Fear of Falling (7 page)

CJ took a long swig of his beer before launching into stories of his latest conquests. As disgusting as he was, he somehow pulled his fair share of women. It was pretty damn surprising. Either they had to have extremely low self-esteem, the IQ of a fruit fly or they had to be deaf and blind. I needed to tell myself that to maintain just an inkling of faith in the opposite sex.

“So I pull up to one of my job sites at some strip mall and there she is, Wendy Tig-o-Bitties Braxton, looking as hot as ever. And I swear her tits got even bigger! Of course, I wanted to hit that, but before I could even grace her with the famous Jacobs charm, she was asking about you.” He downed the remains of his beer and shook his head. “I swear, this whole broken-hearted-puppy-dog shit gets you more pussy than ever. Pisses me off.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at his analogy, as I filled an order for a nearby customer. The regulars had grown used to CJ and his mouth. And if they hadn’t, they soon would. He was a permanent fixture at Dive and even filled in on occasion, though he sucked at making drinks.

“Don’t blame me, CJ. Blame these clueless chicks you keep running behind. I don’t ask for their sympathy or their charity.”

“Yeah, but you sure don’t hesitate to take it,” he snorted, just as I placed an ice-cold beer in front of him. “Admit it, the whole Lonely Boy shit is all an act to get easy ass. It is, isn’t it?”

“Lonely Boy?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh yeah,” CJ replied, embarrassed. “The girl I’ve been banging has some obsession with Gossip Girl. She makes me watch that shit with her to get her in the mood. Fucking irritating at first but it’s a pretty cool show. The chicks are hot as hell, and Chuck Bass is one cool motherfucker. I might start wearing bowties.”

I couldn’t do more than shake my head. Yeah, Craig was family but he had about as much sense as a houseplant.

“The things we do to get laid.”

“The power of the pussy,” he nodded in agreement. I couldn’t argue with him there.

My earliest memory was at the age of two. Experts may argue that it’s impossible to have memories at that tender age. But some things you just can’t forget, no matter how bad you want to rip them from your memory. And I remember…everything.

I remembered the tiny apartment with the sand colored rug and the bare, off-white walls, barren of any mementos of family vacations or milestones. And I remembered my father shoving my mother’s head through one of those off-white walls, leaving a large, gaping hole.

I was sitting on the floor, looking up at the two of them as he tried his hardest to beat her until she was unrecognizable. I don’t remember crying though. I never remembered crying. I should have cried for my mother. I think any normal child would have at the sight of their mother’s agony. She cried all the time. It seemed like that’s all I remember her doing when I was younger.

That memory was revealed in kindergarten, when I was about six years old. Most girls drew pictures of flowers and hearts. I drew pictures of terrifying monsters that preyed on women. There were no flowers and hearts in my world. I didn’t even know they existed. And I told stories...elaborate tales of bloodthirsty beasts that brutalized my mother and me every night. About how we would cower in my room, trying to stay as quiet as possible, in hopes that he wouldn’t find us.

But he always did. My stories never had happy endings.

My teachers called me a liar. They would place me in timeout and revoke playtime privileges. I didn’t cry then either. I just sat in the miniature red plastic chair and tried to savor every second away from home. Even though the kids picked on me and called me weird and poor, and my teachers had deemed me a problem child, I was safe. No one wanted to hurt me there. I wasn’t afraid. My mother wasn’t crying in the corner, shielding my body with hers. There were no monsters there.

252

I counted the tiny paper stars in the glass jar every night. I had been doing it for years. I had to. I had to count them all. 252. A star for every fear. Most of them were repeats but I wrote them down anyway. Just acknowledging my neurosis was enough for the time being. It was enough to get by.

I took out a skinny strip of pastel colored paper and scribbled a single word on it before my fingers worked it into a tiny star no larger than a button. Then I slipped it into the jar.

253. This one wasn’t a repeat.

“What are you doing?” Dom asked, suddenly in my doorway, startling me. I really wished I could close it, but I…couldn’t.

I answered with a weak smile as I stuck lucky number 253 in the jar. It had been a while since I had added any new additions.

Dominic frowned, not completely satisfied with my lack of an answer. He invited himself all the way into the semi-sanctuary of my bedroom and flopped down on my bed, rattling the glass jar of tiny origami stars. “Did you just add one?”

I shrugged sheepishly and let out a breath. “Yeah. So? No big deal.”

His expression softening, Dom pulled my body close to his, draping an arm around my shoulders. “Hey, you wanna talk about it? I know you haven’t added in a while.”

I shook my head against the warmth of his sculpted chest. He was the only man I would ever let hold me like this. This was the one sliver of affection that I found acceptable. It was the closest I would ever come to true intimacy, though we weren’t intimate in the sexual sense. We could never cross that line; I couldn’t lose the only man I ever loved.

“There’s nothing to talk about. Really. It’s nothing.” At least my head was saying that. Every other part of me screamed otherwise.

