Accepting the Fall

by Meg Harding

  The doors of the RAV4 were crunched in, the Buick having taken care of the passenger side while the guardrail dented the driver’s. Zander attempted to yank the one unblocked door, but it was too wedged in. He squinted, trying to see through cracked glass, before swiftly moving to climb over the rail and approach the driver’s door.

  The view was clearer on this side, and as he caught a good look at the man sitting with a hand held to his forehead, his stomach dropped.

  Son of a bitch.

  The first time Cole’s alarm went off, he tapped snooze and then turned onto his side. Patrick’s back was to him, and his quiet snores were almost drowned out by the pattering of rain on the windows. Cole scooted close, slinging an arm over Patrick’s waist and mouthing lazily at his nape. He felt the need for contact like an itch under his skin, a buzzing of want without much care how he got it.

  Patrick rolled away from him, mumbling disgruntlement in his sleep.

  Cole flopped to his back and scowled at his popcorn ceiling. The blades of the fan spun round, blurring together. Barely any light was filtering in from around the curtains. The rain fell steadily, a constant plop, plop, plop. He closed his eyes, and lesson plans began to scroll along the back of his eyelids.

  Not exactly what he’d been going for.

  Huffing, he tossed aside the covers. He might as well do the rise and shine thing without further procrastination. Patrick slept on, not stirring while Cole dressed for work. Like usual when Patrick stayed the night, which was most of the time, Cole’s army of pups waited outside his bedroom door. To show their disdain for being shut from the room, they were sparse with their kisses. He let them into the yard while he got their food ready and turned his Spotify playlist on low, needing the background noise. His cats were nowhere to be seen, probably still sleeping in their many nests throughout the house.

  For having such a full home, Cole felt more alone than he should have. It was a sensation he’d been battling since he was a child. He’d been called needy by many an ex-boyfriend. Clingy. It was either said with a mocking tint of amusement or as an insult, but Cole didn’t change. He wanted someone who wanted him.

  Cole shook his head, scratching absently at his forearm as he counted the dog bowls. Seeing Zander had sent him into a bit of a spin. A minor setback. It still amazed him how fresh those memories and feelings were. If he didn’t know better, Cole would think it had all happened days ago and not seventeen years in the past.

  Every time he’d seen Zander, his heart had raced and his stomach tumbled. He’d learned what butterflies felt like inside him. Talking to Zander for the first time had been like removing the top from a pressure valve. He’d been light and happy, and when he’d made Zander smile, everything in him lit up with pure pleasure.

  The new boy always appeared so serious. He didn’t talk to anyone, and the permanent scowl on his face kept them from trying. His hair was cut military short, close enough to outline the curve of his skull. Seated on one of the rec room’s couches, he was fiercely concentrating on playing Final Fantasy IX, not even seeming to notice the other teens in the room. Every press of his long fingers on the controllers looked angry.

  Again and again, he got stuck on what he was doing. Cole imagined he could feel the frustration radiating from him. The line of his shoulders beneath his washed-out gray sweatshirt was impossibly tense, and his lips were curled in a snarl. Cole had been around enough guys to sense when the television was going to be assaulted by a flying controller.

  Acting on instinct, Cole dropped onto the ratty brown couch beside the boy. He knocked their knees together. “Please don’t break the TV. We just got a new one.”

  “I’m not going to break it.” His voice was rough and short, full of indignation and no little irritation at being interrupted.

  Cole raised a brow and looked at the tense, white-knuckled grip on the controller. “So throwing that never crossed your mind?”

  He expected a sharp retort, a demand to be left alone. What he got instead was a sudden and barely there smile. More of an upward twitching of lips at the corner than anything else. It took Cole so by surprise that he found himself short of breath and absent of words.

  The shuffling of socked feet over tile floor broke him from his thoughts, and he twisted to see Patrick come through the kitchen door and make a beeline for the coffee pot. Cole’s cheeks flushed warm. “Sorry. I forgot to start it.”

