents. I’m thirty-eight and unloved.” The tears that had started to well up in her eyes overflow down her cheeks.

  “I have a bartender named Derek,” I explain, wiping the tears from her face. “He’s a damn good bartender, but he sucks at mopping the floors. And I have several servers that are damn good servers, but they can’t pour a drink to save their lives. The moral here is that not everyone is good at everything. You have to find the right person for the job or at least someone who is going to give it their all and work their hardest to improve themselves to do the job. You just haven’t found the right person to take care of your heart. I’ll die trying to do the best job I can. I promise you that.” I kiss her hand that’s entwined in mine, and she reaches up and presses her lips to mine, sealing my words between us.

  “Take me home,” she commands, pointing to the road. “Your home.” She corrects herself smiling. She is still holding my hand and leaning on me, but I don’t have the heart to confide in her that I need to concentrate on my driving. I’ll just have to be on hyper-alert. I twist the key in the ignition and check both mirrors before re-entering the street. Maybe I can take the back roads with ease to keep her safe.

  I pull into my actual driveway at the front of my house and notice her eyes are bugged out in wonder. She’s soaking up the landscaping to my house like a kid in a candy store.

  “You take really good care of your yard,” she says in awe. “I’m impressed.”

  “Please don’t be,” I chuckle in return to her response. “My niece’s husband owns a landscaping business, and he sends someone every week. I never see them or hear them.” I get out of the car and grab her crutches from the backseat.

  “You can just hand them to me,” she says, as she watches me trying to maneuver them closer to her and have them face the correct way. “I’ve been on crutches many times from playing soccer. I’m pretty good at using them by now.”

  And she’s right. She hoists herself out of the car and starts swinging her body towards the front steps. A few hops later and she’s standing by the front door. I take a moment to release the breath I’ve been holding while giving her space to move. She’s a proud woman, and I don’t ever want to take that away from her.

  I unlock the front door for her and give her more space to enter my living room. She crosses the threshold and with bated breath, I wait for her to say something...anything about this room. She slowly takes in her surroundings as she rests, and finally moves through to the kitchen just beyond the hall.

  I stop and run my hand over the white piano and leather bench, re-adjusting a few of the picture frames that hold our time to this room. The engagement ring photo that we had professionally taken captures my attention in it’s mirrored, silver frame. My face reflects in the corner, reminding me of the time that has passed and every time I see it my heart squeezes tighter. This innocent picture reminds me the most of everything I’ve lost.

  But not today, I won’t let it. I lay the picture face down and walk away.

  “Bella,” I call out to her as I join her in the kitchen, “let’s move you to the den for comfort, and then I’ll make you some lunch, or an early dinner with the time being what it is. Okay?”

  “There’s a den?” she asks mockingly, her bright eyes tease me. “How big is this house? I might need a map.” She winks at me, and that tiny little gesture makes my heart thump loudly in my chest. For a second, I thought she heard it because she places her hand on my heart.

  “I can give you a piggyback tour after we eat,” I hint, right as my stomach grumbles loudly in complaint.

  “Okay, but I don’t want to sit in the den while you cook,” she groans. “Can’t I sit here and watch, or maybe even help?”

  “No, you can’t sit here,” answering more sharply than I intended. “There isn’t anywhere for you to elevate your foot, and that’s exactly what you’re supposed to be doing.” I tap her nose playfully making her smile. “And if you don’t elevate your foot, you’re never going to heal and get out of this house,” I remind her.

  Her face falls in sadness but recovers quickly with a bright smile. She raises her arms up, waving them like a child who wants to be picked up. “You’re going to have to carry me then, or I don’t budge, ankle be damned,” she insists. Stubborn woman.

  I scoop one arm under her thighs while securing the other against her back and lift. She’s so light, I stumble for a moment in lifting too quickly. She braces herself against me as I swing her around, almost hitting her wrapped ankle against the hallway door frame.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to injure me further to get me to stay longer,” she teases, snuggling her head into my chest as we move into the den. We descend the few stairs into the den. She looks up and around the room, gasping in awe at one point as I walk her further into the room. “It may be too early to judge, but I think this is my favorite room so far.”

  “Maybe. We’ll have to see. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but on your first assessment, I tend to agree,” I inform her. “It’s my favorite room too.”

  I sit her down in the recliner of my sectional sofa, facing the television and help her recline comfortably. I grab a pillow and start to prop her foot up even higher, but she hisses startling me. “Are you in pain?” I ask, stopping in mid-motion too afraid to move.


