This Is Falling (12 page)

My heartbeat stops completely when he says
this. I know what he’s going to ask, and I know I have to start to
let my story out for others to hear. If I ever want friends—real
friends—the kind that help you
heal,
then they need to see
every part of me. “You want to know about Josh,” I say, and his
fingers stop moving with mine, his hand becoming strong and rigid.
Nate just nods once and looks up at me, his mouth in a tight, flat
line.

Deep breath.
“Josh was my high school
boyfriend. I guess you could call him my high school sweetheart or
whatever. He was the only boy I ever…
you know,”
I can feel
my face grow warm, but when I look at Nate he just smiles, urging
me on. “Anyway, Josh played for my dad. He started on varsity as a
freshman. He was tall and pretty strong. He was a pitcher.”

“Typical pitcher,” Nate says, rolling his
eyes and laughing lightly. He lets go of my hand and leans back on
his hands; I miss his touch instantly. “Sorry, I was just kidding.”
He pushes his foot into mine, letting me know he’s sorry for the
joke, and then he leaves it there.

“We dated for a year and a half. I mean, that
first year, it wasn’t really much. When you’re fifteen, you pretty
much kiss all the time, and that’s about it.”

“Yeah, you can skip the kissing part,” Nate
says, pushing his fingers in his ears. “La la la la.” His little
act makes me smile—I love that he’s jealous, even if it’s only
pretend jealous.

“It was the last day of school our sophomore
year, and we were all in the cafeteria, signing yearbooks. All of a
sudden, there was shooting. There was a man in all black, wearing a
ski mask. He was in his twenties, and he didn’t even go to our
school—never did. People were screaming and climbing over one
another to get to the exits, but we were right in the middle. We
always sat in the middle—it was
our
table.”

I’m crying now, and my body is shaking a
little. I haven’t told this story out loud to anyone other than the
investigators, my parents and Ross, and at this very moment, I
would give anything to rewind time and take it all back. I want to
share it with Nate though. I need to, so he’ll understand why I am
the way I am, and why I’m not the kind of girl you think is
beautiful and that you flirt with on a baseball field in the middle
of the night.

“You can tell me,” he says, reaching for my
hands again, holding them tightly within his, his grip on my wrists
unwavering.

I close my eyes, and when I squeeze them
shut, the last of my tears slide down my cheeks, coming to rest on
my collarbone under the warmth of Nate’s shirt.

“The man, his name was Thomas. He was
suffering from a psychotic break—thought there was a plot against
him, and somehow it involved our high school. Josh…he…he put
himself
over
me. The man shot Josh in the head, and he ended
up with severe brain damage. My best friend died right in front of
me. Her name was Betsy. She was the first one Thomas shot, and she
was one of two people who didn’t survive. The other was a teacher,
Mrs. Sharring. She was going to retire.”

Nate doesn’t speak any more. He doesn’t ask
any more questions, even though I know he must have dozens. He just
reaches up to touch my face, and slowly slides the remainder of my
tears away, then he tucks the few strands of my hair that are
blowing across my face behind my ear.

“That’s why I never know how to answer that
question,” I say, looking away from him, because I know if I look
in his eyes I’m going to fall in love.

“What question is that?” he says, his voice
soft and gentle.

“Is Josh still my boyfriend?” I say, my eyes
letting the lights in the distance blur together out of focus. “He
stopped being
Josh
the second the bullet cut through part of
his brain. He’s on feeding tubes, and he can’t talk or do anything
for himself. Even his parents are ready for him to die. I know that
sounds awful, but he’s come close so many times that they’re just
there now. You know, mentally?”

“I’m so sorry, Rowe,” Nate says, and I turn
to look at him, his face so honest and forgiving. I can tell with
this one look that he would give anything to take what I’m feeling
away from me.

“Thanks,” I say, allowing myself to stare
long into his eyes, the next round of tears lining up, but my will
holding them in. And it happens all at once—just looking at him, I
fall in love. But it doesn’t matter—because I can belong to no
one.

Chapter
11

Rowe

I told him.

