After We Fell (27 page)

“Fine,” his frustrated daughter responds. She looks to her mother, but the woman stays silent. If I had another glass of wine, I would call the jerk out, but I don't want to upset Ken and Karen.

“Tessa, are you coming back with us?” Karen asks.

“No, I'm going to stay here for a little while, if that's okay?” I hope she doesn't mind. I watch as she looks to Lillian and then behind me to where Robert stands in the distance. I get the feeling
she has no clue about Lillian's sexual orientation, and she's annoyed by the way Hardin was behaving with her. I love Karen.

“That's fine with us; you have fun.” She smiles approvingly.

“Okay.” I return her smile and walk away from the table without saying goodbye to Max and his wife.

“We're good to go; she's not allowed to stay,” I tell Robert when I reach him.

“Not allowed?”

“Her father is a jerk. I'm sort of glad, though, because I'm not sure how I feel about her. She reminds me of someone. I can't quite put my finger on who . . .” I let the thought trail off as I follow Robert to an empty section of the restaurant. A few tables sit in the closed-off area, bare save for unlit votive candles and salt and pepper shakers.

As we sit, Zed's mutilated face flashes through my mind. I ask Robert, “Are you sure you're okay with hanging out with me? Hardin may come back, and he has a tendency to assault people . . .”

Robert pulls a chair out for me and laughs. “I'm sure,” he answers.

Taking the seat across from me, he refills our Styrofoam cups with white wine, and we toast, the cups' soft material bending slightly and lacking that clink of glassware. Nice and cozy, unlike the rest of this hard-edged restaurant.

I
've called every damn taxi company between here and college trying to get a ride back home. No one accepted, of course, because of the distance. I could take a bus, but public transportation really isn't my thing. I remember the way I used to cringe when Steph would mention Tessa taking the bus to the mall or to Target. Even when I disliked Tessa . . . well, when I thought I did . . . I'd still panic at the thought of her sitting alone on the bus with a bunch of fucking creeps.

Everything has changed since then, since those days when I'd tease and taunt Tessa just to get a rise out of her. Her face when I left her on the balcony of the restaurant . . . maybe it hasn't changed at all. I haven't changed.

I'm torturing the girl I love. That's exactly what I'm doing, and I can't seem to stop. This isn't all my fault, though—it's her fault, too. She keeps pushing me to go to Seattle, and I've made it clear that I'm not giving in on that. Instead of battling me, she should just pack her shit and come to England with me. I'm not staying here whether I'm expelled or not—I'm bored in America, and it's been nothing but shit for me. I'm sick of seeing my dad all the time; I'm sick of everything here.

“Watch where you're going, dick,” a female voice says in the darkness, startling me.

I sidestep the figure before I run into her. “You watch where
you're
going,” I fire back, without stopping.
Why the hell is this chick out here in front of Max's cabin, anyway?

“
Excuse
me?” she says, and I turn around to look at her just as the motion-sensor light clicks on from the cabin's porch. I get a good look at her: brown skin, curly hair, ripped jeans, biker boots.

“Let me guess: Riley, right?” I roll my eyes at the girl in front of me.

She puts a hand on her hip. “And who the hell are you?”

“Yep, Riley. If you're looking for Lillian, she isn't here.”

“Where is she? And how do you know that I'm looking for her?” the feisty girl challenges.

“Because I just fucked her.”

She tenses up, lowering her head so darkness overtakes her features. “What did you just say?” she says and steps forward.

I tilt my head to the side and stare at her. “Christ, I'm just fucking with you. She's at the restaurant down the road with her parents.”

Riley raises her head and stops. “Okay, and how do you know her?”

“Met her yesterday. Her dad went to college with mine, I guess. Does she know you're here?”

“No, I've been trying to get hold of her,” she says and gestures at the woods surrounding us. “But since she's out in the middle of fucking nowhere, she hasn't been answering. Probably her shitsucker of a dad keeping her from talking.”

