Five Ways to Fall

by K. A. Tucker

  “No. Why?”

  He pulls his glasses off. “She called the office this afternoon, looking for you. Asked that you call her back as soon as you got home.” He watches me carefully. “It sounded important.”

  “Huh.” First my cell phone, now Jack? If this were a typical woman, there’d be cause for concern. But what is important in the world of Annabelle usually doesn’t translate to important. Though I have to admit that I’m intrigued.

  “Yes . . . ‘huh.’ My thoughts exactly.” His mouth twists with distaste as he asks, “Please do call her back, sooner rather than later. I’d prefer not to get daily phone calls from my ex-wife.” Once Annabelle gets something in her head, she’s like a dog on a bone.

  That’s why I immediately pull my phone out. “Well, let’s just see what Mommy Dearest wants, shall we?”

  Her deceptively soft voice—still seductive at forty—fills my ear on the second ring. “Reese?”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t you have your phone with you today?”

  “I did.”

  A pause. “So you screened me.”

  “Nice to hear from you, too. It’s been a while. I just got home and Jack told me you called him.”

  “I’m surprised he gave you the message.”

  A sharp pain shoots up my jaw and I realize that I’m gnashing my teeth. That’s always been a problem for me around Annabelle. At one time, I even wore a mouth guard at night because I was grinding my teeth subconsciously. It wasn’t until I moved out that the constant throb abated. She’s probably into the martinis tonight. It’s sometimes hard to tell because she holds her alcohol so well. “What do you need?” That’s what this is about—let’s be honest.

  She huffs a sigh. “Ian and I are holding a charity ball in November and we think it would look best if our entire family is in attendance.” So this is a political thing. I guess she’s found someone perfectly suited to her, as concerned about his appearance as she is about hers. “I’ll send a suitable dress for you to wear. Have you gained any weight? And I hope your hair isn’t still that hideous color. You’ll need to have that fixed, if it is.”

  I roll my eyes but don’t respond.

  “I have the perfect escort for you. He’s a—”

  “No.” We’ve been down this road before. When I was sixteen, she made me go to a stuffy country-club Christmas party with one of Barry’s law firm partners’ sons. The guy was a twenty-four-year-old med student with aspirations of becoming a gynecologist. Call me sexist—I don’t really care—but in this day and age of equal rights and women becoming doctors, I wonder about men who choose to poke around in vaginas all day long as a career. Naturally, I spent the entire meal interrogating him on his intentions and his motivations.

  Much to Annabelle’s horror.

  “Well, I can hardly trust you to bring a suitable man with you. Look what you married.”

  “I’m not going, Annabelle.”

  “What do you mean you’re not going?” That slight, distinctive whine escapes now. She has definitely been drinking.

  I’ve never said no to Annabelle, as much as I’ve always wanted to. Sure, I’ve put up a fuss, I’ve made myself out to be the spoiled little rich brat, I’ve usually made great strides to damage our relationship further by the end of the night, but I’ve never just given her a flat-out no. I’m not sure if I ever believed it was an option.

  And now that I have said no, she has no idea how to handle it. “That’s impossible. There will be publicity behind this and eyes on us and on me, on our family values.”

  Annabelle and family values? There’s an oxymoron.

  “I’m sure you’ll do just fine without me there.”

  “After all that I’ve done for you—”

  “I’ll think about it and let you know.” There’s no way in hell I’m going, but I’ve picked a bad time to argue with her. The woman is the master at painting herself the wounded war hero. When she’s drunk, it’s tenfold. I can’t deal with it right now. I live four hours away from her now, anyway. Good luck, Annabelle. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Fine.” The phone clicks, leaving me staring at my phone in bewilderment.

  “Anything important?” Jack asks, feigning disinterest.

  “Yes. Earth-shattering. Annabelle’s having a party and she wants me there to make her look like the respectable, loving mother.”

  “You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do, Reesie. You’re an adult now.”