  Patrick waved his hand, poking at the buttons with the other. Without caffeine in his system, he was nonverbal.

  Cole retrieved a mug for Patrick, bringing it to him and brushing along his side. He resisted the temptation to press, to demand contact, and instead went to let the dogs in. By the time he returned to the kitchen, Patrick had stopped resembling a grumpy zombie. He was seated at the island, mug in one hand and phone in the other, and he smiled when he saw Cole.

  “Morning.” Cole went to him, and Patrick brushed a light kiss over Cole’s cheek. “Want me to whip something up?”

  Patrick hummed thoughtfully. “What were you thinking?”

  “Pancakes?” Cole was a pro at making them, thanks to years of pancake breakfast fundraisers and the like. “I’ve got blueberries and whipped cream.”

  “Sounds perfect.” He kissed Cole again, more of a peck really, but this time on the mouth. “I’m gonna get ready while you make them.”

  It was completely irrational for Cole to be irritated by Patrick leaving the room. He didn’t need company to make breakfast, and Patrick did need to get dressed. They were adults. They had more important things to do.

  He didn’t slam the frying pan on the stove. It was more of a drop, really.

  Thor butted into his legs at the noise, staring imploringly up. Cole stroked his floppy black and white ear, tugging gently. “Sorry, bud. Just one of those days.” He bent to kiss the top of Thor’s cold, wet nose. “Your concern is very much appreciated.” Whether Thor understood him or not, his expressive eyes radiated nothing but love. While Cole made breakfast, Thor stayed near, always at his heels or lying beside him.

  “He’s your shadow,” said Patrick with some amusement later, swiping three pancakes onto his plate. He dodged Smaug, who was circling his legs. He proceeded to drown the pancakes in syrup and then eat them standing up over the sink.

  Cole rubbed the arch of his foot over Thor’s soft back, ruffling the fur. A collie mixed with who-knew-what, Thor was a black and white ball of fluff Cole had found roaming Bradenton beach two years ago. At the time, he was skin and bones, all patchy and knotted hair, with a limping back leg and raw pads. Now his fur was silky soft, long and flowing. He was the picture of health and happiness, and Cole had him spoiled beyond repair.

  “He’s hoping I’m going to share my breakfast with him,” said Cole wryly. He refused to be guilted by the puppy eyes.

  Patrick and he left for work at the same time, though they were headed in opposite directions. Cole toward St. Pete and Patrick toward Sarasota. The rain had stopped, and the roads were already drying even though the sun hadn’t come out. It was cloudy and dreary, and Cole knew he was going to have to find something to fill in for the playground during recess. Dirt in the classroom was one thing, mud was another.

  Merging onto the interstate, he found it was unpleasant, more so than usual. There were the typical mix of people who couldn’t figure out how to drive above forty and refused to stick to the slow lane, and then the crazy ones in a rush, going ninety and swerving around everyone. Florida drivers were a unique—often horrible—bunch of people. Add nearly two months of no rain and one steady drizzle to the mix, and that seemed to have been enough for them to completely forget how to drive.

  The journey over the 275 bridge was exceptionally long, traffic coming to a standstill at points, and when the end of the bridge was in sight, the pace picked up. St. Petersburg spread in front of him, the crowded docks with their luxury boats and the quirky beach houses that gave way to scattered office buildings and kitschy shops. The oc
ean rolled chaotically, the wind creating larger than normal swells which crashed into the docks, broke off the side of yachts.

  Cole stepped on the gas with a sigh of relief as he left the coast behind, relishing going fifty rather than the slow-rolling ten. Beside him, a Buick that appeared to have never been cleaned, edged forward. The front window was down, and a cigarette was tossed out. They were riding the ass of the car in front, and Cole tapped his brake as they suddenly swerved in their lane.

  He didn’t know if his reaction time was too slow or if the outcome had been inevitable, but the Buick merged right into him. With five feet between him and the barrier, a car in front and behind, Cole had nowhere to go.