Miss you,

~ Rowe

Chapter
12

Nate

For an hour, we sat there in the
dugout—completely quiet. I wasn’t going to go home until she said
she was ready. And I wasn’t going to ask her anything else until
she was ready to tell it.

When the groundskeepers started showing up,
we left, not wanting to have to deal with
breaking in
. We
were quiet all the way back to the dorm, but somewhere during the
walk, her fingers found mine again, and I held them tightly until
the elevator opened to our floor.

Then—it was like she disappeared. Cass says
she’s been in the library all week. But I don’t know. Knowing what
I know about Rowe’s past now, I get the feeling places like
libraries are hard for her. I understand why she wasn’t hip on
eating in the cafeteria, why she likes to sit in corners, why she’s
skittish and nervous all the time.

My parents are coming up for the weekend, and
they have extra tickets in the nice seats—the expensive ones—at
tonight’s football game. Cass is coming, and there’s one more seat
open. I really want Rowe to fill it.

“Dude, I am so sick of your moping around.
Come with me,” Ty says, grabbing one of my shoes from the end of my
bed and throwing it into the hallway.

“Awe man, I was comfy. Why’d you do that?” I
say, pulling myself up from my bed to a sitting position, slipping
the one shoe still in my possession on my right foot.

“Because I know you. You like things in
order, and your shoe hanging out there in that hallway is going to
drive you bat-shit crazy.” His smile is smug, but he’s right. I’ve
always been a neat freak. And I hate only having one shoe on my
foot now. I follow him into the hall and reach for my sneaker, but
before I get there, he blocks me and scoops it up, cradling it like
a football.

“Come on. Give it to me,” I beg.

“Oh you can have it. Down there,” he says,
tossing it to the other end of the hallway. With a
clunk!
it
hits the wall near Rowe’s room. I roll my eyes at him and limp on
one foot to their door. Ty is behind me, so the option of turning
around is not an
option
at all.

Cass opens the door and smiles at Ty. “Why
Nate, what a surprise. Please, come on in.” She’s acting weird, but
when I see her wink at Ty and notice Rowe’s legs folded up, and her
face looking down while her ear buds are tucked in her ears, I
understand.

I’d hate them both for tricking me, but I’m
really glad they trapped her in one place for me—finally. I take a
deep breath, walk over to her bed, and jump onto it so my legs are
stretched out long and I’m sitting next to her. She startles,
covering her heart, and pulling the headphones from her ears—which
instantly makes me feel bad. Rowe is not the kind of girl you
startle, and I get that now.

“Sorry, didn’t realize your music was up so
loud. Thought you heard me,” I say, hoping my stupid grin will earn
me forgiveness. “Whatcha listening to?”

“The Black Keys,” she says, her ear buds
still clutched in her hands, and her arms stiff.

“Mind?” I ask, reaching my hand toward hers.
She hands me one of the earpieces, and I tuck it in, at first a
little surprised by how loud it is. Damn, it’s a wonder she isn’t
deaf. She watches me with her brow pinched for a few seconds before
finally putting the other end in her ear.

“What are you working on?” My voice so loud
that Ty and Cass turn to look at me and then start laughing.
“Sorry. Apparently Rowe is hard of hearing, because she has this
thing set to, like, seven thousand.”

“It only goes to thirty. You’re being
hyperbolic,” Rowe says, a hint of her smile creeping in.

“So vocabulary, then? That’s what we’re
working on?” I ask, challenging her sass with my own.

She holds my gaze for a while, her eyes
shutting until she squints at me. I think she’s trying to
intimidate me, but I just mimic her face, squaring myself with her
until our noses touch. When I do, her lips twist into a smile.

“I’m working on art history. I had to pick a
painting and write about how it made me feel,” she says, scooting
her notebook over to rest part of it on my leg. She wants me to see
her notes, and I’ve never wanted to read an assignment more.

“Okay, which one did you pick?” I ask,
reaching for the full notebook and bringing it to my lap. My hand
grazes hers when I do, and the feel of it almost makes me want to
hand it back to her—just to reach for it again.

