Catching a Fallen Starr

by Adriana Law

  “Thanks.”

  A few seconds later he returns working on getting the belt through the loops of his work pants. I pretend to not watch him while watching him. I know I should have told him already. I reason it out in my mind that this is half Sawyer’s fault too. He should have insisted we used a condom. He should not have taken my word on good faith. He would never approach a criminal without a gun expecting not to get shot.

  “Boots?”

  I point next to the bed on my side, “Underneath.”

  He gets down on his hands and knees dragging his boots out. Sits next to me while pulling them on and lacing them. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay,” he asks. “I don’t feel good about leaving you.”

  I lower the book in my hand, annoyed. Annoyed more with myself than with him. “I’ve been alone most of my life. I think I can manage.” I tilt the book back into reading range, my eyes lowering to it and not his worried expression. “Besides, if anything were to happen,” I fight a smile, “I have my Taser.”

  A noise comes from the back of his throat and then he gets up going to the closet, bringing a box over and sitting it on the edge of the mattress.

  I ask, “What’s in the box?”

  He removes the lid and takes out a handgun. He lifts my hand and turns it over, laying the gun in my palm. I stare at it. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Use it if anyone ever tries to get in.”

  “You think it’s wise after the Taser incident?”

  “I’d feel better knowing you have it. Especially with the fucker out there walking around free. This guy doesn’t play around, Mya.”

  “You don’t think I know what he is capable of?” My fingers close tightly around the handle of the pistol, and I bring it down so that it resting beside my body on the bed; my indication to Sawyer that I agree to keep the gun. He leans in and kisses me. A long, slow passionate kiss that has my fingers going to the back of his head in an attempt to pull him down into bed with me where I prefer him. But we all know Sawyer is good at controlling his impulses. I get lost in the taste of mint in his mouth until he pulls away looking thoroughly satisfied with the kissed. “I wish I didn’t have to go in,” he says, right before getting up to go to work. “Six,” he tells me. “Don’t forget. Tori’s expecting you to be there.”

  “I know,” I say, returning to my reading hoping to make leaving easier on him. He puts his keys and wallet in his pockets, pauses staring at me like he’s afraid this is the last time he will ever see me. I turn a page, adding, “I’ll still be here when you get home. Well, not still in bed but here in your apartment.”

  “Tori’s show.”

  “I know. I know. I know. Go to work, Saw. You’re starting to annoy me.”

  “Tonight is important.”

  “Dammit,” I snap, “You’ve told me this like a dozen times already. I WILL BE READY. I am not a child; I know how to tell time and dress myself, thank you very much for thinking otherwise.” He is smiling now. I release a long exaggerated sigh. “Go to work before you get fired.”

  Finally. Peace. If he focused half as much energy on what I’m saying as he does on Tori’s show, he would have already known he is about to be a father.

  “Miss you already,” comes from the main area.

  I can’t see him, but I know he is pausing with the front door open, waiting on my reply. The urge to move is overwhelming. I’m stubborn, and a little pissed off that he keeps harping on how important tonight is. I have worked my ass off the past couple of weeks: making the candy, packaging it, finding distributors which I did, by the way. It’s like I’m lazy and do nothing but lay in bed and read all day. I focus, partly because of Sawyer’s encouragement, I get that, but I do focus.

  A full minute has passed. I never heard the door close, but I’m sure he’s already left. I lay the book beside me and stare at the empty doorway to the bedroom. That was a shitty way to act. If Sawyer gets hurt at work, or worse, shot…your pouting ass will be one miserable, sorry girl for behaving like that to him. You’ll wish you’d listen to that urge to give him a proper goodbye.

  I jerk the covers off, crawl over his side, and start opening and closing drawers. Wiggle into a pair of jeans. Go down on my hands and knees. “Shoes. Shoes…where are my damn shoes!” Not seeing them I swing open the closet door and grab a pair of his boots. Brown hiking boots. I give them a quick once over raising my brow. Hiking boots are seriously hot. I will have to ask him to model them later… just Not without socks.