  “No, no pain,” she replies. “I promise. I think I was just nervous about you moving around so fast. Sorry.”

  “Alright then,” I say. “How about some chicken for an early dinner? And I’m sorry, but I should probably tell you now that I’ll have to go to the bar this evening. I don’t have a night manager on Sundays.”

  “Chicken sounds great,” she answers and grabs her phone without saying anything about me leaving her tonight. I lay the television remote next to her on the cushion and walk away, stopping briefly to stand at the door for one last word from her. Nothing further is said as she scrolls through her phone.

  Chapter 16 – Isabella

  My heart hurts at the thought of him going to the bar tonight, and that feeling alone drives me insane. I feel stuck here locked inside a house with a living room that’s a shrine to his dead fiancé, but it’s of my own doing. I fucked up today, trying to live in a moment that never should have occurred.

  I could leave I guess since it’s my left ankle that’s strained. I don’t need it to drive, but how do I ask for my keys? I push this thought as far back in my mind as I can, scrolling through my Facebook feed and seeing nothing that interests me. Damn it.

  I can’t leave.

  We’re going to have to deal with his fiancé. I need her to be brought up in conversation. I pray he brings her up first because I don’t want to be the cause of that soul-crushing look his eyes reveal when she enters his thoughts. I’ve seen it several times now, and I can almost feel the ghost of her living inside him, causing me to shiver.

  “Are you cold?” he asks, walking in the room with a large tray in his hands. He sets it down on the coffee table and walks to the far corner of the sectional to grab a throw blanket.

  “Just a little, maybe,” I say. “I’m not used to sitting down for this long.” He wraps it around my shoulders and tucks the throw into all of the nooks and crannies my body makes in this recliner, snuggling me in. I pull my arms free, and we both laugh having forgotten that I might need those to eat.

  He flips on the television to dispel the quiet in the room. It’s probably out of habit for him, but I don’t watch a lot of television. I’m hardly ever home, working in my office until very late into the evenings, or out with clients on other nights. Day jobs and wedding planning are always contradictory to each other, it seems, so we plan a lot of things after work. It’s the nature of the wedding beast.

  I cut into my chicken and wrap some of the accompanying pasta around my fork, before stabbing a piece of chicken and taking one very large bite into my mouth. I’m hungrier than I thought. I look up at him and almost choke in surprise to find he’s watching me eat.

  “It’s delicious,” I say with a mouth full of chewed noodles. My hand sneaks up to cover my mouth as my words come out. “Thank you for dinner...and the blanket.”

  “No need to thank me for either one,” he assures me. He turns his plate to cut into his pasta, and his eyes focus on the television screen as his loaded fork finds his mouth. Some kind of truck race is on. He hunkers over his plate and continues shoveling his food from fork to mouth absentmindedly. The leaderboard flashes on the screen and I watch him study it intently. I guess you can take the man out of the race, but not the race out of the man.

  I finish cutting my chicken while he’s distracted by the television, but my knife misses and screeches across the glass plate causing the tiny hairs on my arms to stand up. It was a noise much like nails on a chalkboard. I grit my teeth, wincing as I look up at him. “Sorry about that,” I say, and he gives me that smile that heats me up on the inside. Suddenly, I’m too hot for the blanket and toss it off behind me. I guess that’s why they call it a throw.

  He points the remote at the television causing the screen to go black, throwing the room into complete silence again, except for the sound of the blood flowing through my ears. “I wasn’t trying to get your attention with that noise,” I explain. “Go ahead and finish watching the race.”

  “Nah, I was being rude and didn’t even notice,” he replies. “We can talk if you’d like. I get so used to keeping my own company that I forget how to be attentive and entertain sometimes. It’s a fault I’ll have to work on.”

  “How long have you lived here?” I ask before taking a bite of my food, curious to know and hoping to release some of the awkwardness that has piled up between us today.

  He finishes eating and sets his plate off to the side of the coffee table. He sips his water and responds, “I think it’s been about twenty-three years. I’d have to think really hard about that to be sure.”

  “So you lived here when you bought the bar?” I ask, trying to piece together the timeline of his life that I already know.

  “Yeah, the original owner had died and it sat empty for almost a year, leaving this area without a bar,” he recalls. “I felt an overwhelming need to remedy that. My sister encouraged me to do it, and that’s the story.”

  “I saw the piano when we came in. Do you play?” I ask. I suspect it was her piano, but I don’t know for sure. He could be some Christian Grey piano phenom for all I know. I watch him open his mouth to speak, but he swallows his first words harshly. The color rises in his face, and he turns from me. His secondary thoughts come out more sincere.

