To Catch a Falling Star (8 page)

I point to the back of the gym where the punching bag stands are. Tarry takes a swig of his water and bends over, placing both hands on his knees. His shirt is drenched and we are only halfway through the class.

“Are you all right?” I say, gasping for air.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he growls.

I pull two sets of gloves from my gym bag and toss a pair to Tarry. After resting for a few more seconds, we drag the punching stand to the middle of the floor.

While I hold the punching bag stand, Tarry attempts a few punches.

“Is that all you got? I’m so kicking your ass.” I tease him.

Tarry smirks and rolls his eyes. He focuses, then pounds so heavily that the stand tilts and almost knocks me over. I anchor it with my shoulder and use my body weight to defuse the impact of his blows. Tarry increases the intensity of his punches and kicks. It becomes more difficult to hold.

From behind the stand, I peek at Tarry and he looks dazed. His eyes and face are vacant. My eyes search the room for Lucas who is doing a round of yelling.

Lucas must sense my silent plea. His head snaps my way. Recognizing the distress on my face, he immediately strides toward us. Tarry is pale, but he continues to deliver deadly punches.

“Hey, Tarry, are you okay, man?” Lucas asks. Tarry appears oblivious to his surroundings.

“Tarry, look at me,” Lucas orders.

“Huh.” Tarry jerks his head toward Lucas, as if snapping out of a trance.

“You look pale. Are you okay?”

“I think I’m going to puke,” Tarry says with a ragged breath.

“Take him to the back, Mel.”

I wrap my hands around his arm and guide him to the locker room. I close the door, shutting out the loud music.

“There’s a bathroom here, come on.”

Tarry crouches in front of the toilet and retches. Only water spews out. I place my hand over his forehead for support. His skin is clammy and cold. I hope he doesn’t pass out. After an endless wave of dry heaves, he inhales a deep breath of air.

He gives me an exasperated look. He reclines, sinking against the wall to sit on the cold tile floor.

I grab and wet a few sheets of paper towels and hand them to him.

“Thanks,” he croaks.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Hmm-hmm.”

“What did you eat today?” I ask, sitting next to him. My heart is still pounding hard and fast.

“I didn’t,” he says unapologetic. “Let’s go back?”

“There is no way you are going back. We’re leaving so you can have a meal.”

He wipes the slime of his face and tosses the towels in a wastebasket. He rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes. We silently wait and our heart rates start decreasing.

“Sorry for ruining your workout,” he says after a minute.

“Nah, it’s okay. Maybe, it wasn’t such a good idea to bring you here.”

He opens his eyes and gazes my way. His eyes are blood red and his shaggy hair clings to his forehead. But I see something I hadn’t yet seen in him. Fire.

“Mel, I haven’t felt this alive in years.” His scorching gaze holds me captive.

I try to break free, but I cannot. After what seems too long, he looks away and sets me free.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Anytime.”

He stands up. He reaches down to me and I momentarily hesitate before I accept. His hands are calloused, but extremely warm and strong. Emotions, which had deserted me years before, flood to my chest.

“Thanks. I’ll give you some privacy.” I quickly exit the bathroom, which had suddenly become too claustrophobic.

As I wait for Tarry, my heartbeat is at a new speed unrelated to the workout. I question my sanity. Why do I have the feeling that thousands of butterflies are fluttering inside my stomach?

Tarry comes out of the bathroom with his hair and face wet. God, he looks sexy. Like rock god sexy. Hypnotized, I see the droplets of water running down his neck. He grabs the hem of his cotton shirt and uses it to wipe his face. Again, I’m enthralled by his tattoos. I’ve seen them many times in magazines where he appears naked from the waist up with his supermodel girlfriend. Then there was that day at the barn. But, the sight of the tattoos so close to my fingers does unbidden things to my insides. The thousands of butterflies turn into a million. His eyes catch my gaze and I feel my face turn crimson. I wrench my eyes away.

“Ready to go?” I ask.

“Yeah.” His lips turn into a slight smile. He noticed my gawk, the bastard.

Under the scrutiny of other members, we stride along the back of Lucas’s workout. I grab the gloves and stick them in my gym bag. Quickly we head for the door.

“Fifty push-ups,” Lucas orders to the class before following us.

“Hey, man, how’re you feeling?”

“I’m all right, but Miss Bossy Pants wants to shove some food in me.” Tarry rolls his eyes my way.

“Sounds like a smart idea. Hope to see you again, though,” Lucas says.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll call you,” Tarry says.

“Bye, Mel.” Lucas kisses me.

We leave the building. My burning cheeks welcome the cool evening breeze. Sparse stars twinkle in the violet-blue sky.

“Are you okay to drive?” I ask.

“Sure, I’m good you know. Quit worrying. I have enough folks worrying with Portia, Will, and Nillie. It feels like I’m a breakable porcelain doll.” He fans out.

I stop in front of the passenger door and look at him over the hood of the car. A smile stretches across my face.

