Until I Fall

by Claudia Burgoa

“I ordered water, Doc.” I nuzzle her hair, enjoying her scent. A mix of coconut, flowers and honey. “Just trying to make sure we stay hydrated.”

  We listen to Kevin and his old bandmates play. Aspen orders two more margaritas. I continue nursing my second beer. I’m enjoying the music, the company, and the calm this girl brings when she’s around. Mom’s health concerns me. Earlier today, she told me that maybe she should live the rest of her days happy. No more doctors, injections, or medicines that make her feel worse than she already does.

  “I like that song,” Aspen whispers closing the small gap between us. “They do great covers. They sound almost exactly like Without A Compass—my brother was a fan.”

  “Yeah, they sound old.” I don’t mention they’re the same band.

  I comb my fingers through her curls, fascinated by the springing motion. I’m enjoying my time with her. My friend who has a boyfriend for some forsaken reason I can’t understand. The one who possesses pouty lips that I crave. Something about this girl calls me. My reactions when she’s around are unexpected. I can’t remember spending so much time with a girl—a woman.

  “My mother is calling more than usual. We have a terrible relationship. My fiancé’s birthday is close, and I don’t know what to do with my career,” she shouts, letting a loud breath out when she’s done.

  Fiancé? What happened to douchebag? She’s marrying the douchebag? I don’t know how to address any one of them.

  She shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about them. Not tonight. Thank you for this—I didn’t know I needed a night off.”

  My heart swells with those words. My desire was to draw back a smile, erasing the stress of the day or the weeks I wasn’t around. From all the missions I’ve been in charge of, this is the most successful one. The one that makes me feel accomplished. When the session is over, I convince her to hop on over to the bars next door. We party in the eighties to the rhythm of Billy Idol, Queen, Kenny Loggins, and Starship and stopp when U2’s Joshua Tree starts to play.

  “I like the band, but they’re too dramatic to dance to, don’t you think?” she says, looking around the room.

  “Do you want something to drink?”

  “Another margarita?” she responds energetically. Five drinks in, and her speech is still smooth, as is her coordination. This woman can pack some serious amount of alcohol. “The tequila they used is perfect. I’ve never tasted something as wonderful as that one.”

  I chose Gran Patron to ensure that tomorrow’s hangover won’t hit her as hard. It wasn’t cheap, sweetheart. You’re welcome.

  She downs it like water. Then she grabs the glass of water I asked for, chugging it. Right then, George Michael’s Careless Whisper starts to play. Her body starts swaying, I take her hand marching toward the dance floor.

  “I never pictured you like this,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around my neck and smiling at me. Her bright eyes fixed on mine.

  “How did you picture me?” I move closer to her, closing the space between us. Resting my hands on her lower back, I lead us to the soft rhythm of the music. We’ve done this before, the night she arrived earlier from her gala wearing a short dress. She was showing off her long, tanned legs in a pair of shinny “fuck me” heels. Sharing her space feels right. So does breathing her perfume combined with the coconut in her hair. The experience is overwhelming in a good way, like Aspen.

  I have this desire to spend time with her, occupy the same space as her, and make love to her. I’m fucking confused because I don’t know the first thing about a relationship. We are friends, I’ve never had a female friend who I’m attracted to before. Is this normal? Should I act on it? No, she has a fucking boyfriend.

  “Different?” she answers when the song ends. “Serious, sullen . . . you have short answers and zero conversation starters—unless you’re asking questions.”

  “Or texting,” I remind her with a wink.

  Lady in Red starts playing. As Chris De Burgh sings the song, I gaze at the beautiful woman in my arms. The lyrics fit her and I doubt I’ll ever forget the way she looks tonight. Hypnotized by her brown eyes, the music, and the moment—I put my hand behind her head leaning closer to her, brushing my lips against hers. There’s an electrical surge traveling through my spine when I take her lips. She relaxes, opening her mouth as I lick her bottom lip. The taste of her, the feel of her body against me, all these emotions rushing through my body settle as I slide my tongue inside her mouth.

  The craving I hoped would subside with this kiss increases, it’s a hunger I doubt I can satisfy.

