If I Fall

by Anna Cruise

  I don't know what roused me. Maybe it was the seagulls outside, their squawks sounding through the opened window, or maybe it was the sound of a car alarm beeping a few blocks away. My eyes fluttered open and it took me a minute to register where I was. In Aidan's arms, my chin nestled against his chest. His breathing was slow, even. I shifted so I could look at him, at his eyelashes resting on his cheek, at the way his mouth curved into the smallest of smiles, even while he slept. At his pinkened, sunburned nose and the slightest hint of blond stubble on his chin. I sighed.

  His eyes opened then, startling me just a bit, and he smiled at me. He looked boyish, sweet, innocent. All of the things he wasn't.

  “You hungry?” he asked, yawning.

  I realized I was. “Yeah.”

  He kissed me. “Let's find something to eat.”

  He threw back the covers and hauled me out of bed. Just like that, he was refreshed, energized, ready to go.

  We padded into the kitchen together. Aidan pushed me into a chair while he cooked. I watched him as he moved through the kitchen. He didn't look out of place there, rummaging in the fridge, cracking eggs into a stainless steel bowl, digging through painted pine cupboards and drawers as he searched for a pan and spatula. He looked at home, at ease, as if cooking was something he did frequently, something he did well. He hovered over the stove, pouring eggs into a small frying pan and sprinkling them with shredded cheese. After a minute or so, he picked up the pan and swirled it, loosening the edges before using the spatula to fold the omelet in half.

  My lunch was set in front of me, a golden omelet and a tall glass of orange juice. Aidan grabbed his own and joined me.

  I took a bite. “This is really good. I didn't know you could cook.”

  “Damn straight,” he said. “Gotta keep some things secret, you know?”

  I smiled. I didn't think I'd kept any secrets from him. I was an open book, as far as he was concerned.

  He asked, just like I knew he would. “Tell me something about you that I don't know.”

  I thought for a minute, trying to come up with something. He was the only person who knew everything about me, who knew me inside and out. He knew all the details about my dad and Cheri and how I really felt about them; about my poor excuse for a mother and how I worried about her; about my lost friendship with Jada; about my newest hobbies that had replaced anything I might have liked to do before meeting him.

  “Um...” I thought for a minute. “I play guitar a little. Used to write songs in junior high and stuff.” I tried to remember the last time I'd picked it up, but I couldn't. It sat in the corner of my room, propped against the wall, gathering dust.

  “Really? Well, there you go. I had no clue.” He speared a piece of egg and chewed. “You want to be in a band or something?”

  I shook my head before he could even finish asking. “No, no, no. No performances. I hate being on stage. No.”

  “Would you play for me?” he asked, his voice soft.

  “Maybe. I said I played, not that I was any good. I just like to pretend, I guess.”

  “I bet you're good,” he told me. “You're good at everything. Everything.”

  No, I wasn't. I wasn't good at change; I wasn't good at being accepting or forgiving. I wasn't good at being understanding, or of thinking of anyone, really, but myself.

  I finished my lunch and began stacking the plates and glasses. I carried them over to the dishwasher.

  “You don't have to clean up,” he said.

  “I want to. You cooked, I can clean.”

  I began rinsing the plates in the sink before placing them between the slats in the half-full dishwasher. I didn't want to tell him that I was playing house, imagining this was our kitchen, the white painted cupboards and round pine table with its centerpiece of cut white and yellow Gerber daisies. I didn't want him to know that I was fantasizing that we were married and that our lives were perfect, that I would never end up like my own parents, the victim of a broken, loveless marriage.

  I felt him move behind me. His hands wrapped around my stomach and moved slowly up my shirt, just as his mouth nuzzled my neck, right next to my ear. I dropped the dish into the sink. It didn't break.

  “Here's another thing you might not know about me,” he whispered, turning me around so I was facing him. “You drive me wild. Insane. All I can think about is you.” He kissed me, his mouth open, hungry. “Did you know that?”

