This Is Falling (8 page)

I lean against the wall next to Nate’s door,
and for minutes I just listen. The less I hear, the more my heart
races, until I’m either going to pass out or choose to be
strong.

More than a few times, I turn to walk away,
but I keep pausing at the elevator and walking back. Finally, on my
last trip, I shut my eyes at his door and turn the handle slowly,
stepping carefully into his room, which looks like a smaller
version of mine. It’s dark in here, so I leave the door slightly
cracked to let my eyes adjust. At first, I don’t quite know what
I’m staring at. But then the blonde curls of Paige’s hair register
with me, and she rolls over, twisting her body into the blankets
even more—unfortunately not enough to cover her underwear. Panties
that are nothing like a single pair in my drawer. Victoria Secret
panties, made of barely anything at all.

“Hey,” someone whispers, and I just back to
the door a little. “Hey, it’s Ty. Rowe? That you?”

Ty is lifting his chest up from the other
bed, and I blush when I recognize Cass is cradled next to him.

“Oh god, I’m sorry. I was just…they didn’t
come home. So, I…I don’t know. I’ll just go,” I fluster, hitting my
knee with the door when I pull it open. God, could I be any
louder?

“If you’re looking for Nate, he had workouts
this morning. He’s out on the fields,” he whispers, lying back down
and moving the pillow over his face to block the little light I’m
letting in.

“Okay. Thanks,” I say, with no intention of
doing anything with that information other than going back to my
own bed to fume over Paige and where she slept last night.

“Oh, and hey. When you see him, make sure you
ask him when his birthday is,” Ty says, and within an instant, I
swear he’s sleeping again.

I shut the door behind me, and before I can
talk myself out of it, I go to the elevator and push the button for
the first floor.
What would Betsy do? Be like Betsy.

It’s getting easier to leave the building on
my own, which is promising for my first day of classes the day
after tomorrow. But right now, I’m grateful for ulterior reasons. I
keep telling myself that every act I’m doing is an amazing
achievement in my own recovery. But really, it’s just an act of
bitter jealousy—and so will be the embarrassing fit I throw in
front of Nate after his practice, when I rip him apart for being
predictable and hooking up with Paige for the night.

Unless…unless it’s not just for the night?
Maybe they hit it off? Maybe he decided he likes her after he got
to know her. And maybe she’s more than just Katy Perry lyrics and
G-strings.

As much as the doubt is there now, I can’t
convince myself wholly of the idea of Nate and Paige as a couple.
Not that I want to be a couple with Nate. I just don’t want anyone
else to be.
I think I may need to write Josh again.

The ball fields are easy to find. When I
climb onto the bleachers, my back against the solid corner in the
back, I’m transported to my life two years ago. The way the ball
sounds when it’s struck by the bat—I think it’s a similar effect
some people have with wind chimes. Over and over, that repetitive
crack!
The sounds of gloves catching balls, of boys shouting
plays, random swear words, and laughing. It’s every practice my dad
ever held. It’s every tryout I went to with him. It’s watching Josh
play summer ball, and staying late to watch his practices after
tennis would end.

I’m so lost in my own nirvana, I almost
forget why I came. And then I see him pull the mask from his face,
propping it on top of his head. He’s standing next to another
catcher, and Nate completely dwarfs him. I used to have a thing for
the pitchers. That’s why I first had a crush on Josh. But seeing
Nate stand there—his hair tussled in different directions, wet with
sweat, and his face smudged with dirt from the field—has now become
my favorite memory. And I’m finding it harder to hold on to that
raging, jealous anger that got me here in the first place.

When his eyes snap to me, I jolt.
Crap!
I really didn’t want him to see me, but I kind of
thought he would have an equal look of panic when he did. Instead,
he’s all dimples and teeth. He’s saying something to one of his
coaches, and I can see his head nod in my direction, which suddenly
has me on my feet, scrambling my way down the bleachers. I think I
might just make it, when he pops out of the back of the dugout,
cutting off my path.

“Hey, how’s your head, Thirty-three?”
Dimples. Accent. Damned irresistible charm. He’s looking at my eyes
with concern still, worried about my head after last night’s
faint.

