Falling Into Us (5 page)

“Are you admitting to being afraid?” I asked, teasing him.

He glared at me. “Damn straight I am. But I did it anyway. That’s what courage is, you know: being afraid and doing what you have to do anyway. That’s what Dad told me, anyway, and it strikes me as true.” His faced darkened when he mentioned his father, and his fist tightened on the steering wheel. “But shit yeah, I was afraid when I asked her out. I was shaking.”

I laughed. “You sure could have fooled me. You looked like you were as cocky as ever.”

He looked at me with interest. “Cocky? Do I come across as cocky?”

I nodded. “Yeah. You act like you own the world. Like you’re not afraid of anyone or anything.” I picked at the chipping robin’s-egg-blue fingernail polish on my thumb. “I don’t know how you can do that. Act like that.”

He shook his head. “I don’t mean to come off as cocky. I don’t feel that way most of the time, to tell you the truth.”

I glanced at him. “So it’s an act?”

He shrugged. “Some of it, yeah. A lot of it, actually. I’m just like anyone else. I’ve got things I’m afraid of, secrets, insecurities, whatever. Everyone’s got that stuff. Maybe I just hide it better.”

I didn’t answer right away. The idea of Jason Dorsey being insecure or afraid seemed almost comically absurd to me. He never hesitated, never questioned himself. He was always self-assured and in control and confident. He knew who he was and what he was good at, and he knew people liked him. Not like me, in other words.

“Maybe you do,” I said. “Now, back to the subject at hand. How did you end up asking me out?”

Jason shifted in his seat. “So I showed up at Nell’s door for the date, and I got a phone call. I answered, thinking it was Kyle since it was his number on the I.D. It turned out to be Nell, backing out of the date. Apparently she and Kyle had some kind of argument that led to them realizing they belonged together or some melodramatic horseshit like that. I don’t know. All I know is, I was kind of upset, you know?” He looked at me, then away, as if about to say something that embarrassed him. “So then Nell tells me I should ask you to go out with me in her place. Now, for the record, I told her you’d react exactly the way you did. She was all like, ‘oh, just tell her what happened and it’ll be fine.’ So, it’s not like I got dumped by Nell and thought, ‘Oh, what about Becca, she’s almost as good as Nell.’”

I sucked in a sharp breath. That’s exactly how it felt to me. “No? Then what did you think?”

He didn’t answer for a long time. After almost five minutes of uncomfortable silence, he parked the truck in a slot in front of Bravo. He slid out and opened my door for me, and then the front door of the restaurant. My heart stopped when his hand settled on the small of my back, guiding me in through the inner foyer door. Neither of us spoke until we were seated at a round four-person table, a basket of bread and a dish of olive oil in front of us.
 

After we’d ordered, I leveled a serious look at Jason. “You never answered me. What were you thinking?”

Jason wouldn’t look at me. “I don’t know. A lot of things. I was thinking I was hurt, for one thing. I mean, I’ve liked Nell since we were kids. She never knew, and she never will, now. She and Kyle are, like, perfect together, you know? And she just stood me up without a second thought. It hurt. Then she told me to ask you instead, and it opened up a new line of thought. At first, it was kind of like just ‘why not?’ And yeah, I know how that sounds, and I’m sorry. You wanted the truth, so there it is.” He dipped bread into the olive oil and popped it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing before continuing; I was mesmerized by the way his jaw moved, by the strong lines as he chewed, the sure movement of his hands, the constant roaming of his eyes, flicking from the table to the door and then settling on me. “But the more I thought about it, the more I realized something. I realized I was holding on to the idea of having a crush on Nell. And really, a crush? What does that even mean? She’s never noticed me because she’s always been into Kyle. They’re just…so wrapped up in each other. They might not have put a romantic spin on it till now, but they’ve always been together. So I think I was just in love with the idea of having her notice me because she never did and never would.”

“And now?” I sipped my Coke and waited for his answer. If I didn’t like it, I was ready to bolt and walk home. This whole situation was skirting the edges of my ability to handle it.
 

It almost seemed like he was actually seeing me for
me
, and that was dangerous for my sanity. I almost didn’t want him to want me, because that would mean doing something about it.

