This Is Falling (19 page)

Coming home was strange. I’ve only been gone
for a month, but I feel like so much is different. Maybe it’s me.
My mom did wait up for me, and we all sat at the kitchen table and
ate slices of an apple pie she bought at Kraft’s Market.

Sleeping in my bed was strange, too. Before I
left for McConnell, I didn’t think I would ever be able to find
comfort on a strange mattress, in a strange city, with a stranger
as a roommate. But I did. And now I think I slept better with Cass
snoring a few feet away from me than I did here behind my own
bedroom door.

But my best dreams came from the night I
stayed with Nate. I wore his shirt to bed last night. I sent him a
short text because it was late when I landed, but I think he had
been waiting, because he wrote back right away, and said he’d talk
to me in the morning.

I sent a text to Cass, too. She told me to
take my time coming back, not because she wouldn’t miss me, but
because she was having a full weekend of sleepovers with Ty. I
wanted more sleepovers too, and was a little envious that I wasn’t
there to take advantage of Nate being alone in his room.

The scent of my dad’s eggs and sausage spills
down the hall and has me climbing out of bed early. I wheel my
suitcase out with me, parking it at the laundry room, hoping
someone will notice. When I enter the kitchen, my dad slides a
plate my way.

“I see you brought laundry home for me,” he
says.

“You’re just so much better at it than I am,”
I smile as I douse my plate with syrup for my sausages.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s what your mother says,
too. I think you two are in cahoots on this whole plot to
domesticate me.”

“Honey, you came domesticated. That’s why I
married you,” my mom smiles as she slides onto the stool next to me
and digs into her breakfast. “Mmmmm, hey. What’s this?” My mom
pulls at the sleeve of Nate’s shirt, and I can feel my face redden
immediately. I’m not sure how to explain this, and I’m not very
good at lying.

“Baseball shirt,” I say, quickly stuffing my
face with another bite. I can tell by the way my mother’s eyebrow
is cocked that she’s suspicious, and she waits until my dad’s back
is turned to drill me a little more.

“It looks like a
boy’s
baseball
shirt,” she whispers. I smile and shrug and keep eating, doing my
best not to look her straight in the eyes. That’s how she gets me,
the eye contact. I think it’s one of those skills from being a
professor.

“Hmmmmm, we’ll talk about this more later,”
she says, and I hope like hell we won’t.

My dad already has my laundry in the works,
and my mom has settled into the large recliner chair in the living
room with a stack of papers on her lap for grading. Normally, this
is where I sift through the channels until there’s a movie or a
game I want to watch on the screen, but nothing is capturing my
attention today. I did bring home some reading, so I open my
philosophy book to the chapter on logic and reasoning.

I’m able to concentrate for about thirty
minutes, but my mind keeps drifting to my phone, waiting for it to
be afternoon Oklahoma time. How quickly my life has centered around
Oklahoma time. My mom is completely engrossed in her grading, so
when the hour comes I can text Nate in private, I grab my book and
head back to my bedroom.

Coming up with the right words seems
impossible. All I thought about over the last forty-eight hours was
our kiss—and how very much I wanted that to happen again. I can’t
write that, though. I mean, I guess I could. But being forward like
that doesn’t feel like me.

How’s the tournament?

That’s what I settle on. The lamest three
words possible—I may as well be a sports reporter. I checked the
schedule while I waited at the airport, and I knew there was a
break between games. McConnell plays tonight, so I was hoping I
could catch Nate during a lunch break.

After five minutes of waiting, I start to get
antsy, so I pull out my purse and sift through some old receipts
and scraps that I can clean out and throw away. When I stumble on
his mom’s business card, I decide to check out her website. The
first thing that flashes on my laptop screen when I type it in is a
series of photos—intricate metalwork in brilliant colors, the
pieces all twisted together to form bodies, some human, some
animal. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.

She has three galleries, one in New Orleans
and two in California, and the more I click into her pages, the
more impressed I am. I could never do anything like this, not with
these hands. I’m too nervous, and I question too much. Every single
piece she showcases has a story. There aren’t any words written
with the photos, but I can tell—I can read the story in every
nuance and bend of the metal.

