Continuum (22 page)

He scoffs disbelievingly, “What is the matter with you, Fallon?  One minute, I feel like you're finally letting me in.  Then you turn around and slam the door in my face.”

The pain in his voice makes me want to crawl back under the covers and never come out again, “I'm sorry, Ethan.  I never meant for you to feel this way.  I shouldn't have let it get this far.”

Ethan stands up, a spark of anger in his eyes.  He stalks to the front door, his hand pausing on the knob.  “You feel something for me too.  You're just not willing to admit it.”  He yanks the door open and leaves wordlessly, the door swinging shut with a click.  

The moment the door closes, I allow the despair to take over.  It feels like a hole has been carved into my chest and the fresh anguish is overwhelming.  I curl into myself, my arms wrapped around my ribcage which is threatening to crack apart, as sobs rack my body.  I have hurt the only person left on this planet that cares about me.  I feel utterly detestable.

Ethan

Tremors roll down my body as I make my way down the drive way.  I curl and uncurl my fists in a tight ball, fight the urge to smash something.  My jaw is clenched tightly to hold in the scream bubbling up from my lips.  I’m frustrated.  I’m angry.  But above all, I’m disappointed.  I put on my helmet and secure the strap with trembling hands.  It takes me three tries before I can get my motorcycle into gear.   Oh God, I’ve really screwed things up this time.

I ride home instead of returning to school knowing that my mom will be out of town until Thursday.  I lock my bike in the garage and enter through the kitchen, dropping my book bag on the dining table.  I cut through into the living room and toss my jacket onto the couch. I don’t bother taking off my shoes as I clomp upstairs.  I fall into bed, fully dressed with shoes on, and stare up at the ceiling.

I am an impulsive person.  Always had been.  I liked to think of myself as spontaneous--it has a more positive connotation.  Toddlers are impulsive, not having learned to control their actions.  But to be fair, I did seem to lack a degree of control when it came to Fallon Pierce.

Around her, I tend to act without thinking things through.  I was the one that showed up at Fallon’s house.  Uninvited.  I was the one that kissed her.  Unwelcomed.  To bruise my ego further, she had to give me the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech.  I bury my face into my pillow trying to block out the replay going on in my head.

This was a familiar scenario.  Me lying in bed thinking of kissing her.  Only this time, I can still taste her on my lips.  I can still feel her body pressed against mine.  I can still feel her arms wrapped around my neck.  In that moment, she felt perfect.  Then it was over.  But Fallon had kissed me back.  I was certain of that.

Flipping over onto my back, I slip my cell phone out of the pocket of my jeans.  I open up a message box and stare at the flashing cursor for a few moments.  Cursing, I lock the screen and toss the phone aside.  It bounces once and falls onto the floor with a resounding thud.

Rubbing my temples, I try to convince myself that no action is the best course of action.  It’s like the harder I pushed her boundaries, the more she resisted.  These past few weeks, I finally felt like she was letting me in.  I knew she was telling me things she had never told a soul, yet today she seemed farther away than ever before.  

My phone vibrates on the floor, clattering loudly against the wood.  Groaning, I roll over onto my stomach and pick it up.  1 Unread Message from Sam.

Sitting in french.  Tres bored.  Wanna come over & play sum video games after school?  Need a reason 2 make it thru the day.  Have practice until 7ish?

I wasn’t really in the mood for company, but it beat sitting alone in my bedroom and replaying this afternoon’s events.  I hit reply:  
Sure thing.  I’ll bring the pizza this time.

I had been to Sam’s house a couple times, but stepping into his room never ceases to shock me.  He is the only son and youngest of three, therefore the only one still living at home.  His house is decorated in a classical farmhouse style complete with checkered curtains and ceramic roosters in the kitchen.  Every room is neat as a pin except for his bedroom--which always looks like a bomb went off thirty seconds before the door opened.

The walls are completely covered with various posters of athletes and rock bands alongside pictures of his friends and various teams he had played on.  Tacked above his headboard is the navy and silver Everest Heights High School banner complete with a roaring silver panther.  His trophy case is spilling over with plastic trophies and multi-colored ribbons.  A TV sits in the corner of the room and the video game console sits on the floor.  His games and DVDs overflow the small entertainment center.  Every inch of his floor, bed, and desk is covered with clothes, clean and worn.