  I smile shoving my feet into the boots and take off for the front door. I stop in my tracks when I come out into the main part of the apartment.

  Sawyer stands holding the metal door open exactly as I pictured.

  Waiting.

  He looks sad. I made him too sad to leave.

  There are so many things I should confess: the pregnancy being one of them. But my chest constricts and my heart races. I am so hopelessly madly in love with this guy that all I want to do is get my lips on him.

  Without a word from him or me…I take off and leap into his arms almost knocking him over. My arms go around his neck, my legs around his waist. He makes an air-knocked-from-my-lungs sound having to take a step back to regain his balance. We kiss furiously; heads angled just right, mouths open, tongues tasting…the whole deal. I manage to come completely undone and show exactly how effing much I love him by ranting, “I thought you left,” kiss, “and then I started thinking,” kiss, “what if he never comes back.” Kiss. “I am so sorry.” Kiss. “I can be a total bitch sometimes,” kiss, “and you don’t deserve it.” Kiss. “You deserve a nice girl.” Inhale and breathe. “One that is not so fucked up in the head. Okay. I’m done.”

  One of his hands cups my cheek. He doesn’t complain about the fact that I’m still clinging to him like a baby koala bear. He doesn’t complain that I have officially made him late for work. He just smiles, hand on my cheek, and says, “I love your fucked-up-ness.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Owls and Forever

  Tori’s show is remarkable. Good for her! Everything is falling into place for her and Sterling. They seem positively meant for each other.

  The building is lit with track lightly and crowded with rich snobs and admirers of Victoria’s unique carvings.

  “They’re magnificent,” one lady whispers to her husband. “She’s talented. We are not leaving here without one.” The lady is stiff, her posture perfect in her elegant white dress. Her blond hair is swept up in beautiful perfection, a few springs allowed to hang free in perfect curls. She has a square face; a sharp but delicate jawline that is appealing from all angles. She sips sparkling champagne. As soon as she catches sight of Victoria nearby the lady no longer whispers while studying one of the carvings. “It’s mediocre. Could be better…I don’t know…” she tilts her head dramatically, “...something is missing.”

  The husband sighs as if bored to death. “What do you expect? She is a beginner who is delusional if she thinks her work is anywhere near what she is listing it for.”

  Find a flaw in the product: diminish its value.

  The couple seems truly surprised (a gasp and hand to chest. The lady even works up a blush of embarrassment) at the artist stepping in negotiate a lower price. One negative comment and even the artist doubts her abilities. Don’t do that Victoria. Don’t let them make you doubt yourself.

  I sigh and search the stuffy room out for Sawyer. All the air has been consumed by the greedy son-of-a-bitches that care nothing for the actual person behind the work. It’s as if they have no clue how hard it is to put yourself out there. No. They just want to tear it down and haggle over the price of what took someone sweat and tears to create.

  I don’t see Sawyer’s tall stature amongst the sea of heads. Quietly I slip through the spaces in-between elbows and the heat radiated by the confinement of so many people crammed into one room. I catch whiffs of loud perfume, the twang of fruity wine, and the unmistakable smell of p
erspiration. All the odors mingled makes my stomach roll. That’s the thing about being pregnant: the sense of smell is heightened. I push through at a more frantic pace from fear of vomiting on some unsuspecting person’s shoes.

  I need fresh air and a break!

  “Move…excuse me… Sorry...oops…I didn’t mean to step on your toe…I just need…excuse me.” Finally free I dart through the glass door leading outside and gasp, sucking in the chilly November air. I pace back and forth shaking my hands a bit to release some tension.

  Wait. I’m not alone!

  Sawyer stands up from the bench positioned by a pot for cigarette butts. No smokers are outside but him. It’s my baby and me. Just the way I like it. “I wondered where you went.”