33! Miss me already?

Nate’s message brings my attention back to
the here and now, and the playful tone of his words has an instant
smile on my face.

Not yet. Check with me later, maybe I’ll
miss you then.

I start to rethink my message after I send
it. After Nate told me he’d wait for me, I’m not sure he’ll
appreciate my joke. I’m about to say that I’m kidding when he
writes back.

Yeah, I don’t miss you either. I do kind of
miss my shirt, though. That was a bonehead move—I should have given
you one of Ty’s.

I’m so relieved he’s joking with me. I also
can’t help but look down at the letters across my chest and run my
hands over the fabric that was on his body before it was on mine.
It still smells like him, whatever his cologne is, and I want to
drown in its scent.

That would have been better. Maybe his
shirts don’t smell so bad.

I pull the collar up and breathe in deeply
while I wait for his response, unable to keep my lips from
smiling.

Well, I did roll around in crap before I
gave it to you. That could be what you smell.

He’s so damn fast with his response that I
laugh out loud when I read it, quickly covering my mouth. I don’t
want anyone interrupting me, and I would be content to lie here for
the rest of the weekend and text back and forth with Nate.

I’m kidding. I don’t really roll in
crap.

I laugh again. I miss him. I miss him a lot,
and it feels good inside my chest to feel this way about someone. I
wish I had a picture of him, so while I think of what to write
back, I Google him on my laptop just to see what comes up. It’s
mostly baseball pictures, and he’s usually wearing his mask, but I
can still tell it’s him, and my head gets a little fuzzy looking at
him.

Me:
I just Googled you.

Nate:
That’s creepy. I might have to
report you.

Me:
Just want to make sure you don’t show
up in the tabloids with some bimbo while I’m gone.

Nate:
Just Paige. I helped move some of
her things.

Me:
That was nice of you. No staring at
her boobs.

Nate:
Well, I am a bit of a boob
man.

Me:
Uh, yeah. I know.

Nate:
You have nice boobs.

Me:
Oh my god!

Nate:
Sorry.

Nate:
Not sorry :-)

Sometime during our texting, I crawled under
my covers to hide. Nate has a way of making me blush in the most
wonderful way. My heartbeat is kicking in every part of my body,
but the rush is so addictive. I’m not sure what this feeling is,
but I like it so very much, and I know Nate’s the cause.

Me:
Can you talk?

Nate:
Dialing you right now.

He really is, because my phone rings while
I’m still reading his words. My heart skips a beat before I
answer.

“Hi,” I say, biting my lip and burying my
face into my pillow. I can’t wait to hear his voice, but I’m also
scared because I have no idea what to say.

“Boobs.” He breaks the ice immediately, and
we’re both laughing. I miss him even more. “Sorry, just had to
one-up you. You know me.”

“Yeah, how’s that pink room working out for
you?” I say back, falling easily into our routine.

“Splendidly, thank you very much. Ty and I
are going to add more purple—we think it really POPS!”

“Did you just say
splendidly?”

“Your issue is with
splendidly
and NOT
pops
?”

Oh my god, I love him. Oh my god! I love him!
No, I don’t love him. But I could. I want to. Maybe I already do? I
don’t know him enough. You’re supposed to know someone more, have
dates and more kisses and hand holding, work up to love. I like
him. There, that’s it. I like him—a lot. Shit! I’m not talking.

“Where’s your head at Thirty-three?” My head
is up my ass, that’s where it is. I have to get a grip, so I sit up
and carry my laptop over to my desk. Right, like a more formal
posture will suddenly make me act normal.

“Sorry, I thought my dad needed something,” I
lie. I hate lying.

“When do you come home?” His voice is
suddenly softer, and I can tell we’re done making jokes, which
suddenly has me sweating.

“Sunday, around three by the time the cab
gets me to campus,” I say, my heart once again thumping loudly in
my ear.

“Can I pick you up? I mean, I don’t
really
have a car. But I can borrow one. You know, from one
of the guys? I’d…I’d really like to pick you up.”

