This Is Falling (2 page)

“You like it?” It takes me a minute or two to
follow what Cass is talking about, but I eventually realize she
caught me staring at her anklet.

“Yeah, sorry. I was just looking at the
beads. They’re beautiful,” I say, hoping that Cass’s mind isn’t
mulling over the idea that I might have a foot fetish or
something.

“Thanks. My mom owns a bead store, so I make
a ton of things like this. I could make you one, if you want?”

To her, the gesture is probably small and
insignificant. But I smile and nod at her offer, and my stomach
flutters a little with excitement, first-date kind of butterflies.
Somehow, I may have done the impossible. Somehow, I proved myself
wrong. Somehow…I made a friend.

Chapter
2

Rowe

This late at night, the bathrooms are dark,
minus a few panels left on so students can find their way in and
out. It’s all part of cutting down on energy use—being
green.
There are suggested hours, but I’d rather be alone.
The hallway lights are dim, but bright enough I can see if I use
the stall closest to the door. This is the part that worried me
most—showering in public. Most of the girls will probably shower in
the morning, though, so I plan on taking mine late at night—in the
dark.

Cass and Paige went out for the evening. Cass
tried to get me to join them, but I convinced her I was exhausted
from our trip. Not everyone is on campus yet, but a lot of the
freshmen have arrived, and there are a few parties at the
apartments on the outskirts of town. I’m not ready for parties.

The water doesn’t take long to warm, so after
looking around the room once more, and peeking out the door, I
decide it’s safe enough to undress. There are a lot of showerheads
in the open, and I can’t imagine being comfortable enough in my own
skin to actually walk around naked. Even if my side wasn’t riddled
with scars, I don’t think I would be the kind of woman who could
show everyone her goods and bits.

I stack my clothes carefully on the small
bench right outside the shower stall and step inside, pulling the
curtain closed behind me. My heart is racing so fast I have to
remind myself to breathe—long and deep—just to slow it down. I miss
my shower at home, in my parents’ bathroom, behind two doors that
locked. I miss the hum of the fan, and the way it interrupted my
thoughts. It’s quiet in here, and it makes me shower fast, rushing
through the shampoo and conditioner, barely running the shower gel
over my skin before twisting the shower handle to
off
and
wrapping myself in my towel.

I quickly pull my sleep-shirt over my head
and let the towel drop; I’m stepping into my underwear when I
notice the sound of the water pipes still vibrating. The thought
that I’m not alone sends a wave of panic through my veins; I feel
light-headed. I sit on the bench and clutch my dirty clothes and
towel to my body, leaning forward enough so my eyes can scan the
other stalls in search of feet.

But I’m alone. The pipe sound stops seconds
later; I figure the water was probably coming from the floor above.
I finish getting dressed, pulling on my cotton shorts and slipping
my feet into my flip-flops before I enter the hall.

“Evenin’,” he says, scaring me so badly I
drop all of my things and push myself flush against the wall. I
look like a jailbird in one of those old black-and-white movies,
trying to step out of the spotlight during a breakout. “Sorry,
didn’t mean to scare you, but I figured if I didn’t say anything,
and you just saw me in the dark, it would be worse.”

He’s picking up my things for me, and somehow
I manage to calm my pulse down enough to realize he’s manhandling
my underwear.
Oh god!
I grasp at my belongings, but my hands
get tangled with his, which only makes me panic more and drop
everything again.

“Boy, I scared you good, huh?” he chuckles.
All I can focus on is gathering up my things and making my way back
to my room—that, and the slight southern accent when he talks.
“Hey, are you okay?”

It’s not until his hand is gripping my arm
that I finally look up at him. I’m not prepared for my reaction at
all, and I’m sure I’m amusing him, because I blush so quickly I
would have a better chance playing off a can of paint being dumped
over my head. He’s cute. He’s
more than cute
; he’s the exact
boy I fantasized about when I was fourteen and dreaming of going
off to college with my best friend Betsy. Brown hair just long
enough on the top to flop over his forehead and eyebrows, blue eyes
that hide under dark lashes and a half-shaven look that reminds me
instantly that he isn’t a boy at all. No, I’m standing in front of
a man. It’s been so long since I’ve been in the presence of a male;
I somehow skipped over that moment in-between. He’s like one giant,
walking, shirtless symbol of my life before everything I loved went
away. Before Betsy was gone. And before my first—and only—boyfriend
left with her.