  Chapter 4

  It was hard to tell what was more pervasive: the steady, almost numbed thumping of pain in Cole’s head, the slick drip of liquid over his face, sticking tacky to his left eyelashes, or the smell of metal that was in every whiff of air he breathed. Tentatively, Cole raised his hand, absently noting the shaking with the eye he could still open. His fingers were an angry red and they trembled, sore from the airbag impact. He didn’t have the control to make them steady. He dragged the pads lightly over his face, feeling for injuries. Blood quickly coated them, and he found the main source in a gash at his hairline. The other was a tiny trickle from his nostrils, and he didn’t touch his nose for fear doing so would allow him to register the pain.

  Moving gingerly—not feeling much, but knowing that wouldn’t last—he let his seat mold to his back and tilted his head onto the rest. He pressed his already sticky hand to his forehead, as if he could hold the cut closed, and drew in harsh breaths through his mouth. Right now, adrenaline was his best friend. His body was doing what it needed to, letting his mind play catch-up. Cole’s heart pounded so forcefully within his chest that it physically hurt. He had the vague worry it would bust free if it didn’t slow.

  He closed his good eye, trying to call forth inner peace.

  Flashing lights and too much noise. Flickers of white walls and the scent of sterility. He couldn’t move, but he was rolling. People were talking around him, strange hands hovering over him. Blue and many. Fear licked along his spine, short-circuiting his brain and stealing his air. The white walls turned, and he kept gliding. The lights above him went in and out, burning his retinas and leaving behind dark spots. Something pressed over his mouth, and through the rush of panic, he couldn’t make out what was being said.

  Cole shook his head to banish the hazy memories, immediately regretting the movement, and opened his eye. The other remained glued shut. “Opposite of peace,” he said, tasting copper on his tongue. His time in the hospital thirteen years ago was something best forgotten. It was certainly anything but soothing.

  The tap on his window barely registered. In fact, Cole didn’t remember hearing it, but he found himself looking out his window, at the dark knuckles poised against spidered glass. The view was cracked and distorted, but the uniform of a firefighter was hard to miss. Cole had the briefest of inane thoughts, that he didn’t look presentable, and what if the fireman was the kind he saw in calendars?

  The man started talking, muffled instructions that Cole only half understood. The voice was so familiar, one he’d heard recently and which had a tendency to rudely interrupt his dreams just when he thought it was gone forever. He must have seriously hit his head if he was imagining the man outside was Zander.

  He needed to pull himself together. Cole had kids to teach and a new episode of This is Us to watch on Hulu when he got home. He couldn’t spend all day here. His brain finally showing signs of life, he began to fumble to undo his seatbelt. His fingers kept slipping. He jerked as a section of the window shattered, glass tinkling down into the space between the door and his seat. Turning, Cole watched the rest be removed, knocked aside and out of harm’s way.

  Unless he was hallucinating, the man standing in full firefighter gear and with a determined set to his jaw looked an awful lot like Zander.

  “If it walks like a duck and it quacks like a duck,” he muttered.

  “What was that? Are you all right? Don’t move. We’re going to get you out of there.” Zander’s tone was brisk, his questions rendered moot as he moved like a tornado to get help, not waiting for Cole to speak.

  If Cole wasn’t prone to wishful thinking, he’d believe the expression in Zander’s eyes was panic.

  As more people showed up, and the unholy noise of tearing metal pierced the morning, Cole’s adrenaline came crashing down in a wave of pain. He gritted his teeth and breathed through it. He found himself looking at the back of his eyelids, mentally counting back from ten. He didn’t twitch at the touch of a warm palm to his arm. The fingers on his arm were calloused and long, and Cole’s arm was squeezed gently.

  “Talk to me, Cole. Can you tell me what day it is?” Zander gave Cole’s arm a quick rub, more of a pat really, like he didn’t know how to properly offer comfort.

  Cole didn’t open his eyes, but his imagination wasn’t slacking. He could clearly picture what Zander’s expression would be, the way his hair would be frizzing from the humidity. “It’s the day that hell froze over,” he said. His neck ached. He tried to roll it.

