Learning to Fall (12 page)

“Let’s just leave,” I pleaded in an attempt to diffuse the situation before it could escalate any further. “It’s fine, Whit. He didn’t hurt me. He was just a little pushy. That’s all.”

She didn’t even look at me. “I’ve got this, Mo.”

Which was exactly what I was afraid of. Sober Whitney never backed down from a fight. Drunk Whitney was usually the one who started them.

“Come on.” I tried to stand again and this time managed to stay upright. Wobbling forward, I laid a restraining hand on Whitney’s arm. “I want to go home.”

“Not until this dickbag apologizes to you.”

“Hey.” Irish scowled. “Watch who you’re calling a dickbag, bitch. I didn’t do shit.”

“Watch who you’re calling a bitch,
dickbag
!”

“Okay.” I tossed up both of my hands and wedged myself between them. Admittedly not a very good idea, but I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. “That’s enough. Whitney, let’s leave. Now.”

“Is there a problem here?” Choosing that precise moment to realize the girl he’d been making out with for the past five minutes was no longer sucking on his neck, Whitney’s boy-toy sidled up next to us, his dark brow creased in drunken bewilderment as he looked at Whitney, then me, then Irish. “Yo bro, I already called dibs on the brunette. I said you could have the other one, remember?” His gaze bounced between us again before it settled in the middle on me. One side of his mouth lifted in a dopey grin that left no question as to his level of sobriety. “You!” he said, tapping me on the shoulder. “I said he could have you. That’s okay, right?”

I stiffened. Sober Imogen would have most likely turned a cold shoulder and simply walked away, but Drunk Imogen was surprisingly more volatile and considerably more outspoken. “You can’t
give
me to someone. I am not property. The thirteenth amendment clearly states that neither slavery nor involuntary servitude shall exist within the United States. As such, you are prohibited by law, not to mention basic human decency, to give me to Irish, just as he is likewise prohibited from taking me. Or touching me without permission,” I added strictly for Irish’s benefit.

“Yeah,” Whitney slurred as she raised her hand for a fistbump, which I proudly returned. “What she said.”

Boy-toy tilted his head to the right, then to the left, as though trying to physically absorb my words. The line between his eyebrows deepened. “Who’s Irish?” he asked finally. 

“I think she means me,” Irish said.

“But your name is Calvin.”

Calvin/Irish shrugged. “I don’t know, man. These chicks are crazy. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Call me?” Boy-toy asked Whitney hopefully.

“Get better friends first.” She waited until they’d stumbled away before she rested her head on my shoulder and sighed. “He was a really good kisser, too. He could do this thing with his tongue where-”

“Ew, stop.” I pinched her arm. “I don’t want to hear about that.”

Whitney’s head lolled back. “I think I might have drank too much. The martinis here are so
good
.”

“Tell me about it,” I said ruefully. My head was spinning, and not in a good way. I’d never been a careless drinker, or even a casual one. As someone who carefully guarded their every thought and action, I didn’t like how alcohol made me want to say things I would never ordinarily say and do things I would never dream of doing. I could see how, for some people, that might be a reason
to
drink. But not for me. “I think we should go home now.”

Whitney groaned and made no effort to stand upright. “But it’s so
far
,” she complained.

“We could call a taxi.”

“Are you kidding? That shit’s expensive.” She lifted her head to glare at me. “Not everyone’s made of money, Mo.” Bringing up our differing financial backgrounds was a sure sign of just how drunk Whitney was. Any other time I would have contradicted her, but right now I was too tired to fight and too drunk to reason.

“Fine. Then we’ll just sit here.” I dropped back down onto a stool with a hard
thud
. Whitney sat beside me.

“Calvin was right,” she said glumly as she leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. “I am a bitch.”

“No you’re not.” Resting my elbow on the bar, I used the palm of my hand to prop my chin up. My head felt so
heavy
. Why did my head feel so heavy? And I had to pee. Badly. Except hadn’t I just gone to the bathroom ten minutes ago? I couldn’t remember. 

“Then why don’t guys like me?” With loud groan of self-pity only the very drunk could successfully pull off, Whitney slumped forward and mimicked my position, albeit a bit more sloppily.

“Guys like you,” I protested. “You go on dates all the time.”

“Yeah.” Whitney’s eyes drifted closed. “But they don’t
like
like me.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Me either.”

We were quiet for a moment, two drunk girls filled with regret.

And pee.

“You two look like you could use some water.”

I started and sat up when I felt something cold brush my arm. Looking down, I saw a glass filled with ice water and a slice of lemon. Looking up, I saw Daniel.

“Rough night?” he asked, his grey eyes filled with sympathy and the slight, unmistakable gleam of amusement. “Go on. Drink up. You’ll thank me later.”

“I don’t feel so good,” I muttered, sounding as pitiful as Whitney looked.

“I know you don’t, little fox. But I think your friend feels a little worse. Whitney, right?” At my nod, Daniel pushed a glass of water towards Whitney and said her name again as he gently shook her arm. She lifted her head, gaze blurry and unfocused.

“Huh? Wha? Oh. You.” She grinned up at Daniel while I calmly sipped my water, drunkenly unaware that I was about to be embarrassed in three… two… one...  “I know you. You’re the hot guy. Guys don’t like me. But they like you. No.” Her grin wavered uncertainly as she attempted to put the right words together. “That’s not right.
Mo
likes you. Yeah. That’s it. You like him, right Mo?”

“Yeah, but I can’t tell him that.”

“See?” she said triumphantly. “Told you.”

Oblivious to the fact that Daniel was perfectly capable of hearing every single word I was saying, I drained the rest of my glass until only ice remained and peered up at him hopefully. “Can I have some more, please?” 

