Accepting the Fall

by Meg Harding

  Behind them someone shouted, and they both turned. Barreling toward them was a giant of a dog, tongue hanging out and paws pounding the cobbled walk. A petite woman chased him, yelling something in German that Cole seemed to get. Cole stepped forward, arms slightly out from his sides, and the dog collided with him.

  Cole’s head rocked into the pavement.

  Zander’s heart froze in his chest for a brief moment, and then he was kneeling before he could think, ready to lift the dog and heave him aside. But the woman was there in the next instant, and despite how much his head had to have hurt, Cole was laughing and smiling, letting the monster lick his face.

  Zander went home alone, pleading being too tired for any fun. He didn’t sleep that night.

  “You’re not listenin’ to me.” Savanah accompanied this with a solid thump of her shoe to Zander’s dashboard.

  He blinked, taken aback and wondering just when she’d gotten in the car. It wasn’t like him to be so unaware of his surroundings. Not sure how long she’d been talking or how much he’d missed, he ruffled her hair, earning a stifled giggle. “I’m sorry. I’m listening now.” He pulled out of the pick-up lane. “Don’t kick my car, all right?”

  She stared at him, all wide, earnest eyes. “I just wanted your attention.”

  Zander glanced at her, making sure to smile so she’d know he wasn’t mad. “You’ve got it. For now on, tap me when you want something. No hitting or kicking anything. How was school?” He’d left her very cranky teacher in the back of an ambulance several hours ago. The urge to climb in with Cole, to hold his hand and somehow make things better, had been almost impossible to ignore. You wouldn’t be that person when he wanted you to. You definitely can’t be him now.

  Savanah’s eyebrows furrowed, and she looked very serious as she crossed her arms. “Mr. Whitaker didn’t come in. We waited forever.” She pulled her knees up and then wrapped her arms around them. Her chin was propped on one bony kneecap. “People kept coming and going, and then we got a sub… substi—”

  “Substitute,” said Zander, offering his assistance.

  “That,” she said, nodding without lifting her head. “I don’t like him. He smelled old.”

  “Oh yeah? What does old smell like?” His teasing tone had no effect on her downtrodden mood. All it earned him was an expression that clearly translated to “you plebeian.”

  “It smells like old.” It was said with all the logic and surety a five-year-old could infuse. “What if Mr. Whitaker never comes back?” Her lower lip started to wobble, and her eyes were round. “What if he decided he didn’t want to teach us anymore?” Between one second and the next, tears began to spill.

  Zander’s experience with tears was extremely limited—as in, he’d had none until Savanah came into his life. Zander could clearly remember the last time he’d cried. He’d been young, maybe six or so, and he’d fallen from his bike. His wrist ended up broken. He’d returned home, inconsolable and cradling his arm, and his father had lit into him. Boys didn’t cry. What did crying solve? Nothing. It didn’t fix anything, just made him look weak and pathetic. His father had been so enraged by the crying, it had taken several hours for him to pay attention to Zander’s wrist. As he got older, he watched the other men around him. And his father was right. He never saw any of them cry.

  Savanah wasn’t a boy, and Zander didn’t know what one did with girls. The idea of yelling at her, or doing anything other than comforting her, made his stomach roll nauseatingly. At home when she cried, she tended to stomp to her room and slam the door. Zander would pace in the hallway till she quieted, and then he’d coax her out with the promise of ice cream or candy. Short of parking and leaving her in the car—which seemed all kinds of wrong—Zander would have to do something.

  Silent tears turned to heaving sobs, and Zander felt a frantic, useless panic rise in his chest. He turned into the lot of the first store he came to, a Publix, and parked. He’d been to enough funerals in his life to have seen the stoic, quiet comfort offered to those who were grieving. Calling to mind things he’d seen mothers do with their children, he put a hand on Savanah’s back and rubbed. The noise didn’t lessen.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Shhh. Shhh.”

  She violently hiccupped, bouncing in her seat.

  He would have never guessed she was so attached to Cole. He hadn’t been her teacher for very long, and she didn’t talk about him more than she did anyone else. Confused, Zander deftly undid her seatbelt and lifted her into his lap. She drenched the shoulder of his shirt in record time.