  I knew it but I didn't answer. I couldn't. I felt the same way, this overwhelming need to be with him. I didn't know what it was supposed to be like, first relationships, but I knew how I felt, what he did to me. He was all-consuming, in every way. He was my life support. I lived and breathed him.

  “Come on.” He pulled me away from the dishes and down the hallway but we didn't go into his bedroom. He led me to the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  He stripped off his own shirt before reaching for mine.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I'm doing?” He lifted my shirt. “Undressing you.”

  “But—“

  “No buts,” he said, his fingers trailing along my skin. “You wanna play house?”

  I felt my cheeks flush just a bit. I hated that I was so easy to read.

  He grinned. “So, let's play. This part is called taking a shower together.”

  He adjusted the faucet and, before I could protest, hauled me toward the tub.

  And I played along.

  Just like he knew I would.

  SIXTEEN

  We spent the rest of the afternoon at the beach. Not on the sand with towels spread, soaking up the sun, like I used to do with Jada. We drove down to Belmont Park and hung out on the boardwalk. Scotty and Ben were there, and Jake Martin and Nick Shelby. Steve, Scotty's brother, was there, too along with Trevor, my English TA. We sat on the low, cement wall and people-watched and talked. Aidan handed me a Big Gulp filled with Coke and I nearly spit it out when I took my first sip.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “Coke.” Aidan's expression was innocent. “And a little rum. Well, a lot of rum. You can thank Scotty.”

  Scotty grinned and lifted his own styrofoam cup in a mock toast.

  Steve laughed and Trevor just smiled and shook his head as he watched the exchange. He was a common enough fixture at most parties that it didn't really phase me anymore when he saw me drink. I figured we were both in the same boat—me as an underage drinker and him as a pseudo-adult figure who should know better—and we treated each other with mutual respect.

  I drank my spiked soda as skaters and cyclists whizzed past on their boards and bikes. Girls in tiny bikinis rollerbladed by, swinging their hips, and I tried not to stare. That was something I was sure I would never do. Families strolled the boardwalk, too, Zonies loaded down with insane amounts of beach gear, their skin lobster-red from too much sun. I took a long drink and tried not to notice their smiling faces, the linked hands as moms and dads strolled together. The rum worked its magic, relaxing me, erasing all thoughts of my dad. Steve and Trevor eventually left and the rest of us got drunk and chatted and poked fun, giggling hysterically at stupid things.

  Thick gray clouds billowed in as afternoon turned to evening, blanketing the sky and snuffing out the sun that hovered just above the horizon. My mood clouded, too, as my buzz wore off and those nagging thoughts surged back in. People left in droves, those same families lugging their bags and boogie boards back to their cars and rented condos.

  “What do you feel like doing tonight?” Aidan asked me. His friends had left.

  I shrugged. “Don't know. You?”

  We waited for the Walk signal before crossing Mission. Aidan's car was a half a block away, wedged between a white Suburban with Arizona plates and a Mercedes convertible. It looked old, shabby.

  “It's pretty dead tonight. Not much going on. Movie, maybe?”

  “Hmm.” I thought about this. A movie. Not some party or bonfire or intimate night i
n his room, but a movie, another means of escape. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  “Let's go.” He dug his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door.

  The wind blew and I shivered and rubbed my hands over my bare, sunburned arms. “I think I want to swing by my house first. Grab a sweatshirt or something.”

  Traffic on Mission was a tangled mess driving back into PB. Cars and bikes crowded the street and the stoplights seemed to be stuck on red as people heading out to dinner and home from the beach. Aidan jammed a Bob Marley CD into the radio and turned up the volume. I picked up the case and studied the cover. The noise was yet another diversion that helped drown my thoughts.

  “Someone at your house?” Aidan asked.

  I blanched, not wanting to look up, thinking it might be Cheri's car. Maybe she'd come by to show the house. Or maybe it was my dad, ready to blast me again for my behavior the previous night. I sighed and glanced sideways out the window. A familiar car was parked out front, a white Volvo streaked with dust and dirt.