I sigh. “Yeah, he is that. Is he even going to let you see her?”

She scowls at me. “Aren't you nosy as hell?” But then she smirks proudly. “Yeah, he will. He's a dick, but he's even more of a pussy, and he's afraid of me.”

Headlights flash out in the darkness, and I step onto the grass. “That's them,” I tell her.

Shortly, the car pulls into the driveway and comes to a halt. Lillian practically jumps out the door and into Riley's arms.

“How did you get here?” she practically squeals.

“I drove,” her girlfriend answers drily.

“How did you find me? I haven't had service all week.” She nuzzles into her girlfriend's neck, and I watch as Riley's tough-girl exterior begins to crack. Her hand moves up and down against Lillian's back lovingly.

“It's a small place, baby. It wasn't too hard.” She pulls back a little to look at Lillian's face. “Is your dad going to give me shit for coming?”

“No. Well, maybe. But you know he won't make you leave.”

I force out a cough, feeling awkward standing there watching this reunion. “Okay, well, I'm going to go,” I say and begin to walk off.

“Bye,” Riley says. Lillian doesn't say anything.

After a few minutes, I reach the gate to my father's cabin and walk up the driveway. Tessa will be here any minute, and I want to be inside before the SUV pulls into the driveway. She'll be crying, I'm sure, and I'll have to come up with an apology to make her stop and listen to me.

I barely make it to the porch when Karen and Lillian's mother step out of the car. “Where is everyone else?” I ask her, my eyes searching for Tess.

“Oh, well, your dad and Landon rode back with Max to watch some game on television.”

“Where's Tessa?” Panic rises in my chest.

“She's back at the restaurant.”

“What?”
What the fuck.
This isn't how it's supposed to go.

“She's with him, isn't she?” I ask the two women, even though I already know the answer. She's with the blond asshole with the sheriff for a father.

“Yeah, she is,” Karen says, and if I wasn't stuck out in the middle of nowhere with her, I'd cuss her out for the small smile she's trying to hide.

S
o that's basically the story of my life,” Robert ends with a grin. His smile is warm and honest—almost childlike, but in the most endearing way.

“That was . . . interesting.” I reach for the wine bottle on the table and lift it to fill my glass. Nothing comes out.

“Liar,” he teases, and I burst into wine-induced giggles. His life story was short and sweet. Not plain really, not exciting, just normal. He grew up with both parents: his mother the schoolteacher, his father the sheriff. After graduating from the small college two towns away, he decided to go to medical school. He's only working here now because he's on the wait list to get into the medical program at the University of Washington. Well, that and he makes pretty good money working at the most expensive restaurant around.

“You should have gone to WCU instead,” I tell him, and he shakes his head. He stands up from the table and puts his index finger in the air to pause our conversation. I sit back in the chair while I wait for him to return. I rest my head against the wooden chair and look up. The ceiling in this small section is painted with clouds, castles, and cherubs. The figure directly above me is sleeping, with pink staining her cheeks and blond curly hair topping her head. Her small white wings lay almost flat in slumber. Next to her, a boy—at least I assume it's a boy—stares at her, watching her with his black wings spread behind him.

Hardin.

“No way,” Robert says suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. “Even if I wanted to, they don't offer the program I need. Plus, the medical program is part of the main campus in Seattle. At WCU, your Seattle campus is much smaller.” When I lift my head up, I see he has a new bottle of wine in his hands.

“Have you been there? To the campus?” I ask him, eager to learn more about my new location. I'm even more eager to stop staring at creepy images of baby angels on the ceiling.

“Yeah, only once. It's small but it's nice.”

“I'm supposed to be there on Monday, and I have nowhere to live.” I laugh. I know my poor planning shouldn't be funny, but right now it feels that way.

“This Monday? As in today is Thursday and Monday is right around the corner?”

“Yep.” I nod.

“What about the dorms?” he asks as he uncorks the bottle.