  “It’s not all right.” Her voice was muffled by his shirt and pitchy from her crying. “Nothing’s all right.”

  This seemed like a huge overreaction to Zander. He rocked Savanah back and forth and, perhaps stupidly, asked, “What’s really wrong?” If she’d tell him, he could go about fixing it as quickly as possible. His question set her crying harder and louder, and while he did his best to calm her, he cursed himself up one side and down the other.

  Finally, what felt like years later, with her arms clinging tight around his neck and his skin soaked in tears and snot, she said, “What if he doesn’t come back?”

  He didn’t think Savanah could have said anything else which could hit him so hard, where it truly hurt. Zander’s life motto for the last thirty-four years of his life had been “don’t get attached, everyone leaves.” He’d scrupulously avoided deep entanglements of any kind for as long as he could remember. Caring for someone had never been safe. But to hear the words said to him by his daughter, someone who was only five and whose happiness rested in Zander’s frankly incompetent hands, was shattering. He couldn’t bring back those who had left her, who had given her reason to fear being left, but he could make sure to never do so. He could show her no one was leaving.

  What Zander was about to do was probably an abuse of power. It was definitely an invasion of privacy. It was easy enough to rattle off the necessary information and say he was a close friend. He had a hard time feeling bad about it with Savanah’s much smaller hand tucked into his and the tap tap of her shoes on the floor.

  Cole appeared to be just as grumpy as when Zander had last seen him. His posture in the hospital bed radiated his inconvenience. His forehead was red and bruised, the stitches almost lurid against his pale skin. He went from frowning intensely at the ceiling to directing it at Zander when he swung the door open.

  Unaware of any awkwardness, Savanah dropped Zander’s hand and then scampered across the closet sized room to Cole’s side. She didn’t waste any time climbing onto the bedside chair. “Are you leaving?” she demanded. “Daddy says you’re not. He says you got hurt.” She leaned over, possibly assessing him for damage. Zander hoped she didn’t plan on poking Cole to make sure he was real. “Are you hurt? Are you going to be okay?”

  Zander winced. “Savanah, don’t interrogate him.”

  For the first time in seventeen years, Zander saw Cole smile. It wasn’t the one that made his dimples appear or his eyes crinkle at the corner, nor the one which bunched his cheeks and took up practically his whole face. It was a small, barely there, quirking of his lips. And it hit Zander like a punch to the solar plexus. He missed that smile. All these years later, and Cole could still render him speechless with something so simple. Like a highlight reel, he was struck by the memories of all the times he’d ignored self-preservation and common sense, just to see Cole laugh or grin. He’d been addicted to Cole’s happiness despite himself—and apparently he still was.

  Oblivious to Zander’s internal crisis, Cole took Savanah’s hand and urged her to sit rather than stand on the chair. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said soothingly. “I’m going to be just fine. There’s no need for you to worry.” He ducked his head to make eye contact with her. “It’s very sweet that you care.”

  “You’ll be in school tomorrow?” From where Zander was standing, he could see Savanah was pulling the puppy eyes on Cole.

  Cole grimaced. “I
’d like to be, but I think it’ll be a few days. Possibly longer. I want to be at my best to help you guys learn.”

  “But then you’ll be back?”

  “I will. I promise.” His gaze flicked from Savanah to Zander and back. “Can you make me a promise?”

  Sounding extremely distrustful, Savanah hesitantly asked, “What?”

  “No tantrums, all right? Remember if you’re upset, talk to an adult.”

  Zander could hear Savanah’s shoes kicking into the bottom of the hospital bed as she swung her legs. Her sigh left no doubt as to how much this was putting her out. “Fine.”

  “Fine, what?”

  “Fine, I promise.” She wriggled her hand out from under Cole’s, looking to Zander. “I wanna go home now.”

  Zander held in a laugh, not missing the flicker of amusement on Cole’s features. “All right. Be polite and say goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Mister Whitaker.” She was halfway across the room with her back to Cole when she said it. Zander was duly impressed she managed not to roll her eyes.

