Falling for Forever

by Melissa Chambers

  She studies me. “So, how are you feeling about Miles today? Do you believe that he didn’t have anything to do with cutting out your monitor?”

  I stir my soda. “I guess. He seems sincere. Like he wants to clean our slate, whatever that means.”

  “Well, you do have to work together as partners. I think if you can put this all behind you, you both should do that. Otherwise it’s going to be way awkward every day in that classroom.”

  “I know.”

  She lowers her chin, her auburn hair falling in her eyes. “I forgot how cute he was.”

  I meet her gaze and grin. “He is kind of cute, isn’t he?”

  She puts her hands over her heart. “Those glasses and that messy hair.” She does a little shoulder lift, eyes closed, grunt thing.

  I sit back in my seat. “Excuse me, Mrs. Wide Receiver. Did you forget about your own man for a minute?”

  She grins, looking at the screensaver on her phone of Landon in his Georgia Tech football uniform. “Never.”

  I lift my straw and then drop it down in my drink. “Oh god. You’re so disgusting.”

  “Hang on. He’s texting me,” she says.

  I’d call this a coincidence if he wasn’t texting her every second of the day. I hold out my hand. “Give me that.”

  She clutches the phone to her chest. “No. You’ve got your own phone. Text him with yours if you want.”

  “I think I will.” I type a text to both of them.

  Me: Leave her alone. She’s having sodas with me and I never see her anymore.

  I hold my phone up and do a selfie of us with our drinks and then send it to him.

  Landon: Looking good, ladies. That guy behind you all is staring at my girl. Go beat him up, Jenna.

  I peer around for the offending guy, and it’s a twelve-year-old at best.

  Me: He is much better looking than you. And he’s local. Bonus points.

  We wait a minute, and Landon texts us back a selfie, scowling at us.

  “Aww, look at your guy,” I say. “Isn’t he a huge dork.”

  We both know he isn’t. Landon’s probably the least dorky guy I’ve ever known.

  Chloe won’t quit staring at his selfie. I snap. “Earth to Chloe.”

  She sets her phone down. “Sorry. So, what’s the next step…with your career?”

  I narrow my gaze at the silver bar stool beside our table. “Now that we’re moving to Nashville, I may try to do some kind of quality recordings that I can link people to for background vocalist possibilities. I’ve heard you can make great connections that way. And I may see if I can play a few gigs.”

  “You could do one at The Glass Vortex,” she says.

  I shrug. “Maybe. Or 3rd and Lindsley.”

  She does a little shoulder dance. “I love that venue. You’ve got to get something booked there before you go to L.A.”

  I inhale a deep breath. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to. Nashville is tough. People aren’t into pop like they are in L.A. Everything’s folksy and bluesy. Serious musicians.”

  “You are a serious musician.”

  I love the passion with which she executed that statement. “Thank you, my Chlo-Jo.”

  Chloe looks at her phone. “What time is your mom coming?”

  I glance at the door. “She should be here soon. She’s taking me to get my hair cut.”

  “What time?” Chloe asks.

  “Two,” I say.

  We both check our phones, and Chloe gets a worried look on her face. “How about I drop you at the salon, and then she can pick you up from there?”

  My chest fills with anxiety. “She’s coming,” I say, with more irritation than I mean. “But thanks for offering. Go. I’m serious.”

  “I can wait.”

  The bell dings on the door, and my mom walks in. Sick relief fills my chest, and then I’m embarrassed that I let myself worry she wasn’t coming. I’m eighteen, not six.

  She smooths back her dark hair as she approaches our table, smile-less as usual. “Hello, Chloe.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Quigley.”

  She turns to me. “Are you ready?”

  “Yeah.” Chloe and I hug, and then my mom and I head to her car.

  “So what’s it going to be today?” she asks. “Trim or are you going radical?’

  “Trim,” I say.

  “Mmm,” she grunts, pulling out of her parallel-parked place.

  “How was your gig last night with the symphony?” I ask.