“I’d like that, too,” I say, my forehead flat
on my desk now. I should not have left the comfort of hiding under
my blanket.

“Hey, Rowe?” His voice seems nervous, not
like him.

“Yeah?” I’m not like me either.

“I gotta go. But…” I can hear him breathing.
I can actually hear him thinking, and I’m with him, on the edge,
just waiting for his words to be what I want. What I
think
I
want. “I miss you. That’s all.”

“I miss you too,” I say, hugging my body
tightly with the sleeves of his shirt.

This
…is falling.

My head is trapped with thoughts and
fantasies about Nate. We texted a few more times after his
tournament Saturday, but nothing as meaningful as the words we
exchanged that morning. I let down my guard with him, and it was
scary, but I survived. And I want to let him in more. I want to let
him in completely.

The Stanton Sunday morning routine is much
like Saturday’s. My dad has my laundry folded nicely in my
suitcase, and my mom and I are quickly polishing off my dad’s
breakfast, being sure to gush about his amazing cooking abilities.
It’s part of our shtick, pumping my dad’s ego so he’ll continue to
take care of
everything
in the house. I don’t think we
really need to do it, because my father is the kind of man who
would do anything in the world to see his women happy. But we do it
anyway, maybe more for us than him.

“Hey, washed that McConnell baseball shirt
last night,” my dad says, and my heart sinks a little knowing that
Nate’s shirt will now smell like Tide and Downy.

“Thanks,” I say, standing and moving to the
trash to clear my plate. I can feel both of my parents’ eyes on
me.

“Friend give that to you?” My dad’s almost
winking at me, and I’m so uncomfortable I want to scream.

“Uh huh?” I ask, doing my best to avoid eye
contact.

“They’ve got a good team this year. Bunch of
new kids; some really good ones.” My dad is fishing. My mom put him
up to this. It has been two years since I have dated a boy. Hell,
it’s been two years since I’ve been social with anyone outside of
this house other than Ross, my pharmacist, and the occasional
run-in with the mailman.

“His name is Nate,” I say, rolling my eyes
while I turn to face them, over-exaggerating my exasperation so I
can act
full teenager
.

“Nate Preeter?” Now my dad is interested.
He’s a baseball coach, and he’s had a few players go on to some
pretty great things. Of course he knows Nate’s name.

“Uh, yeah,” I say, wishing like hell for an
exit.

“So this Nate…is he, a friend?” My mom has
entirely different interests in the conversation, and the longer we
dwell on the topic—the more I want to poke my head inside my own
body like a turtle.

“We’re friends,” I say, holding my mouth into
a straight smile and concentrating hard not to let anything else
out. My mom lets this sit for a few seconds, waiting to see if
there’s more, and her slight smile lets me know she
knows
there’s more. But she also knows that one wrong word could trigger
me into full retreat mode. So she lets it go.

“Good. I’m glad you’re making friends, Rowe.
I’d like to meet Nate sometime.” Her smile is soft. It’s that full
understanding that happens between a mother and a daughter when
they communicate without words, and it’s the first conversation
we’ve had like this since those weeks before the shooting.

“I think he’d like to meet you too.”

Chapter
18

Rowe

I didn’t visit Josh’s parents this time. I
had to stick to my promise to myself and let him go. My visit is
never for him anyhow, and I knew they’d understand. When I left for
McConnell, Josh’s mom told me she hoped I would find my life in
Oklahoma. I think I have, or at least I found a way to start
again.

I told my parents I didn’t want to come home
for fall break, and instead wanted to wait until Thanksgiving. I
could tell it made my dad a little sad, but my mom stepped in and
reminded him what a huge step this was. I told them I wanted to try
to make it longer, to start stretching myself, and my independence.
But really, I don’t want to leave Nate again.

Because it’s early enough, my parents decided
to use the airline credit to visit me instead. I helped my dad pick
out a few dates that coincided with Nate’s second fall tournament.
They would be in Oklahoma in a little more than a month. I just
hoped Nate still wanted to meet them when the time comes.