  “Goodbye, Miss Emerson,” said Cole, who mimicked Savanah’s lilting voice. “Mind if I talk to your dad for a minute?”

  She shrugged her skinny shoulders, and Zander nodded. He opened the door, and then pointed to the nursing station at the end of the hall. “Go ask them for a lollipop. I’ll be there in a minute.” Savanah took off. “No running inside!” he called after her, watching long enough to make sure she slowed to a walk.

  When he’d shut the door, he turned and leaned against it. A gut feeling told him getting closer to Cole wouldn’t be a good idea. “What’s up?”

  Cole’s eyebrows rose in clear judgment of the words. “What’re you really doing here?”

  Zander should have expected the question. “I….” He shook his head. He was past knowing what the proper response to anything was. He went with blunt honesty. “I’m trying to do right by Savanah. There wasn’t an ulterior motive here. She was concerned, and I knew how to fix things for once. I had to fix it.”

  Cole was absently playing with the bedsheet, twisting it around his fingers. He tilted his head back, gazing at the ceiling. “You know, beneath your asshole exterior you always were a good person.”

  He sounded defeated.

  Chapter 5

  Not even thirty seconds after Zander had left, Cole’s hospital door was pushed open. His brain fucking throbbed, and he was exhausted. He didn’t want to hear whatever Zander had returned to say. The last thing Cole was up for was dealing with a stubborn Zander. “I thought you—” he started to say, irritation leaking into the words even as he tried to corral it. He cut off abruptly as Patrick came into view. “Oh.”

  Patrick looked rushed, his normally neat hair in disarray and his suit wrinkled. His cheeks were flushed, and he was breathing heavy. “Are you all right?” he demanded, crossing the room in a few strides. He hovered his hands over Cole, as if he didn’t know what was safe to touch.

  Cole had a suspicion he’d be hearing that question on loop for quite some time. He pasted on a hopefully soothing smile. “I’m fine.” The longer he wasn’t fine, the longer the hospital would keep him in this bed. Cole wanted to go home with a fiery passion. He wanted his pillow that was the perfect amount of flat and firm, his animals who would cuddle with him and carry on as if nothing was out of the norm, and a shower. God, he wanted a shower. “It’s my car that isn’t,” he said, aiming for humor.

  His attempt fell flat. Patrick appeared stricken. “I’ll call your insurance and get them working on a rental. Is yours totaled?” He settled his hands on the railing of Cole’s bed, and Cole watched Patrick’s knuckles leech color. “After I got your message, I saw the news…. Are you sure you’re okay? It didn’t look good.” His stare was fixed on Cole’s forehead.

  Closing his eyes so he didn’t have to watch the play of Patrick’s emotions, he nudged at one of Patrick’s hands till he let go of the rail and tangled their fingers. He could feel his pulse in his temples, and the pillow behind him was too lumpy to be comfortable. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “Most of the damage was on the passenger side. I’ve got some cuts, some burns.” He waved their joined hands. “A mild concussion. It’s all airbag caused. The ones in my wheel and my door both popped.” Once they’d moved him from the car, he’d become aware of the pain in his ribs. They’d x-rayed him once he’d arrived at the hospital, and the doctor had determined nothing was broken or fractured, at most Cole had maybe bruised a bone or two. He’d live and have nothing more than a few scars to show for the whole ordeal. “Think you’ll like me as much with my face all marked up?”

  Patrick hissed. “Cole, that’s an awful thing to say.”

  “It was a joke.” Apparently he needed to stop making them. He could sense Patrick’s free hand hovering above his face. “You can touch me. If it hurts, I’ll say something.”

  Patrick gently stroked Cole’s hair back from his face. “Do you need me to call anyone for you? Is there anything I can do?”

  Stop being so nice to me. It made Cole feel horrendously guilty for the thoughts he’d been having since Zander walked into his classroom at the beginning of the school year. Here was his perfect, nice boyfriend who cared so much, and Cole was stuck in the past. He’d caught himself replaying their reunion in his spare time, picking it apart for every tiny detail. He knew everything Zander had touched on his desk, and he’d memorized Zander’s body language. Hell, he could write a word-for-word transcript of their conversation. He’d seen glimpses of Zander since, but they’d been just that. Flashes of him through car windows picking Savanah up. One time he’d gotten out to help Savanah pull her art project from the backseat. Later that day, Cole found he’d missed an entire episode of his show on Netflix because he’d been daydreaming about Zander’s ass in his jeans.