  She grips the steering wheel, eyebrows raised. “Good.” She looks at me and smiles. She never smiles. Something is so strange with her…even weirder than normal.

  “So your dad mentioned you had a talent show. Did you win?”

  I look out the window, rolling my eyes. “It was a tryout for a talent show. I find out Monday if I made the top ten.”

  “Seems futile after being on a national show. Why are you bothering?” she asks.

  I fool with my phone. “It kind of is a big deal…at least at this school.”

  She shrugs, making a turn. “So,” she says, narrowing her gaze. “Are you keeping your eye on the prize?”

  I’m confused. She just said the talent show was futile.

  “L.A.,” she clarifies.

  “Oh yeah. Of course.”

  “Good.” She cuts her eyes at me a couple of times and then finally says, “Any boys in the mix?”

  I shrug. “There’s always boys in the mix.”

  “Boys as in plural?” she clarifies.

  I shrug.

  “That’s good, Jenna. Multiple boys are good. Fun. Easy. One boy is a disaster. Look at Chloe and that boy from Florida.”

  “He’s at Georgia Tech now.”

  “He’s in the way, is what he is. I hope she’s still planning to go to that art school in Franklin next year.”

  “Of course she is.”

  My mom purses her lips. “Wanna bet she ends up at Georgia Tech?”

  I turn to her, my defenses for my best friend rising. “Would it be a tragedy if she did?”

  “Yes. Yes it would be. Strong women don’t change their life course for boys. Strong women follow their own dreams, keep focused. Just like you’re doing.” She smiles. “I’m proud of you for that.” She pulls the car over in front of the salon. I start to get out but she stops me. “What about the pill?”

  I shift in my seat, my stomach churning. “Mom.”

  “I know you said you didn’t need it, but you’re a senior now, and I imagine there are a lot of really cute and really talented boys there at that school. There’s nothing wrong with experimenting, especially now that you’re eighteen.”

  I run my fingers over my forehead, begging for this conversation to end. “I don’t need the pill.”

  “Are you sure? Because condoms aren’t enough. Do you still have the box I got for you?”

  My chest closes in on me. “Yes.”

  “Sweetie, I know this isn’t fun to talk about with your mom, but I need you to understand how important it is for you to use both kinds of protection.”

  I think I might suffocate, so I open the car door and walk toward the salon. She follows me in and takes a magazine. She flips through, glancing at me from time to time. I scroll through my phone, wishing her away from me.

  She leans in. “You can hate me today, but you’ll thank me when you’re thirty.”

  I manage to make it through the rest of Sunday without my mom shoving birth control pills down my throat. I get that she doesn’t want me to fall into the same pattern as she did. She just doesn’t have to be so obvious about it.

  I can’t talk to her…even to tell her that. I’ve never been able to talk to her. When I look into her eyes, all I see is someone who doesn’t want to be where she is. I don’t understand why she doesn’t just go. Dad and I would be fine without her. It’s not like we didn’t survive the first time.

  Weston’s room is a mess this morning. Parts of drum sets, music stands, guitar stands, bon
gos, and a bunch of other crap is strewn around the room along with paper, chairs out of order and upside down. It’s a wreck in here. The couches and chairs aren’t in the usual semi-circle, so I have no idea where to sit.

  “Holy crap,” Greta says as she walks into the room. She joins me near the couch, which we can’t sit on because it’s been moved up against the wall.

  “What do you think this is about?” I ask her.

  “Not sure. At this school, I wouldn’t put anything past any teacher. It will probably be an interesting class if nothing else.”

  Miles walks in and stops to survey the damage, just like every kid who walks in here does. I’m still pissed, I’m just not sure if it’s at him or at myself. I sucked at that audition. I know I couldn’t hear myself to know how bad I sucked, but I had my finger in my ear half the time. That couldn’t have made for a decent performance.