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m fine, I mean. I was
just…tired last night?” I say it like a question, like I’m trying
to sell myself on my excuse. I wasn’t tired at all. I took Ambien
like I always do, and then I had messed-up dreams augmented by the
drug that only left me feeling worse about everything this
morning.

“You didn’t miss much. Your roommates did a
bunch of shots and passed out,” he says, kicking his feet into the
dirt on the ground and swinging his catcher’s mask at his side.

“Yeah, I saw them,” I say, gritting my teeth
hard, forcing myself to smile and not delve into what else I saw. I
don’t want to leap with my assumptions, because I still have hope
that I’m wrong.

“You…stopped by my room?” His head is tilted
when he asked, and I can tell he’s being guarded.

“Yep. Saw Paige made herself nice and
comfortable in your bed.” My mouth! Maybe I need to revise the
what-would-Betsy-do
campaign, because snarky and biting just
doesn’t sit well with me.

“Yeah,” he says, still looking down, his hand
rubbing at his neck. “Made it kind of hard for me to sleep there.
For the record, that couch in the lobby is miserable.”

My heart is thumping again, and I think it’s
actually jumping up and down in my chest, it’s so excited by his
answer. Which is bad, because it’s only going to make it harder for
me to tame my heart into stopping at
friends.

“Hey, Preeter! Ass back on the field, son!”
one of the coaches yells. I don’t want him to get into trouble
because of me, so I just nod him on.

“You’ll stick around? Yeah?” he asks, pushing
his mask back over his head. I don’t believe in signs. If signs
were real, then surely I would have gotten a few of them to stop my
life from crumbling. But for whatever reason, my eyes center on the
small scratched letters etched on the side of his metal mask—N.J.P.
And Ty’s voice runs through my head.

“That depends,” I say, still looking at the
letters on his mask.

“On what?” he asks, his feet starting to
shuffle backward toward the field.

“What does N.J.P. stand for, and when’s your
birthday?” I ask, my heart now in my stomach, begging and hoping
for the right answer.

Nate’s lip pulls up on one side, and he tucks
his lower lip under his teeth as he backs away, and inside I’m
willing him—“Say it, just say it,” I’m thinking.

“My birthday’s in October, and the
J
is for Jackson. What can I say, beautiful girls turn me into a
complete and utter fraud.”

I turn back to the bleachers without saying a
word, and I can feel Nate’s eyes on me the entire way—watching me
climb back up to my seat, lean back, and cross my legs, making
myself comfortable.

This
is still flirting, and it’s going
to make being
just friends
damned near impossible. But right
now, I don’t give a shit.

Chapter
8

Nate

She stayed for the entire practice. She even
walked with me through campus, back to the workout room. It’s fall,
so we only have a few tournaments to play—exhibitions. The real
work starts in a month or two, but I still have a pretty full
schedule. It makes it hard to squeeze in extra
things…
Rowe.

The weekend is free, though. The dorms are
all full, because classes start on Monday, and everything about
this place feels exactly like I thought college would feel.

“Hey, douchebag!” Ty yells when he comes
through the door, throwing his rolled up dirty socks at me. “Think
fast!”

“You are such an asshole sometimes,” I say,
brushing them from my lap to the floor. Seriously, Ty’s feet
stink.

“Yeah, well. Tell Mom,” he laughs. “Speaking
of, I talked to them this morning. They’re coming to visit in a
couple weeks. Taking us to dinner, and all that. I’m bringing
Cass.”

My brother’s infatuation with Cass fascinates
me. He has never held onto a girl longer than a week, but she seems
to have found his weakness. What’s more amazing is how absolutely
normal she is. Girls have never been a problem for Ty. He was
homecoming king in high school, and that was after his accident.
The local paper thought it was this cool story, about how our
student body elected a guy in a wheelchair. Then the reporter
interviewed Ty, and his quote pretty much summed it up.

“The chair might make people notice. But this
face is so pretty, girls just can’t help themselves,” he said,
right there in print. Mom told him he shouldn’t be so cocky, and
Dad just high-fived him. That’s Ty. I wish I had an ounce of his
confidence.

“You should ask Rowe,” he says, his back to
me. That’s how I know he’s being serious, and not just teasing. If
he were giving me crap, he’d be in my face, relentless and crude
about her. But he likes her; he likes the idea of
her and
me
. And I like that.

“Yeah? You think she’d go?”