“I picked this one.” When she leans forward,
her shirt lifts a little; I notice a few deep red scars along her
side. They surprise me, but I don’t want her to know I see them. I
move my eyes to the notes on my lap before she turns to face me.
She opens her book to a painting of a woman wearing a pearl
earring. I recognize this one, and it feels like it fits her, not
that I know a damn thing about art.

“That’s pretty,” I say, and she laughs.
“What? I mean…the dude—it was a dude painter, right?” She nods,
still laughing. “Okay, well, the dude picked nice colors, and her
eyes are all symmetrical and crap. She doesn’t look like a stick
figure, but a real person. Sort of. Yeah, so I’d hang it up.”

She’s laughing harder now, and it’s
beautiful. Ty and Cass are lost in their own world, cuddling on
Cass’s bed. I take a risk, and lean in, kissing her quickly on her
cheek. Her laughter stops immediately, and her eyes go wide.
“Don’t, Nate,” she says, her smile completely gone now.
Well,
shit.

“Sorry. You’re really pretty when you laugh,
and a man can’t be held responsible for how he reacts to you
laughing. You should be mindful of that. You could end up getting
kissed by waiters at restaurants, professors, frat guys. No, wait.
No frat guys. Just ugly waiters and
old
professors.”

She’s smiling again, not as big, but she’s
not putting a wall up.
Phew
.

“Do you want to read why
I
like the
‘pretty’ painting?” she says, quoting the word
pretty
just
to mock me. I love that she does it. I suck in my bottom lip and
study her, just like she did to me moments before.

“Yeah. I do,” I say, flipping her notebook
over, and scooting down to lay my head on her pillow. Her breath
stops when I settle in, but eventually she moves down too, so she
can look along with me while I read. Every single hair on my arm is
stretching to touch her. But my kiss went horribly wrong, so I’m
content to
almost
touch her for now.

The Girl with a Pearl Earring, by Johannes
Vermeer.

“Right! I remember this one. They made a
movie about it or something.” I sound so uneducated. My mom’s an
artist—which, you’d think would make me more attuned to art, but
instead, I just blocked it out. It just wasn’t in my wheelhouse.
I’m more numbers, finance, and marketing. Our dad runs an
accounting firm, and I take after him, so the creative side of my
brain was sort of stunted.

I look to my right to see her lying next to
me, smiling, and I have to take a deep breath to remind myself what
I’m doing here. “Sorry. Reading now,” I grin, and then she nestles
in closely, her chin on my shoulder while she watches my eyes
follow the lines on her paper. I feel every tiny breath she takes,
and time actually stops. My god, I have never wanted to kiss a girl
more in my life.

I know she feels my chest puff with air when
I have to take a deep breath just to calm down, because she backs
away a few inches to give me space. But now that I know what that
feels like, I’m not sure my shoulder will ever feel complete
again.

“You’re not reading. Is it that
bad
?
”
she asks.

“No. I uh. You were. I’m reading,” I finally
say, and I shuffle the notebook against my chest for a better
view.

I’m the girl in this painting. Not
literally, but I identify with her. It is the only painting that
stopped me completely, and I know it’s because when I look into her
eyes, I see myself. She’s hungry, but she’s bound by duty. Every
part of her body is cloaked, at least from what you see. Her head
is covered, and her bodice as well. But she bothers to put on this
one pearl earring, sort of a rebellion to the path she’s on, almost
like a warning flair for someone. She’s begging to be saved. And
her eyes are looking right at me, like she’s asking me to save her.
And her mouth is barely open, about to tell me her secrets, but
there is never enough time. Instead, we’re stuck—the girl and I—at
this juncture. I have to decide if I want to break her free. And
she has to decide if she wants to let me. And every time I open the
book and look at the page, we do the same dance all over again.

Rowe is staring at me. I may not know art,
but I’m pretty sure there’s a reason Rowe made me read this. I’m
just not sure if she wants me to
break her free
or if she’s
warning me—if I pursue her, I’ll be stuck in a circle that never
ends.

“It’s good,” I say, pulling myself to sit up,
just needing to break the electricity firing from my arm to
hers.

“Yeah?” she says, closing her book and
reaching for the notebook, her fingers staying clear of mine this
time.