Living in the dorms never crossed my mind, not even once. I had assumed . . . well, hoped . . . that Hardin would be accompanying me, so they weren't on my radar.

“I don't want to live on campus, especially now that I know how it feels to live on my own.”

He nods and starts pouring. “True, once you get a taste of freedom, you can't go back.”

“So true. If Hardin went to Seattle . . .” I stop myself. “Never mind.”

“So were you guys planning on trying the long-distance thing?”

“No, it would never work,” I say, feeling an ache rise in my chest. “The short-distance thing barely even works for us.” I need to change the subject before I end up a blubbering mess. “Blubbering,” what a strange word.

“Blubbering,” I say while pinching my lips between my thumb and index finger.

“Entertaining yourself?” Robert smiles and places a full cup of wine before me. I nod, still laughing. “I have to say, this is the most fun I've had at work in a while.”

“Me, too,” I agree. “Well, if I worked here.” I'm making no sense at all. “I don't drink often—well, more now than I ever did before—but not enough to have built a tolerance, so I get drunk pret-ty fast,” I sing, lifting my cup in front of my face.

“I'm the same. I'm not much of a drinker, but when a beautiful girl is having a bad night, I make an exception,” he says bravely, but then flushes terribly. “I just meant . . . ahh . . .” He covers his face with his hands. “I don't seem to have a filter around you.”

I reach across the table and lower his hands from his face; he flinches slightly, and when he looks up at me his blue eyes are so clear.

“It's like I can tell what you're thinking,” I say aloud, without a thought.

“Maybe you can,” he whispers in response, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

I know he wants to kiss me; I can read it on his face. I can see it in his honest eyes. Hardin's eyes are so guarded all the time I have to struggle to be able to read him, and even then I've never been able to read him the way I want to, the way I need to. I lean closer to Robert, the small table still between us as he leans forward, too.

“If I didn't love him so much, I'd kiss you,” I quietly say, not pulling back but not moving any closer. As drunk as I am, and as angry as I am at Hardin, I can't do it. I can't kiss this other guy. I want to, but I can't.

The left corner of his mouth lifts into a crooked smile. “And if I didn't know how much you love him, I'd let you.”

“Okay . . .” I'm not sure what else to say, and I'm drunk and awkward, and I don't know how to act around anyone other than
Hardin and Zed, but in a way those two are similar. Robert isn't like anyone I've ever met. Except Landon. Landon is sweet and kind, and my mind is racing from the almost-kiss with someone who is not Hardin.

“I'm sorry.” I sit back down on the chair, and he does the same.

“Don't be. I'd much rather you not kiss me than kiss me and regret it.”

“You're strange,” I tell him. I wish I'd chosen a different word, but it's too late now. “In a good way,” I correct myself.

“So are you.” He chuckles. “When I first saw you in that dress, I thought you were going to be some snobby rich girl with no personality at all.”

“Well, sorry. I'm surely not rich.” I laugh.

“Or snobby,” he adds.

“My personality isn't too bad.” I shrug.

“It will do,” he teases with a smile.

“You're awfully nice.”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“I don't know.” I start poking at my cup. “Sorry, I know I sound like an idiot.”

He looks puzzled for a moment, then says, “You don't sound like an idiot. And you don't have to keep apologizing.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. I'm vaguely aware that I have now picked apart the rim of the Styrofoam cup; small pieces of white litter the table in front of me.

“You keep apologizing for everything you say. You've said ‘sorry' at least ten times in the last hour. You haven't done anything wrong, so you don't have anything to apologize for.”

I'm embarrassed by his words, but his eyes are so kind and his voice doesn't hold even a sliver of annoyance or judgment. “I'm sorry . . .” I say again reflexively. “See! I don't know why I do that.” I smooth a loose lock of hair behind my ear.

“I can guess, but I won't. Just know that you shouldn't have to,” he states simply.

I take a deep breath and let it out. It's relaxing to have a conversation with someone without worrying about upsetting them the entire time.