  His dark features are more pronounced by the back-dropped of an almost colorless, dreary sky. He crushes the cigarette out and produces a smile. Not a real smile. A forced one. He’s been off all night. Distant. Preoccupied. Sawyer outside alone, smoking—something he only does on rare occasions confirms something is bothering him. “You needed air too,” he asks burying his hands in his pockets.

  I nod, my heels clicking on the sidewalk toward him. I want to run to him and ravish his mouth but I get the sense something huge is coming.

  The silence that follows unnerves me.

  Sawyer sighs and takes a seat on the bench. I sit down next to him. My heart picks up at the thought of what he could have to tell me. Oh my God! My stomach drops. Does he know? It’s what I wanted, right. For him to figure it out.

  “You’re shivering,” he says sliding off his jacket and helping me put my arms in. The jacket is leather. Black. It swallows me whole. It smells like him though which is really nice. The caring gestures says he is not too angry about anything.

  “Better now?” he gives me a ghost of a smile.

  “What are you doing out here all alone?” I ask. “I know crowds don’t bother you. I figured you’d be keeping your brother company while Tori mingles with her guest.”

  “Nah.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “I think Sterling enjoys being right next to her.” He stares directly at me when he says this as if there’s hidden code in his words. “In case she needs him. They’ve came a long ways…worked out a lot of shit.”

  “Yep. They have.”

  “The perfect pair,” Sawyer adds. “He supports her; she supports him.”

  “Yep. Perfect.”

  I’m captivated, hanging on his every word. I can’t take my eyes off the father of my child. That’s major. I say it again and again (of course only in my head) Father of my child. Father of my child. Father of my child. I don’t want Sawyer to feel trapped. I want to have this baby, if he doesn’t, then I can do it on my own. I don’t want to, but I will. I would have him be a part of it. “Sawyer—”

  He cuts me off asking for another cigarette. “In the pocket of my jacket,” he tells me.

  “If you’re not careful…it’s going to become an addiction.” I look away from him long enough to push both my hands into the pocket of his jacket and feel around in the pockets deep wells. I have no right to tell Sawyer what he can and can’t do. “You sure you put your cigarettes in here?” I ask not finding anything.

  “I’m sure. Keep looking.”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Keep looking. I know I put them in there.”

  Wait. I do feel something. My fingers close around it. It’s small. Round. “I swear there’s no pack of cigarettes in here….” I pull whatever it is out, intending to show it to him but holding it up in my line of sight instead.

  It’s a sparkly ring.

  I attempt to swallow past the lump setting at the base of my throat. A diamond! Not the lump. The ring. I blink. Yep. The diamond ring is still there when I open my eyes.

  Sawyer moves from where he is sitting on the bench to in front of me, kneeling on one knee. Tears blur my vision. My entire body ignites with heat as my pulse throbs. He pulls my hand away from in front of my face. Holds both my shaking hands in his. “I—Sawyer—what are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  Pulse racing, pulse racing! “Don’t—”

  “Let me finish before you say anything,” he tells me. “This is hard enough.” He can’t be serious. He is serious. His cheeks are flushed with pink. His hands holding mine are trembling and sweaty.

  Staring up into my eyes, he says,” I love you, Mya Cruz. Will you marry me?”

  I shake my head, mostly to clear it but still, I can’t say yes. Right? I can’t. There’s too much unresolved mess. Too much we don’t know about each other. Sawyer is not the desperate kind. He plans. He rationalizes and makes a list to stay on track. He set’s goals. He’s not impulsive. He dates girls for a long time before he considers marrying them. Hell, what am I thinking, there’s only been two. That’s how disciplined he is: TWO! He said it himself: I don’t have an addictive personality. This is so not like Sawyer, and it doesn’t sit well with me.

  He wants to marry me, and he doesn’t even know.

  Why would he do that?

  I feel like we’re on one of those speeding trains that seem smooth and safe while you’re on it but the speed could cause a catastrophe in five seconds flat from one minor hiccup. An unplanned pregnancy would be a hiccup.