For some reason, his bedroom feels more homey than my current bedroom.  All the mementos and mess feel very lived in.  My parents never allowed us to have a TV in our room let alone video games.  My mom would probably have an aneurysm if I left my clothes wherever they fell.

Thankfully, he has cleared off a small area on his bedroom floor for us to sit.  We set the pizza down on the floor between us and devour half the pie before starting on the first game.  We sit in silence except for the fierce tapping of our controllers and the occasional commentary coming from the speakers accompanied by the faux cheering of the crowd.  Sam curses and slams his controller on the ground when his quarterback gets sacked once again.

Sam pauses the game and calls a time out, “I need a break.  Pizza time.  This pizza isn’t gonna eat itself.”  He starts devouring another slice of pizza before I can object.

“Aw c’mon,  there’s like two minutes left to the game.  You’re just mad that your guy is getting pummeled,” I say as I tear into another slice of pizza.  “That’s what you get for creating a character in your likeness.”

He retorts with a mouth full of pizza, “I would have played as you but they don’t have a template for pretty boys who can’t outrun my grandma.”

I roll my eyes, “Don’t hate just cause you can’t outrun my defensive end.”

Sam changes tactics, “Speaking of outrunning someone, Mackenzie was looking for you like mad during lunch.  Did you cut out early today?”

I grimace, remembering her slew of unread messages in my inbox, “Yeah, I left after third period.  I got her six thousand text messages... and ignored them.  She can be a bit over the top with that stuff.”

“Mackenzie can be annoyingly persistent.  Is everything okay with you two?”

“We’re just friends.  She doesn’t seem to understand that.”

“Hmm... you okay?  You seem kind of off tonight.”  Sam was more observant than people gave him credit people.

I waver on whether or not to share what happened earlier this afternoon with Sam.  Against my better judgement, I just take the plunge, “I cut school to go over to Fallon’s house.  We had this really intense... conversation last week and then I was gone all weekend visiting my cousins in Chicago.  Then she wasn’t in school today... so I went over to her house.

“You know that’s what texting is for,” he says exasperatedly.

“I had to see her.  And people ignore texts.”

He furrows his brow, “Okay, so you saw her.  Why are you so down?  Some serious stuff go down between you two?”  

Now I’m really grimacing as I recall her rejection, a fresh wave of pain and humiliation clenching my chest, “We... sort of... kissed.”  Sam doesn’t respond, instead he slowly chews his mouthful of pizza.  “Sorry, Sam.  Is this weird for you?  I mean you guys used to date...”

He responds thoughtfully, “Nah, that was a long time ago.  Fallon Pierce isn’t the same girl I dated back in middle school.  So when did this development happen?  I mean I knew you had a thing for her.  I didn’t know it had gotten to that point.”

“I guess we’ve been spending a lot of time together.  Just like talking, hanging out, making art and stuff.  Then today... I don’t know if I would call it a development.  It feels more like a regression,” I reply, feeling dejected to say it out loud.

“Sorry to hear that, man.  What happened?”  He sounds genuinely apologetic which makes me feel all the more pathetic.

I stare at Sam’s ceiling as I reconstruct the timeline, “Everything has been going great these last few weeks.  Or so I thought.  We’ve been taking things slow.  The whole being friends route but then I screwed it up by kissing her this afternoon.  She freaked out, gave me the whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech.  I felt like such a freaking idiot.  I didn’t even know what to say, so I just left.”

“I’ve known Fallon for a very long time, but I don’t think I ever understood her.”

Snorting, I reply, “That is an understatement.”

“You’re the first person I’ve seen her talk to in a long time.  She tries to be slick and ask about you when we work on our English project.”

“She talks to you, too.”

“I mean
talk
talk.  Like open up and share feelings and stuff, you know what I mean,” he reaches over and gives me a punch on the shoulder, “Fallon can be distant.  She was never really good at sharing what she was thinking or feeling.  But she is also an amazing girl to know-- loyal, funny, and sharp as a whip.”