  “Wait,” she pushes me away. Closing her eyes, she rests her forehead on my chest. “I have a boyfriend and too many tequilas in my system.”

  Fucking boyfriend. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but friends kiss.” I play dumb. She shakes her head, snorting. “Oh well, you’ll have to teach me how the rules go. Another margarita?”

  Driving a bike with a hard on won’t be easy. Some beer, a walk to cool down, and a few feet between the two of us will fix the tent in my pants.

  “Getting me drunk won’t get me in bed,” she blurts out, laughing. “One more and then we can go home.”

  One more margarita, two more songs, and remember keep your pants on, Hawk.

  ASPEN

  FUCK, WHEN DID I forget to close the blinds? The sun blasts in through the window, landing directly on my . . . wait, my room faces west, and I have blinds. There’s never sun blaring—ever. I stretch and wince at the drilling inside my head. My outfit is a long black t-shirt that reads Ink Art Gallery and a pair of socks. What happened?

  My heavy drinking usually happens at home. I never wake up with a ropy, muscular arm clutching my belly and a leg hooking around my lower body. Never have I ever brought a stranger to my house. Shit, Heath. Did I do something? Fragmented memories from last night flash inside my head: the live music with those guys who looked and sounded like an older version of Without A Compass, the delicious margaritas. There’s still a salty taste between my dry lips.

  Holly shit, Anderson. I sigh, that kiss. My heart rate speeds up as I remember our tongues dancing as we did. The hunger, the passion, Heath; I stopped it in time but drank another margarita. How many did I drink?

  “I’m way too old for this,” I groan, rubbing my eyes. I stretch, fighting strong arms holding me and look at the big flat TV screen in front of the bed, white walls, and wood floors. My top lays on the rug. “I didn’t go home, great.”

  “Say the magic words.” Anderson’s husky voice travels from my ears to my toes, creating a trail of goosebumps as I fight his rippling arm.

  The hold is loose enough for me to roll my body facing him. His handsome face is sporting his signature smirk. “Morning, beautiful.”

  He’s shirtless!

  God.

  Fuck.

  Sweet Jesus, he looks breathtaking with that tussled hair, bedroom eyes, and two-day stubble. His gaze is so intense I move mine, and it falls onto his inked skin. Above his left pec, there’s an inscription, ‘what we do in life echoes in eternity.’

  I trace the words with my hand. “Gladiator.”

  “You know your movies.” He winks at me.

  “Some, Dad loved that one.” I sigh remembering him. “Why am I here?”

  “Margarita number five didn’t agree with you,” he explains. “Kevin lent me his truck and he took the bike.”

  “Kevin!” I sit up finding the strength to push away his limbs, looking on the other side of his bed. Did the three of us sleep in the same bed? He’s not here, but I spring out of bed picking up my top that reeks of vomit. “Ugh, did I?”

  “Afraid so, twice.” He scrunches his nose, propping his arm on top of the bed and resting his head on his hand. “When was the last time you ate?”

  Last time I ate? Sifting through my fuzzy memories, I can’t recall.

  “We planned on eating something along the way, we never did. Sorry,” he apologizes shrugging slightly. “It slipped my mind. H
ow’s that head?”

  “Pounding less than when I woke up.” I pull down the shirt, covering my legs. I’m embarrassed by my behavior. As I said earlier, I’m too old to do this shit. Behaving the same way I did back in college is unacceptable. Numbing myself only happens at home with my friends. Looking at Anderson’s friendly face, I recall that we are indeed friends. I scrub my face. Kevin.

  “Is Kevin okay with this?” I lift my palms shaking my head, walking around. Unbelievable. I slept in the same bed with a man who isn’t my boyfriend. Anderson might be gay but this is unacceptable. What will Heath think? Is Anderson gay? He’s a flirt. Then again, my brother is gay, and he drops a casual wink/grin combo to anyone who speaks to him. “Are you gay or bi like your partner?”

  He drops his head on top of his pillow releasing a loud laughter that resonates through the entire room, vibrating in my chest. Or is it my heart thumping fast at the display?