  Sara's car.

  I braced myself, wondering what bad news she'd been recruited to pass on to me this time. “My aunt is here.”

  “Want me to come in with you?” he offered.

  I didn't plan on sticking around. “No. Give me a couple minutes.”

  He nodded. “I need to swing by Ben's, pick up some weed. I'll be back in fifteen.”

  I planted a quick kiss on his cheek before getting out of the car and trudging down the sidewalk. My feet felt heavy, as if I were battling chains and iron balls. I didn't want to see her. I didn't want to know why she was there. The house was quiet when I opened the door. Too quiet. The light in the kitchen was on but there were no voices, no indication at all that anyone else was there with me.

  “Hello? Mom?” My voice sounded hollow as it traveled down the hall and into the nothingness.

  Sara appeared in the hallway. She wore jeans and a brown tank top that looked like an extension of her long brown hair. She usually wore her hair up, pulled back tight. I searched her face for some indication as to why she was there, for some hint of emotion, but it was blank.

  “Megan.”

  “What? What is it?” I couldn't help it. I panicked. “Is everything OK?”

  “No, everything is not OK.” She wasn't heartbroken or sad. She was furious.

  I took an instinctive step back, away from the entrance to the kitchen where she stood, her hands now on her hips. A dark frown swept across her face like a vicious storm, wiping out the blank expression she'd so carefully composed moments earlier.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Out. With a friend,” I stammered.

  “All of last night? All of today?” She pointed to the kitchen and I noticed her hand was trembling. “In there. Now. You have some serious explaining to do.”

  The invisible chains encircling my ankles grew heavier as I followed her. She held a chair out for me and I sat down. She sat across from me and folded her arms against her chest, looking like a police officer prepared for a long interrogation. She waited for me to speak, to say something—anything—that would explain my absence. What I wanted to ask was how she knew. It wasn't as if my mom would have noticed.

  “I'm waiting.” I had never seen her look or sound so angry.

  I sighed. It really sucked having Sara mad at me. She was my aunt, not my mother. She was supposed to be the fun one, the cool one, the one I could turn to when my own parents were driving me nuts. I hated seeing her this way, the frown settled deep in her face, her eyes narrowed, her hands now drumming the table as she waited for me to respond. More than that, I hated knowing I was the cause of it.

  “I told you, I was with a friend. At the beach. Belmont.”

  “So you spent the night there, too? You know, after you threw your fit at your dad's and went storming out of the house?”

  My eyes widened and she continued. “Yep, I know all about it, Meg. So does your mom. Do you think your dad was just going to forget, not say anything? Not mention your abominable behavior? What on earth were you thinking?”

  I looked down at the table and chewed my lip. “I know. I screwed up.”

  “Big time, Meg. Big time.” She took a deep breath. “Tell me what happened. I want to hear it from you.”

  This was going to take longer than fifteen minutes, I realized.

  I sighed. “Hang on.” I reached for my phone.

  She started to protest but I held up my hand. “My friend was coming right back. I need to tell—”

  “Fine. Call.”

  I stood up but she stopped me. “No. In here.”

  She pointed to the phone on the counter. I swallowed my irritation and dialed.

  He answered on the first ring. “You ready? I'm just leaving Ben's.”

  “I can't go.”

  “What?” His voice was incredulous.

  “My aunt is here.” I glanced at her and lowered my voice. “Um, she wants me to stay home tonight.”

  “So tell her no.”

  “I can't. It's...complicated.”

  “OK.” But I could tell from his voice that it wasn't. He was confused, slightly pissed. “Call me later.”

  The line went dead.

  I set the phone down on the table and, in a halting voice, told Sara about my dad's. About what I'd said. What I'd done. I was pretty sure my version wasn't going to be any different than the one she'd apparently already heard.