“What?” He scowls.

“You just spoke a full sentence without me coaxing it out of you.” I open the door and slide in. When he settles on the driver seat, I add, “My therapist ego is a bit bruised, since you never spoke so much in your treatments. However, it is good to hear you say something other than an apathetic answer.”

“Well, tell your ego to get a grip. I can muster a few sentences here and there.”

“Do you like soup? There is a hole-in-the-wall place right down the street that serves a kick-ass soup.”

“For such a prude, you use the word ass quite a bit.”

“On second thought, I think I prefer my uninterested, apathetic, and emotionless patient.” I stare at him, but my grin betrays me. “And I’m no prude.”

“Yeah, you are. And, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to settle with me. I just killed your beloved apathetic patient with those boxing gloves.”

We both laugh, gut-deep laughter. It’s one of those moments in life that feels good to do good. If I’m being honest, it’s not his reaction that has me stunned. It’s the forgotten sound of my own laughter ringing in my ears.

MEL POINTS TO a small, rustic building and I pull over. My stomach coils at the thought of food and I’m sure my pale skin is tinted green. Mel must notice my gloomy mood, because she turns to me and mutters, “It’s your call. It’s either this or being spoon fed by Portia.”

“Did I ever complain about not having choices?” I say sarcastically.

“You’re going to like the food. Ella and I come here every week. It’s the best soup joint in town.” As I open the door, a bell jingles to announce our arrival.

We sit at a dim-lit corner table. The interior is bohemia meets antique. To my surprise, the aroma of food makes my stomach growl. I guess my half-workout gave me an appetite.

“Hey, Mel.” A middle-aged man greets us, placing water and utensils on the table.

“Hi, Jim, how are you?”

“Doing okay. Where is my Ella?”

“She’s with Pop. She’ll be very upset to know I came here without her.”

“What can I get you two, honey?” He looks my way and offers a warm smile.

“What soups do you have today?” Mel asks.

For a moment, I wonder if this is a date. Add stupidity to the list of damages caused by drugs. Of course, this isn’t a date. The conclusion leaves me bereft.

I watch Mel as she listens to the choices of soups. Her eyes sparkle as if she is doing the most extraordinary thing. Her smile is so easy and alluring. She seems so free and careless. I pathetically stare at her, practically drooling. I’ve been doing that a lot lately.

“What are you having?” The waiter asks me. Shit, I have no recollection of what he just listed.

“Whatever she’s having,” I say. The man, Jim I think his name is, smirks. I bet he noticed my lovesick puppy-dog eyes.

“Two lentil soups and two tae tea with freshly minced mint, coming right up.” He turns to leave, but hesitates. He turns to me and says, “I wish my wife was here. She was a big fan of your music. A few years back, she wanted to go to one of your concerts. But I never took her.” He shakes his head. “Regrets…”

Before I can respond, Mel grabs his hand and squeezes it. “Oh, Jim, you made Lauren a very happy woman, there is no need for guilt or regrets.”

“Yeah, Mel, I like to think that too,” he says, before disappearing to place our orders.

“His wife died of cancer earlier this summer,” Mel says, her eyes glistening. “They had been together since college.”

Heart-struck grief replaces the earlier sparkle in her eyes. She looks so broken and sad. On an impulse, I raise my hand to her face and gently caress her soft skin. She becomes very still. I stroke my thumb under her eye and capture a solitary tear. I bring the teardrop to my lips and taste the salty flavor of pain.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I want to offer her comfort. I know her sadness is from the loss of her husband. It’s all over her frail face. I’m overwhelmed with a desire to wrap my arms around her.

“Why did you do that for?” she asks. There is no reproach on her voice, just confusion.

“Because I wanted to know the taste of pain.” I narrow my eyes. “I’ve spent my life at the edge of obliviousness, Mel. I don’t feel. I’m always numb.”

She gazes at me. We don’t exchange words, but there is a heady energy humming between us. I wonder if she can feel it because I damn sure feel that I can touch it.

Before I have the chance to say or do something stupid, Jim places a humongous bowl in front of me. What the hell did I just order?

“
Bon appétit
,” Jim flares his hand and turns on his heels.

I look up to meet Mel’s mocking eyes.

“Such a wimpy ass.” She cocks her head. “Try it before you decide you don’t like it,” she says with amusement, shoveling a spoon full of the slimy green stuff past her lips.

“Damn, you know how to persuade a man.” I hesitantly slide a spoon of soup into my mouth. The flavor slowly permeates through my taste buds.

“One of my many talents.” She puts down her spoon and her teeth scrape her bottom lip, suppressing a smile. It’s sexy as hell. Did she just flirt with me?

“Well, feel free to exert your talents on me, whenever you deem fit. This soup is fucking out of this world.”

Her eyes sparkle and the smile she tried to suppress spreads across her face. My groin twitches in response. Suddenly, I realize I want to make her smile. And I want to capture and taste her smiles just as I did her tear.