Dom sat up and grasped my shoulders, pulling my body away from his to assess my face. Even my blank expression couldn’t elude his bullshit meter. He was such an experienced bullshit artist himself; he could spot a load of crap a mile away.

“It’s not
nothing
. And you do need to talk about it. I told you about this, Kam. It was part of our deal. You go to therapy and be completely honest with me, and I wouldn’t give you shit for your condition.”

I shrugged out of his hold, giving him a stern glare. “No. That was
your
deal. I told you—I’m fine. And therapy isn’t working. I’m not going back.” I grabbed the jar of stars still on my bed and placed it in its designated spot on my windowsill. “And I don’t have a condition, Dom. Yeah, I have issues, but we all do. Yourself included. I’m surviving the best way I know how, just like you are.”

My oldest friend, the man that had become closer than a brother to me, let out an irritated breath at the mention of his own demons. Demons that still haunted him in every aspect of his life. “This isn’t about me. Yeah, my life is pretty fucked up, but I’m functional. You’re barely hanging on, babe. And I’m not saying all this shit to get under your skin. I want you to get better.”

“What if I can’t get better?” I snapped, whirling around to face him. “This isn’t some illness I can just take medicine to get rid of, Dom. You of all people should know that. This. Is. Me. My situation isn’t fucked up.
I’m
fucked up. Completely, irrevocably, fucked up to my core.”

Dom was already on his feet and enveloping my frame with his. “Stop. Just stop it, Kam,” he whispered into my hair. “The real you isn’t fucked up. We just gotta dig deeper, babe. Just keep trying to push aside the bullshit and reveal the real you, ok? Your fears are not you. Do you hear me? They don’t define who you are.”

“But this
is
who I am,” I murmured, trying to stifle my sudden surge of emotion. “It’s been me for 23 years. I’m tired, Dom. So fucking tired.”

I forced myself to take a cleansing breath then tucked away the conversation and all its revelations. Compartmentalizing. It had been the only way I had survived the first six years of my life. And the only thing that kept me from wasting away in a padded cell after that.

Dominic squeezed me tighter, knowing that it was exactly what I needed. He was holding me together. Hanging on to all the complex pieces that had somehow created the illusion of a well-adjusted, twenty-three year old woman. But he knew the truth. He knew the pain that festered inside of me. He knew about the memories that haunted me every time I closed my eyes. Dominic was probably the only person on Earth that understood how wholly my demons had plagued my life, because he lived with similar demons. And he loved me anyway. Our pasts, our pains, had brought us together. They were the glue in our relationship.

To be completely honest, I felt like an asshole being so needy and pathetic compared to Dom. If anyone had an excuse to break, it was him. Dominic Trevino was both the strongest, and most tortured, person I knew. We met nearly five years ago though it felt like we had known each other our entire lives. Our past pains were our solidarity; our individual hells had bonded us for life.

The day Dom found me in the parking lot of our campus counselor’s office, I was a shivering, blubbering mess. I was hell-bent on making it on my own. I had run away from any and every thing I knew and traveled across the country in search of freedom from my past. I just didn’t expect for my journey to leave me more afraid and unstable than ever.

Dom was attending a group therapy session for abuse survivors. I was still trying to conjure up the courage to enter the building. He took one look at me and knew exactly what to do. Tentatively, he took my hand and led me inside. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t even ask me my name. He just sat with me as I listened. When it was Dom’s turn to share with the group, he passed, as did I. And when it was over, he led me back outside, his hand in mine. I don’t know why I let him touch me. That was something I hadn’t allowed anybody. But something about Dom put me at ease. As if we were kindred. I recognized something in his touch that was familiar.

He was damaged. Even more so than I was.

Dominic stroked my hair and squeezed me to him. Even after all these years, he was still holding me together. “I’m tired too, babe,” he murmured, as he kissed my forehead. “But we have to keep going. We can’t let them win. If we let them control us now after we’ve come so far, what else would we have left?”

I pulled away from his embrace, looking up into greenish-brown eyes shrouded in long, black lashes. “We’ll have each other. We’ll always have each other.”

He smiled down at me, yet failed to hide the turmoil he dealt with on a daily basis. It amazed me that he even got out of bed each morning, let alone maintained a somewhat healthy lifestyle. Dominic Trevino was undoubtedly more tormented than me, yet somehow he found a way to live through it. I envied him, I loved him, and I wanted him to have the happily-ever-after he deserved. That we all deserved.

“Come on, I want to take you out to dinner, so you can tell me all about your first day at work,” he said, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

I shrugged, but let him lead me out of my bedroom. “Nothing worth going to dinner over but, hey, a girl’s gotta eat. Hmmm, I’m feeling a celebratory lobster is in order,” I winked.

Dom snorted, his hand still in mine, before spinning around to face me. “Ok, I’ll make you a deal. You’ll get your lobster if you tell me what you wrote on that strip of paper. You know it’s good for you to talk about your fears, Kam. You have to tell someone. It’s been months since you’ve added one, and I need to know you’re ok.”