I feel a pang of jealousy hearing Sam talk about Fallon so possessively, “What happened between the two of you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Sam scratches his head, pausing to gather his thoughts before he starts.  His eyes glaze over as his thoughts travel back to the past.   “Well, I’ve known Fallon since third grade when my family moved here from Lakeside.  We all went to the same elementary school and middle school.  Fallon actually used to be one of the popular girls, hung out with Mackenzie and them nonstop.  But she wasn’t catty like the others.  Everyone liked her.  She was so pretty and smart and it just felt nice to be around her.  She was one of those people who always knew the perfect thing to say in every situation.  We started dating in seventh grade, went to our first dance together.  But mostly just doing homework together and holding hands in the hallway and going to dances and stuff.  I guess we started getting more ‘serious’ in eighth grade.  Making out at parties and going on dates to the mall together and other couple-y things.  But at the end of the school year, Fallon’s mom died in a car accident.  She stopped coming to school.  She stopped answering my calls.  She wouldn’t come out of her room when I went over to her house.  Then one day before summer break, she disappeared.  No one saw her or heard from her all break.  Her dad sold their house later that summer.  No one knew what happened to her or if she was coming back to school.  But then on the first day of Freshman year, there she was.  No one knew where she had been all summer and she didn’t talk to anyone.  She had cut off all her hair, started dressing differently.”  Sam shrugs, his eyes coming back into focus, “But she was different, too.  Quieter, more serious.  She didn’t acknowledge any of her old friends.  It was like the Fallon Pierce I knew had died.”

“So just like that?  She just stopped talking to anybody?  She just cut everyone off?”

“It’s more complicated than that.  We were a bunch of fourteen-year-olds.  We didn’t know what to say around her.  I knew she was hurting, but I couldn’t even start to understand how she was feeling.  She was fine playing the role of the outsider and after awhile, everyone forgot the old Fallon.  I mean I was still friendly with her, still said hello when we passed each other in the hallways.  But I don’t know... it’s like she would push me away every time I tried to get close to her again.  We were young.  So I moved on.”

Sam is a good friend.  With his insight, I almost feel like I’m starting to understand her.  Fallon had lost someone she loved and never healed from it.  She still blames herself for what happened to her mom.  I think of the scars running down her wrists.  The pain of her loss nearly destroyed her.  Of course, she was scared to care about someone again.  I wasn’t ready to give up on her yet.

Fallon

It is exactly 2:16AM and I am lying in bed, still wide awake.  Propped up on my elbow, I stare at the red glow of my alarm clock, my eyes sliding in and out of focus on the numbers.  My body is dead tired from waking up at 4:00AM the previous morning but my brain is humming.  

Ethan kissing me was on a constant loop in my brain, torturing me and keeping me awake.  The way his lips molded to mine.  The way his hand held me against his body.  The way my defenses crumbled as our lips met.  It had been incredible and heartbreaking at the same time.  This was the most vulnerable I had ever allowed myself to be for a very, very long time.

The images continue, replaying every part of what happened this afternoon.  Telling Ethan kissing him was a mistake.  I can still see the anguish in his eyes caused by my rejection, running away from me for a change.  The curse of perfect recall.  Part of the curse of being Fallon Pierce.  No matter how much the logical side of me tells me to run from my feelings for this boy, my heart keeps making me stumble.  I have screwed things up with Ethan so magnificently, it is staggering to think about.  After today--I mean after yesterday, I probably don’t have to worry about Ethan wanting anything to do with me.

Angrily I toss the covers aside and sit up, flipping on my bedside lamp.  Pulling my sketchpad off the nightstand, I grab a piece of charcoal from my pencil box.  I cover the page in charcoal until the page is complete darkness.  With an eraser in hand, I feverishly attack the page until my vision appears.  

Little by little,  I am uncovering Ethan from the darkness.  The curve of his lips.  The hard line of his jaw.  His proud, straight nose.  His beautiful, expressive eyes.  When I complete the drawing, my heart is in my throat.  Ethan is staring back at me from the page handsome as ever, his expression haunting.  It’s his eyes.  There is too much pain in his eyes.  Pain that I had caused him.  Feeling sick, I push the drawing aside.

How did it come to this?  How had things gotten so out of control?  I rake my hand through my disheveled hair and inhale deeply to steady myself.  For the hundredth time tonight, I pick up my cell phone.  This time my shaky hands manage to dial Ethan’s number.