“Bro, I
know
she’d go,” he says,
turning around and throwing his dirty boxers at me now.

“Fucking asshole!” I get him back when I
stand up and push his underwear on his own head as I leave the
room.

“That’s right, you better run!” he yells as I
swing through the door.

Their door is open, and for some reason that
makes me nervous. I can hear music blaring as I get closer. It’s
not the kind of stuff I’d expect to hear from a girl’s room. I
knock on the door, but I know they can’t hear it, so I step slowly
around the corner. Rowe’s back is to me, but Cass sees me right
away and winks. Rowe is singing “Sex Is On Fire” by the Kings of
Leon, standing on a chair in the middle of her room, her arms
pumping in the air as if she were actually on stage. It’s the
single cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life. I quietly slip
all the way into the room and slide my back along the wall, pulling
my knees up so I can sit and just look at her for a little
longer.

When the chorus comes around, Cass jumps onto
the bed and sings along with her. They sound terrible, but I’d
watch an entire concert of this just to look at Rowe. She spins
around once, but her eyes are closed, so she doesn’t notice I’m
here, and it gives me such a good idea.

I put my finger to my mouth, motioning to
Cass while I sneak up behind Rowe; Cass grins and nods. I wait for
a few seconds for them to get to the chorus again, and when Rowe
lifts her arms up, I wrap my arms around her waist and lift her up
from the chair into my arms.

Rowe has a hell of a right hook. It’s amazing
how fast my nose is bleeding. I’ve been hit in the face by
ninety-mile-per-hour pitches, and I’ve never bled like this.
“Ohhhhh fuck!” I say, embarrassed that my eyes are tearing up as
much as they are.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry. Hold on, I have a
towel,” Rowe says, running to her closet and pulling out a giant
bath towel and handing it to me. I hold it to my nose quickly
because the last thing I want to do is bleed all over their
floor.

“My fault,” I say, raising a hand and sitting
down on the chair Rowe was just dancing on.

“No…oh god! I’m so sorry. I just…I scare
really easily.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Cass turns the music down so we can hear
better, and Rowe kneels next to me, putting her hand on mine to
pull the towel away from my face. It’s the smallest gesture in the
world, but for some reason, the way she’s looking at me takes my
breath away. Her eyes are so concerned, and her hand is trembling
against mine. I’m unable to stop myself from reaching up to hold
her hand with my other one. As soon as I do, her gaze jumps to our
hands and she jerks away.

“I should get you ice,” she says, standing
and hugging herself.

“No, really. I’ll be fine. I have a brother,
and I’ve been punched…
a lot
! It will stop in a minute.”

Rowe keeps her arms around her stomach and
moves backward until she sits on the edge of her bed. Cass reaches
under her own bed for a duffle bag, pulls it out and goes into the
closet to fill it with laundry. “I’m going to go do a load. Rowe,
you need me to wash anything?” she asks.

“No, I’m good. Thanks,” Rowe says, her eyes
watching her friend walk out the door, and her breath stops the
second the door closes behind her. Cass may just be my new best
friend, because I know she did this so Rowe and I could be alone.
But for some reason, her leaving has Rowe acting even more nervous
and uncomfortable; she stands and walks over to the small corkboard
by her bed, arranging some photos, and pushing in a few pins.

“So, you ready for Monday?” I say, pulling
the towel away from my nose to check that the bleeding has
stopped.

“Yeah, I guess,” she says. Her voice is
distant, and she doesn’t sound sure.

“Ty says the first week is always easy. Just
syllabus review and expectations…all that,” I say, getting back up
to my feet and walking over to stand behind her. Rowe’s entire body
gets tense as soon as I get close. She’s moving the same picture to
different spots on her board, like she’s not quite sure where this
picture fits or belongs. “May I?” I ask, reaching my hand out to
look at the photo more closely.

She hands it over and makes a tight smile.
The picture looks like it’s a year or two old, because Rowe looks
younger. I’d guess she’s maybe sixteen in the photo. She’s sitting
on some guy’s lap, her arms around him, and her nose tucked into
his neck. He’s smiling one of those genuinely happy smiles, and I’d
make the same damned face if I were in his position. He’s wearing a
baseball hat, and I can tell he’s just left practice or something
because he has baseball pants on and they’re covered in dirt.