  Zander put his hand on Cole’s neck, his thumb resting behind Cole’s ear. It sent a shiver racing down Cole’s spine and made the hair on his nape stand on end. “Don’t do that. You need to not move till someone can check you out.” He didn’t withdraw his grip. “I want you to tell me the day of the week.”

  The only reason Cole didn’t pull away was because it’d be too much effort. It had nothing to do with finding the contact comforting. “You’re not a paramedic.”

  “Day of the week,” said Zander, tone getting short in the same way it used to when Cole and he fought. Except then he’d been telling Cole to back off.

  There was something about Zander that had always made Cole want to push, where with anyone else he’d let it go. Given the current circumstances, now probably wasn’t the time to be stubborn. “It’s Monday. I was on my way to work. Some asshole ran into me.” Cole slumped a little, sighing heavily. “This is totally going to fuck up my insurance.”

  “I think that’s the least of your worries right now.” Zander swept his thumb in a slow arc over Cole’s skin. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

  “You’re not the one paying it, and no.” If Cole opened them, then all of this would become far too real. “I want out of here.” He was peripherally aware of all the noise around him, jacking his headache from thumping to piercing. Would silence at a time like this be too much to ask for? He wasn’t going to be able to hold himself together much longer.

  “We’re working on it. Can you tell me what all hurts?”

  It was said in the way Cole had often heard parents speak to their toddlers when they hurt themselves. The fact it was Zander of all people made it even worse. Karma, what did I ever do to you to deserve this cruel twist of fate? “Well gee, I’m going to say my head. Not that the blood doesn’t make that obvious. Shouldn’t you be putting out a fire or something?”

  “I think your temper qualifies,” said Zander dryly.

  “Oh, now he’s Mister Sense of Humor.”

  “Kept you distracted didn’t it? Hey, Mike. He’s all yours.”

  Before Cole could fully register the words, the grip on his neck was gone and an unfamiliar voice was in his ear, unfamiliar hands poking and prodding. “I’m Mike Lansier, and I’m a paramedic. We’re going to get you out of here and to the hospital, asap. Do you think anything’s broken?”

  Just my mind. “I don’t want to go to the hospital.” Pain or no pain, Cole wanted a shower and then to go into work. “I cracked my head, and everyone knows head wounds bleed a lot. They’re never as bad as they look.”

  Mike gently tilted Cole’s chin with glove chilled fingers. “Ah, are you a doctor, Mr. …?”

  “Cole Whitaker.” Cole tried not to flinch away from Mike’s touch. “I’m not a doctor.”

 
“No medical degree of any kind?” He removed Cole’s hand from the gash and probed around it.

  “No.”

  Mike hummed. “Well, in my professional opinion, you’re going to need stitches at the least. Now hold still, they’re about to cut your door off.”

  They were returning to the base after seeing a movie together. It was a Wednesday night, and the cinema had been empty save for them, the streets weren’t crowded either, and they became less so as the two of them grew closer to the base. The moon was almost full in the inky black sky, and Cole kept walking into Zander’s side. Zander knew Cole wanted him to hold his hand, to tangle their fingers together and let their limbs swing in synchronicity. Zander never gave in when Cole did this. Zander knew if he did, the lines would start to blur for him. He couldn’t have that.

  Zander tucked his hands inside his jacket pockets to remove the temptation. “What’d you think of the movie?”

  Cole side-eyed him and snorted. “We spent the whole time making out. I think there might have been explosions and those were probably cool.” He scratched the side of his nose, and a flash of guilt crossed his face. “Did you actually want to watch it? We can go see it again. I don’t mind.”

  Zander possessed the very concerning feeling that the naivety which had drawn him to Cole—something he didn’t understand and was intrigued by—would be the thing to ruin this in the end. He looked at Cole and was torn, half of him begging him to get close and the other half screaming to run.

  Sighing, Zander nudged their shoulders. “No, I don’t want to see it again.” Unlike Cole, Zander spoke very little German and had limited interest in foreign films. “You coming back—”