  “No,” he murmurs softly, “that’s Olivia’s piano.” When he looks up his eyes are filled with unshed tears. He focuses on something on the bookshelf behind me. I turn my head to see a photo of she and him sitting on the white leather bench together, laughing and happy.

  I lean forward in the recliner and tug on his arm to come sit by me, patting the seat next to me. He doesn’t budge at first, but after a few moments goes by he gives up on the battle waging inside his head and takes the seat offered.

  “She must have been a wonderful person to have stolen your heart so deeply,” I offer, squeezing his hand. “I get the feeling that you don’t love easily.”

  “Not anymore,” he says and that truth releases the emptiness he’s been holding inside. His shoulders shake hard, and a guttural sob releases from his throat. He takes a few minutes to wipe his cheeks from the flowing tears and blow his nose. He steals glances at me every so often while he collects himself. His voice is shaky but deep when he’s ready to speak again.

  “She was soft against all of my hard edges. She calmed me down when no one else could. She used to say music soothes the soul, and she’d play me songs on the piano, and son-of-a-bitch it worked. She even learned to play heavy metal on that damn thing because she knew it was my favorite,” he laughs at that thought. My heart melts with seeing the smile on his face from that good memory.

  “Can you tell me how she died?” I ask. He narrows his eyes towards me and shakes his head violently. A different shade of red colors his face with my bold question.

  “No,” he barks. Jumping up from his seat next to me, he grabs both of our plates and heads to the kitchen. I hear them drop into the sink, crashing against the metal not sure if they broke or not. The only other noise I hear is the slamming of the back door. He’s gone in a huff; madder than a bear when someone messes with their cub.

  Well, Bella, you’ve really fucked this up. And for the third time today.

  I know Google holds the answers to my questions, but I’ve resisted the urge to snoop ever since he first told me about her. I slide my phone into my pocket, ignoring the temptation again. Only this time, I can feel the heat of my phone burning a hole in my curiosity. I remove it from my pocket and toss it to the other side of the couch.

  The remote is within reach and should help me find some entertainment from the quiet of his home. I flip the channels and find a Matthew McConaughey marathon starting. The Lincoln Lawyer is one of my favorites. I settle back into the throw blanket and wait for Frank to return.

  The back door opens with a long creaking noise, waking me. I rub my eyes and see it’s a little after 1:00 am on the clock. Oh God, please let that be Frank. Another door opens and I hear water running that changes int
o a shower. I’m confident in assuming it’s Frank. Who would break into someone’s home just to take a shower? The marathon is still on, and EdTV is playing. I love you Matthew but that is your worst movie. I turn off the TV and snuggle back down under the blanket.

  A little while later, I feel someone hovering around me in the den. Hands slide under me and strong arms lift me, blanket and all, carrying me to a room close by. Before setting me down, he inhales my hair, taking in my scent of honeysuckle. His nose nuzzles my neck and I moan, not being able to control what I feel for him. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my lips to his, pushing my tongue against the crease to open them. I hope he accepts my apology.

  He finally opens to me, and I take the kiss deeper, sucking on his tongue. We kiss without apology or regret. It’s pure want and need. My hand reaches out to touch his chest and I feel muscle and hair, no clothing. When he lays me down, I immediately remove my shirt tossing it to the floor. He lays on top of me, kissing the mounds of my breasts that overflow my demi bra. My hands slide into the elastic waistband of his shorts to cup his tight ass. I squeeze and pull him higher to graze his hard-on against my sex.

  I reach down and pull on the waistband of my leggings wanting them removed. He shoves on them to assist and they ride down my legs slowly. He crawls down me, kissing my belly and the top of my sex before easing my leggings over my wrapped ankle.

  Frank places his hands under my knees and bends my legs back to hang in the air. His tongue traces up the soft inner flesh of my thigh and I shiver with the heavy burden of wanting him to touch me where I ache for him. His fingers run along the lace edge of my panties before sliding them to the side. His tongue rides along the seam of my lips, before tickling my clit and pulling on it. He sucks deeply, thrusting his tongue in and out of me as my ass bucks off the bed.

  His hands reach up and pull on my small breasts, kneading them roughly and twisting each hardened nipple. “Suck them, Frank. I need your mouth on them,” I moan. He lifts up and kisses me first, letting me taste myself on his lips. I release a broken moan as his lips touch my breasts and he sucks hard on them, pulling them out and letting them pop from his lips.