  I smile. “I know. Thanks, Jack. I’m tired. Going to call it a night.” I collect the two jars of raspberry jam from the box. “If you see Jiminy Cricket tonight, tell him I have something he wants and am open to negotiations beginning in the a.m.”

  Jack watches me pass, shaking his head. “Weren’t you two going to start acting like adults?”

  “Soon.”

  Lying in bed, I find myself staring up at the ceiling for a good hour, trying to rid myself of the ache that comes with thinking about Jared and what I saw in the paintball hut. But there was a part of today—a few hours, out in the grove with Ben—when I felt steady, like I’d stepped off of this emotional roller coaster I’ve been riding. There’s magic in the air up there, in the walls of that big, old house. I can feel it. The kind of magic that has protected generations of life from its precious beginning until its fragile end; has watched love blossom and then die, has listened to the sobs of a broken heart and the eventual laughter again. And much like the people within it, though slightly run down, it still stands proud, welcoming new people into its life.

  Between the silent strength and comfort of the house and the expanse of the grove, I found myself able to take deep, lung-filling inhales of fresh air, after months of only shallow draws of something stale and altogether unsatisfying.

  Or maybe it wasn’t the magic or the fresh air at all. Maybe it was the company.

  On impulse, I grab my phone and scan through my speed dial.

  “You missed me that much already?” a very groggy Ben answers.

  I feel my mouth pull into a smile of its own accord. “How was your shower?”

  He heaves a sigh. “Quick and productive. I was almost asleep.” I’m immediately hit with an image of him stretched out in his bed. Naked. This isn’t good. Those kinds of fantasies were always reserved for one guy and one guy only. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Just . . .” I hesitate. “Thanks for today.”

  “You already said that.” There’s a smile in his voice.

  “Right, I did.” He’s going to think I’m an idiot.

  A slightly awkward pause hangs over our conversation and then Ben asks, “What are you wearing?”

  I roll my eyes. It’s such a cheesy line, but it makes me want to laugh because Ben is saying it. “Nothing at all. Good night.” I click “end” before he has a chance to respond.

  A giant Starbucks coffee—still hot—and an orange await me on my desk on Monday morning with a note:

  Black tar for a black heart.

  I smile.

  I’m still smiling as a knock on my door has me turning.

  And staring, wide-eyed.

  It’s Mason. But not Mason. Because Mason is a geeky buttoned-up, skinny-tie-wearing, thick-glasses, boring-hair kind of guy. The guy in front of me has transformed into something one may call, at minimum, cute. His unruly curls are tamed and styled and the trendy new collared shirt and pants make him look not quite so wiry. And those glasses are gone, revealing large olive-green eyes. I’ve never seen him without his big, thick glasses.

  “How was the rest of your day? Besides the alien abduction, of course,” I ask, savoring the rich, dark flavor of my coffee as I eye him suspiciously.

  Mason’s cheeks redden. “It was fine. Can I talk to you for a second?”

  Mason has always been only too happy to abide by my “stay the hell away from me in the morning” rule. “This must be important. Take a seat. Tell me what you’ve done with my loving stepbrother.”<
br />
  He pushes the door shut and strolls over, inspecting the chair before sitting in it, folding his hands in his lap nervously. His eyes roam my desk. “You must have half the firm’s caseload sitting on your desk.”

  “That’s what I get for being smart and efficient. Out with it. Between you and Ben, everyone’s going to start thinking my mornings are open season.” I’ve already seen the law bot pass by twice, her head bobbing like a pigeon this way and that, trying to get a good angle on which case file I might be working on.

  “Jack asked me what was going on between you and Ben.”

  Unease twists my stomach. If Mason ever wanted to get even with me, now would be the time. “What’d you say?”

  He shrugs. “I told him that you guys were just friends.”

  “Huh. Good.”

  “I’m assuming that’s a lie?”

  “No, we are just friends.” Friends that may fool around a bit, but . . . Jack didn’t ask for specifics.

  The small frown tells me he doesn’t believe me. “Okay, good, because Ben’s not the kind of guy you want to get hung up on. I like him. I mean, he’s a good friend, but he’s not one to commit and I wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt.”