I have to speak. He clearly lives on my
floor, and if I walk away from this without saying a word, it’s
only going to be more awkward when I run into him in the elevator,
at the stairs, in a class.

“Sorry, adrenaline still working its way
through me, had a hard time getting my words out,” I say, reminding
myself to fill my lungs. That’s what Ross, my counselor, tells me
to do when I feel the world closing in on me. Stop. Breathe deeply.
Ross is a thousand miles away, but I’m supposed to call him twice a
month. I’m starting to think twice a week might be necessary for a
while.

“Understandable.” Southern accent. Dimples.
Smile. “So, you live…down there?” he asks, gesturing down the long
hallway that leads to my room.

“Room three thirty-three,” I say. Why in the
hell did I tell him what room I’m in? That’s completely unlike me,
and it feels…
unsafe.

“Ah, well…nice to meet you, three
thirty-three. I’m three fifty-seven.” He gives me his hand, and I
shake it, feeling every cell of his fingers spark against mine. The
feeling is foreign, and scary, and amazing all at once.

“You going to any of the parties tonight,
Thirty-three?” I like it when he calls me by my number, and the
fact that he’s suddenly given me this nickname makes my stomach
feel warm, regardless of how trivial and meaningless it probably is
to him. It also makes me realize that I never gave him my name. I
should do that. Shouldn’t I do that?

“No, I’m pretty exhausted. We drove straight
through from Arizona. And you can call me Rowe,” I say, my heart
racing just to get through this part of the conversation. I don’t
know why, but for me, every interaction causes the same internal
struggle others feel while giving a speech. Only for me, it’s the
tiny speeches, the one-on-ones, that strip me completely.

“Rowe.” He smiles after saying my name, and
my god do I want to hear him say it again. At the same time, I keep
looking toward my room in my periphery, the other part of my
brain—the dominant part—trying to convince me to go back to safety
and hide. “I’m Nate. And I’m really glad I decided to take a shower
tonight.”

This is flirting. I remember it, vaguely, as
he smiles and walks backward to his room on the other end of the
hall, his eyes lingering on me just long enough to send a rush down
my spine. I mimic him, and don’t turn away immediately either,
willing myself to keep my smile in place, to leave the night on
this high, to burn the look on his face into my memory—a new face,
brand new to my life, and worlds apart from the demon that haunts
me every night in my sleep.

I take advantage of my roommates being gone
and push my bed a few more feet away from the door, almost flush to
the window. Cass will notice, but I’m pretty sure I can convince
Paige that the bed was always this way. And for some reason, I
think Cass will back me up on it.

Getting my bed ready is always a process. I
have four pillows and two blankets. Not because I’m cold, but
because I’ve learned my mind rests easier if I have some sort of
barrier pushing against my body. I know that the foam and cotton of
the quilts will do very little to protect me in reality, but for
some reason, they make sleep come easier. So I go to work, rolling
and folding until I’ve built a fort of sorts along the side of my
mattress—something to lay against so I can feel hidden while I
sleep.

If I sleep.

Then come the medications. There’s the first
dose I took a few hours ago—melatonin. I take the Ambien now. I
fought taking pills for a long time. I didn’t want to go through
life being
drugged up.
But I wasn’t sleeping. Like…at all.
And it turns out not sleeping messes with your brain, and you start
seeing things—things that you should only see in your sleep.

Even three stories up, I can hear the chirp
of the crickets outside my window. I like their sound. It’s even
and steady—something to focus on. So I keep the glass open, letting
the warm air mix with the air conditioning as it spills in through
the screen. I pull my laptop into bed with me, cross my legs, and
log into Facebook. Writing to Josh has become a ritual, and my
string of messages to him is more of a diary now. I never read them
again once I hit send, though. I just pick up where I left off each
time, starting a new thought but never going back.