  “Kevin is my business partner.” He pushes himself off the bed wearing nothing but tattoos and a pair of boxers. Heat spreads through my body as I stare at his broad shoulders and defined muscles, rippling abs, his boxers showing the edge of the perfect v of his hips. Sauntering toward me, he stops only a couple steps away, lifting his hand and tracing the cool letters of my shirt. He gazes at me smiling. “I’m a tattoo artist, Aspen. Ink Art Gallery is the only thing Kevin and I share—besides friendship. Is that why you loosened up?”

  I chuckle, giving him a glance over. He’s perfect, has a great body and an amazing personality. He’s caring, attentive, and a sense of humor. I’m attracted to him. No. I have a boyfriend, Heath. Anderson is a great friend. What is wrong with me?

  “Do I need to be in a relationship to be your friend, Aspen?”

  “No.” I exhale, covering my eyes. “We can’t. I have a boyfriend, we’re friends. Things like this can’t happen among friends.”

  Good looking, panty melting, caring friends.

  “Nothing happened between us. You weren’t feeling well and I brought you home.”

  “Your home, not mine,” I protest weakly. If he had taken me back, I would’ve been able to sleep in my own bed without him.

  “My place is closer to the bar.” He gives me an exasperated look. Poor man, he’s talking more than usual. He might’ve used all the words assigned for the day—or the week. “You took a shower, borrowed a pair of boxers, a t-shirt, and those socks. You made sure to explain how imperative it was to sleep with socks.”

  “My feet get cold easily.”

  “Yes, and you might catch some bug.” He bites the smirk. “For a doctor, you have plenty of strange quirks.”

  “My profession doesn’t define my bad habits.” I give him a shrug, quirking my lips. “What else happened?”

  “I made you some tea and you asked me to stay with you.”

  I lower my hands, not understanding him. “Why in the world would I ask you to keep me company?”

  “Hugo isn’t here, and you couldn’t go to bed alone. ‘Not tonight’ you said.”

  I stare at him, my mouth hanging open in shock. Did I? He turns around leaving the room.

  Following behind, I demand more information. “That can’t be it, I must have said more.” Wow, his place is impeccable compared to my house. Brynn and I are a pair of slobs. “I’m a talkative drunk.”

  “You were worried about Kevin, but I repeated several times ‘this is okay. we’re friends.’” He enters a small room where a stacked washer-dryer is. He pulls my jeans out of the dryer, handing them to me. “They are clean. I didn’t wash your blouse because you said it’s dry cleaning only.”

  He grasps my arms, lowering his face so we can see eye to eye. “You talked about Michael, his mother and the party you refuse to go to. Nothing happened between us.”

  “Other than that kiss,” I remind him. My heart’s accelerating as his green eyes darken.

  A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “That too.” He leans close enough I can feel his warm breath against my face. “One hell of a kiss, which I swore not to repeat.”

  Anderson kisses my cheek, close enough that he almost touches my lips. “Unless you ask for it.”

  “Friends don’t kiss,” I protest, frozen in place, demanding my legs to stay in place and controlling my pulse.

  “They do.” He winks at me. “Casual, stolen kisses—you said so yesterday night.”

  “No.” My tone is amicable, but my heart rises in anger. “What else did I say?”

  He shakes his head. “I already said everything I recall.”

  I refuse to accept his explanation, as much as I refuse to continue this useless discussion without a cup of coffee—black like my memories. I never blackout, why this time? Slipping on my jeans, I start looking for my phone and my jacket.

  “There’s a Gatorade and a bottle of Tylenol on top of the table.” His voice sounds further away. Where did he go? Anderson is dressed, combat boots on and cell phone in hand.

  “Where are you going?”

  “The coffee shop down the street,” he explains putting on his jacket. “Black, no sugar for you.”

  My stomach flips when he describes how I take my coffee.

  No swooning, Aspen. He’s a friend.

  “Do you want a pastry or a sandwich?” He cocks his head. “Something greasy?”

  “Hmm.” My stomach growls. Coffee and a pastry won’t be enough to settle it. Grease, I need tons of bacon. I find my boots next to the leather couch. “I’ll join you.”