  “Anyone . . . meaning me?” Does Mason actually care?

  Mason squirms in his seat, his hands automatically reaching for his glasses, which aren’t there. “I know you’ve had it rough with all . . . that.”

  As awkward as he is, I have to admit, this new alien-abducted version of Mason is kind of nice. I nod once but keep my mouth shut for fear of saying something to ruin the Twilight Zone moment.

  “So . . .” He pauses, strumming his fingers on the chair arm.

  I should have known he was being nice to me for a reason. “What do you want, Mason?”

  Clearing his throat, he finally gets to the point. “Hey, what does Lina really like to do? You know, to have fun.”

  “Why don’t you just ask her? I mean, you’ve been together for, what, almost three months?”

  He shrugs. “Because I want to surprise her. So . . . Help me out here.”

  “You could go to Vegas and get married. That’d be a surprise.”

  He groans with annoyance, but then I see a flash of something else as his eyes settle on me once again. Sadness, pity—I’m not sure. I purse my lips. And decide that if Lina is somehow happy with him, then, well, I need to start being a better friend about this. “She loves planes. Take her to that airplane museum.”

  He nods slowly. “Cool.” A pause, and then his eyes narrow. “Hey, you’re not lying to me, right? Because if I find out that the sight of planes causes her spontaneous seizures, that won’t be funny.”

  I snort. “No, if I were screwing with you, I’d tell you to take her to a butterfly museum.”

  His brow puckers up. “Butterflies? I thought everyone liked butterflies.”

  “Not Lina. Their little bodies freak her out.”

  “Oh.” He snorts. “Okay, thanks.” He moves to stand but stalls, clearing his throat. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for calling you a demon spawn when Jack and your mom split up.”

  It clicks. Lina has got to him. That’s what this is all about. It must be. Standing, he makes his way to the door. “Oh, and that red substance you used to write ‘Redrum’ on my computer screen is . . .?”

  “Raspberry jam.”

  “Right.” A slow, thoughtful smile stretches across his face. “I love raspberry jam.”

  “I know.” On impulse, I reach into my drawer and pull out a jar. Tossing it to him, I watch as he fumbles once, twice, three times, just barely securing it in his non-athletic grasp before it smashes against the ground.

  With a sheepish grin, he holds it up with a crooked, “Hey, I actually caught it!” smile.

  “Oh, and Ben’s the one moving your stuff around in your office. It’s not me.”

  He rolls his eyes, a very non-Mason thing to do. “Thanks.”

  The second he steps out of my office, I dial Lina’s number. “Are you and Mason plotting to kill me or are you just that good in bed?”

  “The latter, though if you don’t start being nice to him, I will give him enough ammunition to take you down permanently,” comes her deadpan response without a moment’s hesitation, as if she were ready for my call.

  “That’s highly prejudicial.”

  “It goes both ways. I told him that I’m not going to be the buffer between you two, so you need to start acting like normal siblings.”

  “Says the only child.” A knock on the glass distracts me. Ben standing at the window, pointing at the red golf shift he’s wearing, that appealing broad smile on his face. I grab the orange and toss it at the glass where his head is. Mouthing, “Good aim,” he winks and strolls away, that smile so infuriating and yet sparking within me the need to giggle.

  I’m still giggling to myself when Natasha pokes her head in.

  Are you free for lunch today?

  I stare at my phone to see if I’ve read Jared’s message correctly. Shit! What do I do? Reaching for my desk phone to call Lina a second time this morning, I hang up immediately. There’s no point calling her or Nicki. Or anyone. Because I know exactly what the right answer is.

  Tap, tap, tap . . . the pen in my hand flicks back and forth against the stack of folders as I toil over this. I have so much to do for Ben, I really should work through my lunch break . . .

  Café. Noon?

  His responding “yes” comes within seconds.