  “Don’t say no yet.” His voice is thick with emotion. He takes the engagement ring out from between my fingertips and moves back to the bench next to me. Leaning closer to me, Sawyer turns the ring so the fading light of the day hits it just right. “It looks like a regular diamond but it’s handmade,” he says. His eyes lift to mine. “Not just any engagement ring would do, Mya. I knew that right away…I knew it had to be special. You are special. Different.”

  We both study the side profile of the ring closely.

  The least I can do is let him finish. I want the ring. I want it on my finger so badly it takes energy to not snatch it away from him and put it there. Where it belongs. My ring. Not Racheal’s. Not any other girls. My ring! “You see the prongs that hold the diamond?” he asks. I nod, a tear falling from my face and hitting the fabric of my skirt. “There’s two owls. You see them?” He looks directly at me. I nod again because that’s all I can do. Nod and cry. I do see the owls; delicate silver, the owl’s wings position making it, at first glance, seem that prongs holding the diamond form a perfect heart.

  “Your owls,” he says unblinkingly.

  “Owls are honored as the keeper of spirits of those who have passed from one plane to another,” I explained. “Myth says the owl give wings to its newest freed soul helping it from this world to the next.”

  “Have you lost someone?”

  I didn’t answer at first. My belly flopped. Should I lie? “Yes.”

  “Who did you lose?”

  “A child.”

  I’m ugly crying now. This gesture…Sawyer putting this much thought into the symbolism of the owl speaks volumes of his feeling toward me, and his willingness to not be spiteful over what happened between his brother and me. Instead, he includes the loss of my unborn child in our future together. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes.”

  “I can’t.” I struggle to catch my breath. Sawyer reaches for my hand and rests it on his thigh as he gently slides the ring onto my finger. I stare at the ring. “See,” he says. “One your finger it looks like any other diamond engagement ring…it’s only when you take another look, up close, that you see how unique and special it is.” He picks my chin up until our eyes are connected. “That’s you, Mya. At first people may not get it…but if they’re smart enough to look up close, they’ll see how unique and special you really are. I see how unique and special you are.”

  He gently kisses me.

  A tender slow kiss that carries the taste of salty tears.

  “I loved you two years ago,” he says, “when we were stuck in that hotel room together, I just didn’t know it yet. I was too busy being a self-absorbed ja
ckass and licking my wounds. I wish I could go back and redo everything and then maybe—”

  “I still would have met him, Sawyer. It’s not your fault.”

  He holds my hand tight in his and I stare at him, really stare at him: I see it—the desperation to protect me, to fix my fucked up life and make it okay so he doesn’t have to worry about me falling back into using. He thinks that a commitment will keep me motivated to be safe and clean. He thinks he can protect me, and he probably can.

  But the proposal is bogus. I’m not saying he doesn’t mean everything he is saying. I know he thinks he does. It’s not coming from the right place.

  Sawyer Bentley’s flaw?

  He’s still desperately trying to make up for not protecting his mother. For not protecting every woman out there that is abused. From not protecting me. I don’t want someone to marry me out of guilt or paranoia. I don’t want us to end up like my parents; despising one another. The old me would say yes; to hell with the consequences.

  I already have my answer. The only one that makes sense.

  He keeps going, “I love that you are more comfortable and open with me than I believe you have ever been with any other man. I want to take care of you, and I promise I will spend the rest of my life making you happy. I know it’s sudden, but when you know, you know. Say yes.”

  I swallow hard and with trembling hands slide the ring off my finger and hand it back to him. “Sawyer, we’re not there yet. I’m not saying we never will be, but I’m pretty sure you will thank me later for saving you from yourself.”

  He refuses to take the ring back, shaking his head. “I don’t understand. I thought—”

  “I’m not her,” I say.

  “Fuck Racheal. This has nothing to do with her.”

  “No, Saw. I’m not your mother. You can’t change what happened…it still happens…she still leaves. She abandons you and you spend the rest of your life trying to be good enough so that she stays.”

  He withdraws the hand. “And I’m not your pimp.”