  “What were you thinking?” she asked again, shaking her head. She put her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “Why would you do that? Say those things? And then just walk out? Why?”

  “He told me to go, Sara. He kicked me out.”

  “Well, he had every right to after what you did,” she shot back. “You insulted his wife, trashed his dining room—”

  “I broke a plate. I'd hardly call that trashing the place.”

  “The table broke, too. A huge crack, right down the middle. It was a custom-made table, over two thousand bucks.”

  '“Oh.” The guilt seeped back in and I didn't know what to say to that. I knew what I was thinking: who the hell spent thousands of dollars on a custom-made, glass dining room table? My dad couldn't afford to keep me in my own house but he could drop a couple grand on a goddamn table? Showcase number one, winning again.

  “Did he...did he call you?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Your mom wouldn't answer the phone. He called me this morning.”

  “Did he say,” I swallowed. “Did he say if he tried to find me last night? Did he look for me at all?”

  Sara's expression softened just a bit. “No. He was an ass about that and he admitted it. He was so angry he just sort of blanked, he said. That's as unforgivable as what you did, at least in my eyes. More so.”

  I thought so, too, but I didn't say this.

  “So, did this...friend...come pick you up last night, too?” She tried to keep her voice neutral but it came out too high, too controlled. “And you spent the night?”

  At least I didn't have to lie about that. “No. It's the truth,” I said when she eyed me doubtfully. “A friend of mine from school picked me up and dropped me off at home. Case. It was around ten, I think. Maybe eleven.” I couldn't remember.

  “Your dad called here this morning. Early, he said. Why didn't you pick up?”

  “I left early. Like at six. Another friend came and picked me up. We went out for breakfast.”

  It sounded lame, even to me.

  “Megan.”

  “It's true! I was with Aidan today.” I hesitated, wondering how much I should tell her. “He...he's my boyfriend. But I wasn't with him last night. I tried to call him, to have him come pick me up but he was—I couldn't get a hold of him. So I called Case. I swear it's the truth.”

  She ran her hands through her hair and looked up at the ceiling. I knew what she was thinking. That she was the younger sister, the unmarried one, the one without kids. Why was she having to deal with the reb
ellious teenager? Why did she have to decipher which of my statements were lies and which were truths?

  “I want to believe you.”

  “It's the truth,” I repeated.

  “I don't know, Megan. I feel like I don't know who you are anymore.” Her hand moved back to her hair and she ran her fingers through to the ends, curling a strand around her finger, a habit I'd never noticed before. “You verbally abuse your stepmother, trash your dad's house and then run away. You disappear for hours on end and you come home reeking of cigarettes. What the hell is going on? What's happening?”

  “Nothing,” I lied. I just wanted this conversation to be done with. Over. “I got mad. That's all. I didn't want to go and see him. And her. And I don't like being here. By myself all of the time. That's why I'm never here. And my boyfriend smokes, not me. Big deal.”

  “You're not by yourself,” she pointed out.

  I glared at her and she backed down. Did she really think having a comatose mother holed up in a back bedroom, a woman who could barely get herself out of bed most days, counted as company, as an actual presence in the house?

  “Look,” she said, her voice soft. “Your mom needs help. I know that.”

  I didn't respond and she continued. “Not just with depression but...” She stopped as if debating whether or not to tell me. She looked away. “Well, she's been drinking.”

  I shook my head. Did she think I didn't know this? Did she think I didn't live with the knowledge of this daily? My mom's drinking was a perpetual presence in the house. It dictated whether or not I saw her, whether or not the bills got paid, whether or not there was food in the refrigerator or in the cupboards. How could I not know?

  I thought about how I should respond. Should I feign shock and dismay or simply be sad and resigned? I wondered what reaction would garner the most empathy from her, what would help bring a quick end to the interrogation I was suffering through.

  I went for the sympathy. “Yeah, I know.” I looked down at the table and began to trace my finger along a long, thin scratch on the wooden surface.