“Coming right up, Oliver Twist.” Taking my glass, he walked away towards the other end of the bar.

“He called you Oliver,” Whitney snickered. “Doesn’t he know your name is Mo?”

“It was a literary reference.” I closed my eyes and watched bright dots dance across the inside of my eyelids. “I think. Whit, I don’t feel so good.”

“Me either.”

“No, I
really
don’t feel good.” As my stomach rolled and saliva pooled in the back of my throat, I jumped up and grabbed the back of Whitney’s stool. “I need to go outside.”

“Okay, but let’s wait until your boyfriend gets-”

“Now. I need to go
now
.”

Genuine alarm flickered across Whitney’s face. “If you puke on me, I’ll kill you. Come on.” Wrapping an arm around my waist, she helped me outside. The instant the cold night air filled my lungs the wave of nausea I’d felt inside the crowded bar began to subside and I sighed with relief.

“There’s a bench,” Whitney said, pointing to the corner of the street. “Let’s sit down.”

The only people lingering outside of Swordfish were smokers. Everyone else was either inside ordering last call, or had gone home for the night. They watched us as we walked past, their faces obscured by grey walls of smoke.

Using Whitney for balance, I slowly eased down onto the bench and leaned forward until my head was between my knees and my hair rained down on either side of my face like a dark, tousled curtain. “This is better,” I murmured.

“Mo…”

“What?” I said when Whitney fell silent.

“Do you think I’m wasting my life?”

“What are you talking about?” Pushing myself up, I tucked my hair behind my ears and frowned at her. “Your life is just starting. You have a career you love-”

“Coaching soccer is a job, not a career.”

“-and a degree from Harvard. You’re beautiful and funny and I wish I was more like you.”

“You wish you were more like me?” Whitney asked, her eyes widening.

My head rolled up and down in something that vaguely resembled a nod. “Of course I do.”

“But you’re, like, a genius. And pretty soon you’ll have your doctorate. And you have an amazing career. And you’re so freakin’ smart. Like, super smart. About everything. And you’re rich.”

“Wait. Stop.” For good measure, I held up my hand and waved it in front of her face. “My
mother
is rich and she’s only rich ‘cause my father was rich. I don’t have any money.” The corners of my mouth quivered. “No money for Mo.”

Whitney dropped her head on my shoulder and looked up at the clear night sky. “It’s all one big joke, isn’t it?”

“What is?” I muttered. My eyelids were getting heavy. Would I freeze to death if I fell asleep right here on the bench? Probably. Had I even remembered to grab my coat? No, I realized as I glanced down at the goosebumps on my bare arms. No coat.

“When you’re a kid all you want to be is a grownup, but when you’re a grownup all you want to be is a kid again.”

I thought about that for a moment, as much as I was capable of thinking about anything. “I don’t think I was ever a kid.”

“That’s sad,” Drunk Whitney said.

“Yeah,” Drunk Imogen agreed with a sigh. “It is.”

* * * * *

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. What are you doing outside? It’s freezing.
You’re
freezing. Jesus Christ.” Before my sluggish mind could formulate a protest or even fully comprehend what was happening, a pair of strong arms plucked me off the bench and nestled me against a warm chest. Smiling sleepily, I tilted my head back, eyes slowly opening to a stormy gaze filled with concern.

“You,” I slurred. My smile deepened. “You’re always here when I need you.”

Daniel’s grip tightened. “I’m taking you and your roommate home.”

“I can walk,” I protested. I wasn’t
that
drunk. To show him, I swung my legs back and forth and grinned triumphantly. “See? That was a straight line, too.”

“I’m still holding you.”

“Oh.”

“Mo?” Whitney sat up on the bench and shoved her hair out of her face. There were mascara stains on her cheeks from when we’d both gotten a little weepy and her lipstick was smeared. “Where are you? Where did you go?”

“Up here,” I said, swinging my legs again to get her attention.

“What are you doing?”

I shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Will you please stop wiggling?” Daniel hissed in my ear.

“Sorry,” I muttered, biting the inside of my cheek in consternation. “You can put me down if I’m too heavy.”

He shifted his grip, hitching me up a bit higher on his chest. I looped an arm around his neck, fingers burrowing into his hair. It was so
soft
. I would have to remember to ask him what type of shampoo he used.
Later
, I decided as he turned his head and I suddenly found his mouth a mere two inches away from mine.
I’ll ask about the shampoo later
.

“You’re not too heavy, Imogen. That’s not the problem.”

My eyebrows pinched together. “Then what is?”

“The problem is you’re drunk. And beautiful. And adorable as hell. And right now I want to find out what your lips taste like more than I’ve ever wanted anything else in the world. But you’re drunk.” 

“You said that already,” I pointed out.

He half laughed/half moaned. “I know I did. I know.” He rested his forehead against mine for a moment. I closed my eyes and soaked in the intimate contact like a flower drinking in the sun after a rainy day. It felt so
right
to be in Daniel’s arms, and with the alcohol in my system stripping all of my inhibitions away I could enjoy being so close to him without overthinking every little detail. I heard him expel his breath in a long, quiet sigh before he pressed his mouth against my forehead and carefully set me back down on my feet, keeping one arm wrapped firmly around my waist. “I would call you a taxi, but they stopped running at midnight. Are you okay to walk?”

My knees were feeling a little wobbly, but it had nothing to do with the drinks I’d consumed. Well,
almost
nothing. “Yes,” I said succinctly. “I’m fine. Whitney? Can you walk?”

“Guh,” she said.

“That’s a yes,” I interpreted. Glancing at my best friend who was now sitting with her head buried between her knees, I reconsidered. “At least, I think it.”