  “Here.” Anderson hands my jacket over once I’m done with my boots. He pulls me toward him, not letting me go as we march to the door.

  “Aspen, I think this is the beginning of an amazing friendship,” he whispers so close I shiver. “Or if our status changes, we can recount it to our children as our first date.”

  Our kids, date, friendship? I massage my temple with my free hand pushing away the idea of Anderson being more than a friend. He’s . . . no. I refuse to describe him, to see him as something other than a companion, a person I can call if I need to change my tire or go to the movies with. We can’t. I have a boyfriend. Heath and I are together, he’s safe. My heart is too broken to accept anything more.

  ASPEN

  WE WALK IN silence around the block, Anderson holding my hand. I know I should say something to him; release it from his grasp and ask him to drive me home—or take a Lyft. Instead, I enjoy the vibe around me. The people walking back and forth while jogging or pushing strollers.

  “This is where I work.” Anderson points to one of the shops.

  Ink Art Gallery, there isn’t a big neon sign hanging on the wall, only the three words are written in a fancy script lettering on the glass door. The smeared brick and concrete building blends great with the hipster vibe in the neighborhood. The terracotta border on the edge of the glass windows adds an oriental like touch.

  “You don’t open often.” I re-read the hours of operation following my finger with my eyes. “Oh, by appointment too.”

  I glance at him. “What kind of tattoo artist are you?” I narrow my gaze, there’s no way he only works here. “Friends tell each other what they do for a living.”

  He huffs, walking further and pulling me along with him. Opening the door to the coffee shop, he finally releases my hand. The emptiness is back. It’s a dark void consuming me. The same one that’s left me feeling nothing since Michael died. Swallowing the sudden knot forming in my throat, I rush behind Anderson. We wait for a woman and her daughter. They’re deciding between a fruit smoothie, or one of those chocolate, mocha shakes with extra whip cream.

  “Is there a difference between one or the other?” Anderson edges closer to me, mumbling.

  I shake my head pointing at the chalkboard. The smoothies are made from syrup and preserves. They have the same amount of calories.

  Let the kid have the chocolate, he whispers in my ear.

  “You’re going to spoil your children.” I laugh as I picture him high-fiving his childr
en each time they eat dessert before dinner, finish their Halloween candy within an hour, or break the window because they hit the ball like pros.

  He chuckles, opens his mouth and shuts it as the barista calls us. “Next.”

  “Hawk, man, how are you?” They fist bump, then shake hands, and finally clasp each other’s backs into what seems like a bro-hug. Then he glances at me giving me an up and down glance. “What’s it going to be today?”

  “Large black coffee, a large latte with soy milk no foam. One celery, carrot and kale juice . . .” Anderson turns to me. “Do you want juice or what would you like for breakfast?”

  He hands me a menu. Turning it several times I find what I need.

  “I’ll have the orange and carrot juice, and the hangover breakfast, extra bacon.”

  “That’s my girl,” he kisses my cheek. “Three of those, John.”

  The words trundle through my brain like a train with no intention of stopping heading toward a steel wall. Anderson pays for our breakfast, insisting this is on him. The entire outing has been on him. He paid for my drinks and I assume the cover to listen to the live show and now breakfast. Not a date, not a date, I repeat to myself. Placing his long fingers on my back, he steers me away from the counter, but stops in front of the tables.

  “Do you mind if we ask for it to-go?”

  “To-go is perfect, you can drive us to my house.”

  “John, can you box our breakfast and send it to my apartment, please?”

  “You got it, Hawk!” He flashes a smile toward us. “The coffees and juice should be ready soon. Give us around ten minutes for the rest.”

  “Everyone calls you Hawk, huh,” I state, picking up my coffee and taking a sip of caffeine. Heaven. Maybe I’ll remember everything that happened last night after I finish it.

  “Since high school, how about you?” He angles his head slightly. “Any unique nickname?”

  “Nothing. Aspen. There’s no cool nickname attached to it.”

  “Middle name?”

  “Winter, Mom’s middle name. I’m named after the place, in case you’re wondering. But I want to think it’s after the trees. They have this gorgeous golden-orange color during fall.”