“And now?” Jason swirled the ice in his glass with his straw. “Now I’m seeing things a bit differently. I thought about you, and I guess I realized I didn’t really know you. We’ve moved in the same circles our whole lives, you know? And I mean, you’re one of Nell’s best friends, but with Nell, pretty much anyone is going to come second after Kyle. Anyway, I realized I don’t know you, and I’d kind of like to. I mean, I know you’re really smart, like, smarter than pretty much everyone I know. And I know you’re really beautiful. But I don’t know much else. I think your parents are immigrants, but I’m not sure. I know you stutter sometimes. But really, that’s it.”

He thought I was beautiful? I had to focus on breathing to keep calm.
 

I laughed. “I’m not sure the term ‘immigrant’ is politically correct, Jason.” I was proud of myself for getting that out sounding casual, and without stuttering. I was still reeling from his throwaway comment about me being beautiful.

He shrugged. “You know what I mean. They moved here from another country.” He waved with a piece of bread. “Immigrants. Not a bad or good thing, just a thing.”

“My father is from Italy. He’s from a port city called Brindisi, which is in the region of Puglia—”

“Is that by Rome?” Jason asked.

I laughed. “No, it isn’t. It’s on the opposite side of the country, and farther south. He moved here when he was thirty, and he met my mother as he was leaving LaGuardia Airport.”

“Where’s your mom from? Italy?”

Our server dropped off our plates at that moment, and I dug in with pleasure before answering. “No, my mother is from Beirut, Lebanon. She moved here at the same time as my father, but she was much younger, only twenty-three. They fell in love, and got married within a year. They ended up moving here just after I was born. My older brother Benjamin was born in New York and lived there for three years.”

Jason had stopped eating to stare at me. “You’re Arabic?”

“Half.” I set my fork down. “Why do you seem so surprised?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. I guess I just didn’t realize it. Do you speak your parents’ languages?”

It was my turn to shrug, turning my face away. “Yeah. It’s complicated, but we all speak all three languages. My mom speaks Italian as well as Arabic and English, and my dad speaks Italian plus the others. Ben and I both speak all three. My parents insist we know their languages, plus we take vacations every year to Lebanon and Italy to see family.”

He gaped at me. “Wait. You speak
three
fucking languages?” He said it so loud the people around us looked at us.

“Do you have to shout?” I demanded, my voice quiet but intense.

“Sorry,” Jason mumbled.

“And yes, for the record, I do speak three fucking languages.” Jason’s eyes bugged out at my curse word, which apparently surprised him. “And yes, I can drop the F-bomb in all three. Can, and do. Just because I’m quiet and have a stutter doesn’t mean I don’t like to swear.”

Jason frowned at me. “That’s not why I’m surprised. You just seem…good. Like, not the kind of person to drop F-bombs at all. Not that you
couldn’t
, but that you
wouldn’t
. I’m actually kind of insulted that you’d think I’d think that about you.”

I felt myself blush with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. That was a rude assumption. It’s just how most people think. They never hear me talk, or when they do, it’s when I’m upset and stuttering. So then they assume I’m stupid or something, despite the fact that I’ve got a 4.0 GPA, speak three languages, and have college credit already.”

Jason stared at me again. “College credit? How?”

I waved my hand. “AP courses. Instead of skipping grades, my parents have me staying with my peers in the same grade, but they’ve worked out a plan with the school board. I’m in all kinds of advanced classes. I’m in a senior-level lit class right now, and that also counts as college credit. I’m also doing a co-op at the local community college. I go there every Tuesday morning instead of the high school and attend a class there. It’s complicated and boring to talk about. It just means a shit-ton of homework.”

“That’s impressive, Becca.” He sounded genuinely impressed.

 
I tried to wave it off, uncomfortable with his attention. “It’s not. My parents believe in using what you’re given. I’m apparently very smart, so I have to push myself as hard as possible. The best isn’t good enough. If I succeed at being the best, I have to go up to the next level.”

Jason’s face darkened. “I know how that is, be
lieve
me.”

“Your parents push you in school, too?” I asked. He never really seemed like the studious type. Not that he was stupid, just not an academic type of guy.