  They’re announcing the finalists at free lunch today, and it’s all over from there. If I don’t get a spot, I’m going to go down in history as the girl who was good enough for primetime network television, but when push came to shove, she couldn’t make her own high school talent show.

  Weston shuts the door. “Okay, students. Partner up.”

  Big surprise. Could Weston not just have chosen to lecture today?

  “One of the reasons I partnered you with someone who you weren’t comfortable with is because it’s a rare occasion that your best friend happens to also be a good writing partner for you. Not that it doesn’t happen, but we certainly can’t limit ourselves to working with people we’re comfortable around. One of the biggest issues I saw in Friday’s assignment was the lack of openness in the writing. You’re all being so safe. This class is about taking risks. Write something stupid. It might be the best hook a song has ever seen.”

  “Dylan’s covered then,” one of the guys says.

  The class chuckles while Weston cuts his eyes at the guy who said it, but then powers forward. “Trust is key with a songwriting partner. You’re asking someone to dig inside themselves and reach for the rawest emotions they have. Trusting that person with part of your soul is so important. I have a songwriter buddy whose publisher sets him up on writing sessions with other writers. If he’s meeting the person for the first time, he always asks them to catch him.”

  Weston closes his eyes and holds his arms out to his sides. “He free falls backward into that person’s arms.”

  I look up at Miles. “I’m not falling into your arms.”

  “Can I fall into yours?”

  I’m still pissed at him, no matter how cute he is, so I cross my arms over my chest and give my attention back to Weston.

  He opens his eyes and walks over to his desk. “Everyone line up with your partners on this wall.” He walks the line of us with a basket of blindfolds, handing them out. “I want you to cover your partner’s eyes with this blindfold.”

  “Which partner?” someone asks.

  “Whichever partner is the least trusting.”

  Miles meets my gaze.

  I put my finger to my lip. “Hmm, I wonder who that could be this morning?”

  He covers my eyes with the blindfold and ties it around the back. “Can you see?” he asks.

  “No,” I say, but I can.

  He does some adjusting, and now I can’t.

  “Oh, so you didn’t trust that I was telling you the truth?” I ask.

  “I saw the holes.”

  I purse my lips at him, and I hear him snicker.

  I point. “You sure you want to laugh at me? We’ll probably be switching up roles here in a minute.”

  “Sorry,” he says. “You’re just kind of funny looking in that thing.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “You know, I’m still pissed at you.”

  “Move forward,” he says.

  I toss up my hands. “I can’t. I can’t see anything.”

  “Other people are moving forward,” he says.

  “Well, how are they doing it?”

  He’s silent for a second then he takes me by my upper arms and moves me around 180 degrees. He doesn’t let go of my arms. “Step backward.”

  “Into what?” I ask.

  “I think that’s the point of the exercise.”

  The low tone of his voice is doing odd things to my body in this darkened state I’m in. This exercise is the worst possible scenario for me right now. I don’t like being vulnerable to the one guy in this whole school who I don’t exactly trust at the moment. He screwed me over last Friday, and he was justified in doing so, which makes it ten times worse.

  “You can take bigger steps than that,” he says.

  “No, I can’t. I don’t know where I’m going.”

  He moves his hands down my arms and takes my hands in his. “I’m not going to let you bump into anything, and I’m not going to let you fall, I know you don’t trust me not to mess with your talent competition tryout, but can you trust that I will at least not let you fall on your ass?”

  I think about it. “Why would I?”

  “Because I want an A in this class. Do you think Weston would give me one for this assignment if I let you get hurt?”

  I like his logic and the way he seems to be taking charge of this exercise, even though I doubt we’re being graded. He’s competitive and probably doesn’t want to be the last to make it across. It’s hard, but if I want to get through this, I am going to have to trust him.

  “Two steps back. Now sidestep with your right foot twice.” He pulls my hands in that direction, leading the way. He turns us around, not letting go of my hands, and pulls me toward him so I’m going forward now. “You’re doing really well.”

  I smile and then erase it so he doesn’t think I’m enjoying this—or him.