  Cole told himself it was a feelings hangover. This was residual shit that hadn’t been properly dealt with the first time around. Cole had never stopped loving Zander, in the sense he didn’t believe love just went away. Something he felt that strongly couldn’t vanish. He’d thought it was behind him though. He’d thought he’d come to peace with the idea that Zander might have been the first but not the last.

  All of this was merely a testing of his resolve.

  Unfortunately he seemed to be failing.

  “Cole?”

  There he’d gone again, forgetting Patrick was there when confronted by the memory of Zander. “Sorry.” Cole fished for Patrick’s question. It was something thoughtful…. Ah. Could Patrick do anything for him? “Can you feed the kids?”

  “The herd? Of course.”

  Cole hummed his affirmation. “I don’t know when they’ll let me go. They need to be fed and let out.” He’d hate to deal with the mess they’d leave behind otherwise. “I can text you instructions.” Patrick had fed them before, but never consistently enough to remember all the cup measurements.

  Patrick was silent for a moment, and then he sighed gustily. “You have a concussion, should you be texting?”

  Cole could say he shouldn’t have to deal with visitors harassing him in his state, but he knew petty when he heard it. He shifted his shoulders, trying to work out a crick in his neck. “Fine. I can dictate them to you.” It was said snappishly, and he immediately regretted it. Patrick didn’t have to do anything for him. He didn’t deserve Cole’s attitude. “I’m sorry. I’m sore and it’s making me cranky.” The whole shit show of a day was doing him in frankly.

  For some reason, that made Patrick laugh. “No need to apologize. No one would be in a good mood if they were in your position.” He withdrew his hand, and a second later Cole heard the light click of his lock screen being swiped. “I’m ready when you are.”

  Cole rattled off what Patrick needed to know, and he waited till Patrick had left—brushing a feather-light kiss to Cole’s cheek first—to roll onto his side painstakingly and bury his face in the pillow. If he wasn’t in public, he’d scream into it. Alas, he’d rather no
t deal with the nurses.

  Cole took to inactivity much like a four-year-old told to sit quietly in a corner and do nothing. He was used to having something to do. He came home from school, and he took care of things around the house. He fed his babies, and he sat down to create lesson plans or review the kids’ work. The weekends and his summers were filled with similar activities and volunteer hours. It wasn’t that he couldn’t entertain himself—Cole could wile away hours reading a good book or watching TV.

  It was his damn concussion. No staring at screens or trying to read small lettering. No bright lights. No loud noises. He had marching orders from the doctor to stay in bed all day and sleep.

  He lasted roughly an hour after Patrick left that morning, with a kiss to his forehead and a plea to take it easy, before he felt as if he was going to explode from sheer boredom. His head hurt too much to sleep, and he didn’t like the way the painkillers made him sluggish. This left him a prone, cranky lump on the bed.

  Cheshire had abandoned the forbidden countertops to curl on Cole’s chest, lazily flicking his tail over Cole’s face. If Cole tried to move, Cheshire kneaded his dagger nails into him. The message was received loud and clear. Even his cat was in on the conspiracy to keep him still. Patrick’s spot had quickly been filled by Thor, Buddy—an aptly named golden mix, and Franklin, a seventeen-year-old cat missing an eye and his left ear. Thor was a line of warmth along Cole’s side, butting his head against Cole’s arm whenever he ceased to scratch him. Buddy had draped himself over Cole’s legs, effectively pinning him, and was snoring like a chainsaw. Franklin had claimed the pillow, and appeared to be the only one unconcerned by what Cole did.

  “Everyone but Franklin sucks,” said Cole to the room at large.

  Buddy shifted, rolling, and he whacked a paw right into one of the massive bruises blooming on Cole’s leg.

  “Son of a bitch.” Cole breathed slow for a moment. Buddy’s snoring didn’t cease. Cole didn’t bother tossing around more insults.