He laughed. “Well, don’t sound so surprised. But no, not like yours do you. My dad expects perfection from me in everything. I mean,
every
thing. I have a 4.0, too, but I’m in normal classes, so it’s not as impressive as you. It’s just part of the deal.
 
What I meant was, it’s like that with me and football. It’s not good enough that I make the varsity team my freshman year, which is really unusual, by the way. I have to break school records for most receptions and most touchdowns. And that’s not good enough, either. No, I have to break district records. So I do all that, and I’m only a sophomore. Now he’s after the state record. ‘Go bigger, Jason.’” His voice went deep and his eyes glazed over as he seemed to channel his father. “‘Stop settling for second best, you piece of shit. Play harder. Break the state record, Jason.’”

I felt something clench inside me at the obvious torment on his face. “He says that to you? Your own father?”

“My father.” He seemed to find the term “father” funny somehow, but it didn’t lessen the darkness in his eyes. “Yeah. He says that shit all the time. Whatever. He’s a dick, but he’s the reason I’m gonna set the national high school record for most career receptions.”

“You are?”

He laughed outright. “Yeah. The record was set by Davis Howell between 2009 and 2012, with 358. That’s according to the National Federation of State High School Association Sports Record Book, which my dad checks nearly every day. I’m not even halfway through my second season, and I’ve already made over 150 receptions. I need to average at least six receptions per game to break the record, and I do that easily. I’m only a sophomore, so I’ve still got the rest of this year and all of junior and senior years. But that’s just that particular stat record. Dad has his sights set on receiving yards, too. Which, by the way, is set by Dorial Green-Beckham from Springfield Missouri, at 6,356. To break that, I have to average at least 115 receiving yards per game. Which is absurd. Those are pro stats, Becca. These kids setting these records, they go on to be first-round NFL draft picks. They’re future Heisman winners. I’m…well, I’m good. I can do it. I have to.” I could hear him actually psyching himself up as he said it, convincing himself.

I didn’t know the difference between receptions and receiving yards or what a draft pick was, but I could see the panic in his eyes, and I could recognize the hardened determination of someone who’s been given a goal and no option but to achieve it; I saw it in him because I saw it in myself every day. “What happens if you don’t?” I asked.

His face shut down, went hard and cold. “That’s…not an option.”

“I don’t like how that sounds, Jason. What do you mean, it’s not an option? You
have
to break the national record, or what?” He didn’t answer, just picked at his chicken parmesan. “Jason? Or what?” I leaned forward, tried to get him to meet my eyes.

He looked up suddenly, and the hate in his eyes had me scooting back in fear. “Or
nothing
, Becca. I will. Because I
have
to, okay? That’s it.” He looked away, and I wasn’t sure what to say, what to think. “I’m sorry. I—that was—I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.” He shot to his feet and retreated to the bathroom, leaving me with a half-eaten plate of pesto and no appetite.
 

He wasn’t just driven, he was being pushed so hard it was consuming him. I would never have guessed. I watched him play every game, since Nell and Jill dragged me to games all the time. Kyle was the quarterback, and the star of the team, flashy and beautiful and godlike in his near-perfection, and Jill’s boyfriend Nick Nagle was on the team, too, but he was one of the guys in the front line who wrestle with the other team’s front line. I watched Jason play all the time, and he always seemed to have fun, like being on the field was his element, as if there was nowhere he’d rather be. I was seeing a different reality now, it seemed.

Jason came back and seemed to be in control once again. He sat down and touched the back of my hand with his, sending lightning shooting through me. “I’m sorry I blew up, Becca. It’s no big deal, really. Yeah, my dad pushes me hard, but it’s for the best. It makes me better. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

I recognized a blow-off when I got one. “Okay, well, that’s bullshit, but I’ll let it slide.”

He grinned, and confident, cocky Jason was back. “So. Enough about me and football. Tell me something about you.”

“Like what?” I asked, nervous.
 

“Like, I don’t know. Something no one else knows.”

I searched for something unimportant to tell him. “I’m double-jointed in my hands?” I bent the fingers of one of my hands back with the palm of the other so the tips of my fingers touched the back of my forearm. Jason winced, and then again when I bent my thumb back double. “It helps with piano, since I have nimble fingers.”