  “Now, take a really high step, up and over.” I hesitate. He tightens his grip on my hands. “I got you, just trust me.”

  I lift my foot up high and then go up and over, wobbling as I step down, but he holds me steady, which makes something ping in my heart. This experience is not helping my resolve to be pissed.

  He chuckles. “Awesome.”

  “What? What was it?” I ask.

  “That ladder. Can you really not see?”

  I drop my posture. “No, thanks to you. We could have cheated, you know?”

  “This is way more fun.”

  His flirty tone is making my stomach twirl. I squeeze his hands. “You’re not allowed to have fun right now.”

  “I can have a little fun.”

  “Not when I’m still pissed at you,” If I say it aloud, it becomes true, right?

  “Come on, we’re almost to the end of our course.”

  He pulls me to the right, instructing my steps one by one, and then says, “Okay, stop right there. You can take the blindfold off now.”

  I let go of his hand and pull it off. I’m right by the wall on the opposite side of the room. I smile at him. “We did it.”

  He lifts his eyebrows from behind his glasses. “You trusted me.”

  I point at him. “Don’t get used to it.”

  Weston does his signature clap. “Okay, guys, now we’ve got to get back to the other side of the room. I want those who were led this time to blindfold your partners and do the leading for this next round. But first, I want you to change courses with another team, since you’re familiar now with the course you just did.”

  We switch places with Nicolette and her partner and then I face him with a little shrug. “Turnabout.”

  He puts his glasses in his pocket. “Go ahead.”

  It’s weird seeing him without his glasses. He’s really cute…almost kind of hot. I stand up on my tiptoes and wrap the blindfold around his eyes.

  He doesn’t complain at all as I move him through the maze of junk, even when I accidently make him trip over something that I really didn’t see. But I catch him and right him…which is a little fun. I like being his hero, and I kind of like holding his hands.

  When we make it t
o the other wall, he pulls the blindfold off and then looks around at the two other teams that beat us. “Damn. I was hoping to make it here first.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “You really are competitive, aren’t you?”

  “It’s pretty bad,” he admits.

  Weston cups his hands over his mouth. “If you’re comfortable enough to fall backward now, you may, but only if you don’t outweigh your partner by, oh, say, a hundred pounds.”

  A couple of people chuckle as we all look at the one team that has a girl about my size and a guy who looks like he could take down the whole Titans defensive line.

  Miles holds his hands out to his sides. “Are you game?”

  I give a firm shake of my head. “Nope.”

  Directly beside us, Greta’s partner falls backward into her arms, and next to them, Nicolette falls into her partner’s arms.

  He puts his glasses back on. “Then let me fall into yours.”

  I narrow my gaze. “You would trust me to catch you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You’re a lot taller than me, for one.”

  “Just a few inches,” he says.

  I lift my chin. “How tall are you?”

  “Five eleven.”

  “I’m five four on a good day. That’s seven inches. How much do you weigh?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Like one sixty-five, maybe.”

  “I can’t catch that.”

  He shrugs. “Maybe you can’t. I thought you looked pretty strong.”

  Oh, no he didn’t. I put my hands on my hips. “I am strong.”

  “Prove it.”

  I huff in frustration. “Fine.” I’ve never done this before, so I really am worried I’m not going to be able to pull it off, but now he has me wanting to try. I look around. “What’s that big guy’s name?”

  “Jayden.”

  “Jayden!” I shout and then wave him over.

  “I’m going to catch him. Will you spot me just in case?”

  The guy shrugs. “Sure.” He walks behind me.

  I smile at him. “Thanks.”

  Miles turns around and holds his hands out to his sides. I plant my feet and crouch with my arms out, my heartbeat racing. I think I can catch him, but I’m really not sure. But his confidence in my abilities is fueling my determination.

  Without even asking if I’m ready, Miles just falls backward, and I let out this funny grunt as he lands in my arms. But I catch him! I right him back up with a big push and a grunt.