So I made it. I’m a college girl. College.
We were supposed to do this together, remember? And I sure as hell
wasn’t supposed to end up in Oklahoma. I know, I know—my fault
totally on that one. I picked it. It’s actually a pretty nice
campus. The buildings are all made of red brick, and the trees here
are enormous. Everything is so…green. I have two roommates. I like
one of them. I guess I can live with the other one. It’s
orientation week. I’m not sure I can hide in my room the entire
time. I don’t want to. This is my great test, what I’ve worked
toward for two years. But my courage diminished with every mile we
trekked on our way to Oklahoma, and I fear my tank’s close to
empty. One of my roommates, Cass, the one I like? She fought hard
to get me to go out tonight. I think I’m going to have to give in
on some of the social things, so it might as well be the
school-sanctioned ones.

I went to see your mom before I left. My mom
took me to the house. She looks good. Your dad wasn’t around, so I
didn’t get to say goodbye to him, but I’m sure I’ll see him during
my fall break. That was part of the deal with my parents. We
pre-booked every single one of my flights home for the semester. I
get to come home four times. The first one isn’t for about a month,
so that’s going to be hard. Of course, I also have to get on an
airplane. Alone. I know I don’t have to explain any of this to you.
I guess that’s why I write.

Wish you would write back.

Love, Rowe

He won’t write back. He never does. But that
won’t stop me from writing him. I move my curser to log out when
the sound of a new message startles me. My mom is really the only
other person I connect with on Facebook anymore, but that’s not
whose picture I’m looking at right now.

It’s a picture of Nate, on a beach somewhere,
without a shirt. I don’t think that man ever wears one. I click it
open, my hand shaking with nerves, and my brain starting to slow
from the effects of my dose of sleeping medicine.

So the first message I sent went to a girl
named Row. She was twelve, and that was awkward. And I’m pretty
sure her parents have now put me on a block list since her mom was
the one to intercept. Anyhow, found you. Rowe, with an e…at least,
I think this is you? Wanted to see if you wanted to check out the
area with me tomorrow? Take a walk, around 11? Let me know.

-357 ;-)

I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how
to do
any
of this. And I’m not in a good place for this.
Flirting is one thing. It’s harmless. I could make that a hobby.
Not that I’m good at that either, but making plans? Plans lead
places. And I can’t go places—places feel like relationships. And I
definitely don’t know how to do relationships, having had an entire
one
in my life. Besides, I would just be someone’s
poison.

I shut my laptop and push it away from me,
like a child does to a plate of vegetables. The crickets are still
chirping outside, and in the distance I can hear the music pumping
from someone’s apartment balcony. If I listen closely, I can almost
make out the sounds of girls giggling and guys celebrating. Maybe
it’s all in my head—the soundtrack I’ve imagined for college, based
on all of the movies I’ve seen. Or maybe it’s real. I’ll never know
because I’ve kept myself on the periphery, too afraid to be in the
middle. I hate myself for being so afraid.

My hair is still damp, so I reach under my
bed for a dry towel to cover my pillow. When I catch my reflection
in the window, it gives me pause. Nothing about me is
extraordinary. My hair is long and straight—the color of a pecan,
just like my eyes. I used to be good at sports; I was on the tennis
team before I left the school system, and I continued to play with
my dad, so my body is lean. I’m nothing like Paige—things on me
don’t curve, and there is
nothing
voluptuous happening.
Taking my personal inventory has me laughing at myself now, and
laughing hard.

Nate probably won’t remember me in the
morning, and here I’ve gone and imagined some crazy scenario where
we’re a couple, leaps and bounds away from reality. I’m one of a
handful of girls to arrive to the dorm so far; a pleasant waste of
time until something better comes along. And if anything, he’s a
potential friend, and maybe my only hope of upping my number in my
inner circle from one—if Cass even counts yet—to two.

I know that in about two more minutes I’m
going to become so sleepy that I might accidentally agree to donate
all of my organs to Nate, so I open the screen on my computer and
type fast, using this strange mix of rationality and courage that
has suddenly taken over my body.