  “You should try the key lime,” the brown-haired waitress suggests, placing a plate of chocolate pecan pie in front of me. I swear, the way they all push it around here, you’d think they were trading key lime stock. I offer her a tight smile and ask her to bring my check, my eyes fixated on the street entrance. Jared has always been notoriously late but half an hour is ridiculous, especially without at least a message.

  I’m beginning to think he ditched me when I hear a familiar deep voice say, “Still not willing to try something new.”

  I’m instantly pulled from my silent lamenting and straight into that special place where heaven and hell cross paths, where mint-green irises make my heart skip one, two, three beats before it kicks into high gear, despite my best efforts to feel nothing at all. “I stick with what I know.”

  He smiles in response. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  I hold my breath as I watch him pull the empty chair out to sit. “No problem. I’ve got to get back to work soon, though.” I was already planning on using work as an excuse for a quick exit, should I need it. Facing him now, I know that I probably will. That pain is an angry bubble swelling once again, only it’s mixed with confusion and fear and . . . yes, anticipation.

  He flinches as he adjusts himself in his seat. “I was at this awesome paintball field north of the city yesterday and took a close-range shot to the ass.”

  More like thirty shots, if you want to be specific. I purse my lips to keep my vindictive smile from outing me.

  “You should go there sometime. I think you’d like it.”

  “I’ll look into that,” I manage to get out with a wobble. The only thing keeping me from howling with laughter right now is replaying the visual I have in my head of the moments before we actually attacked, when I was ready to turn and run, listening to that. Thank God for my mask, or Ben would have seen my tears.

  There’s a long pause as Jared takes in the other tables, his hands softly strumming against the surface. That’s a nervous gesture of his. “This is kind of awkward, isn’t it?” he finally admits with a lazy chuckle. Another sign of being nervous.

  “Not as awkward as the last time.” My eyes inadvertently dart to his arm, to the large reaper tattoo peeking out from beneath his shirt.

  Seeing where my focus lands, Jared rubs over it, offering sheepishly, “I’m sorry that you found out like that.”

  I sigh, wondering if he’s referring to the tattoo or the cheating. Or both.

  His eyes roam my ha
ir. “You look really good, Reese. Not that you didn’t before. You just look more . . . grown up now. More responsible.”

  I feel my cheeks flush as I study the plate in front of me, my appetite nonexistent. “It’s a little too boring for my taste.”

  “You will never be boring.” A quick dart of my eyes catches that gleam in his. Is he flirting with me? Regarding me with that gorgeous face of his that I can’t believe I had license to kiss at all times, he finally sighs. “I fucked up with us, Reese, and I’m so sorry.”

  A tinny taste fills my mouth as I bite down on my tongue to keep myself from talking, because I know I’ll get emotional and probably say something defensive. I need to remain calm.

  “I’ve loved Caroline since we were six years old. When she broke up with me out of the blue, I was crushed. Then you appear out of nowhere a week later, completely opposite of her.”

  “I definitely am that,” I mutter dryly.

  That cute smirk only increases the appeal of his face. “You sure are.” It falls quickly. “I was on the rebound. I wanted so bad to be over her, to not think about her, to move on, that I rushed things with you and me. And before I knew it, we were married. Then, about a month after Vegas, Caroline phoned me, crying. I hadn’t talked to her since the breakup, so she had no idea. I guess my parents phoned her parents after we went to meet them, and they told her.”

  I roll my eyes at the memory of that disastrous day. I swear, his mother was silently putting a hex on me from across the dinner table.

  “Anyway, she called me, crying, telling me how she had truly meant she just needed some time and space but always thought we’d get back together. We agreed to meet up for dinner one night and . . .” He shrugs. “Things happened and I didn’t know how to stop them. So many old feelings flooded back and they confused me. And then you caught us that day in the shower and . . .”

  I squeeze my eyes tight against the memory, of hearing him coming as I walked in. That’s why they hadn’t heard me in the first place. But there’s something more important here. “You were already cheating on me a month after we got married?” I can barely hear my own voice—it’s barely audible—as the truth starts revealing itself. How can I even call what we had a marriage? It was a total sham.