Before I Fall

by Jessica Scott

  It's so strange, hearing her talk about how she doesn't fit. I never would have figured that she feels this way. It’s true enough that she’s working and she walks everywhere but the way she carries herself makes me think quiet sophistication. The mystery of Beth Lamont deepens and I want to know more. So much more.

  She catches me watching her and flushes. I love the way her cheeks turn a little bit pink, matching the tone of her lips.

  "Sorry. Didn't mean to dump all my neuroses in your lap on a first date." There's an embarrassment there that's sweet and compelling.

  "Don't apologize. I think it's fascinating. So many layers to you, Beth Lamont."

  Her eyes sparkle now. "What about you? Where do you fit?"

  I shrug. "I thought I fit in the army pretty good but that changed when I came home. I guess I haven't been here long enough to say if this place fits or not. If the discussion in class today is any indication, it’s going to be challenging, to say the least."

  "Why?"

  "Because these are useless thought experiments. It doesn't teach you how to make these decisions in real life. When no matter what you decide, someone is going to die." Her green eyes are intense. Curious. She’s unflinchingly honest when most people avoid any real talk about the war. Most folks say we support the troops until those troops bring up what really happens in war. Then they quietly change the subject. But not Beth.

  "I don't spend a lot of time thinking about what you guys do during war. I spend most of my time pissed off at how we take care of people like my dad when they come home."

  Her hand is tense now, beneath mine. We're treading into dark waters. Moving beyond a conversation about thought experiments and business school ethics into something dangerous and personal.

  "I think they're tied together," I say.

  "You're probably right." She finally slides her hand free to take a drink. "But it's not my place to judge. My dad came home. I'm not going to question what he did in order to make that happen."

  "I'm not sure our classmates would be so forgiving," I say.

  "Just wait. At least you're not in any political science classes where you'd hear about the American hegemony and racist imperialism."

  I laugh because she sounds so disgruntled. "Not a card-carrying hippie?"

  "Not exactly."

  She's relaxed again as the waiter brings our food. She keeps glancing at her watch every few minutes. I'm curious enough to finally ask if she's going to be late for an appointment.

  I am not prepared for her response.

  Chapter 9

  Beth

  "I have to take my dad to the hospital."

  There's no point in lying to him. He's caught me staring at my watch. I could make something up about a nervous habit but I'm not that quick on my feet.

  "His back?”

  "He's out of pain medication," I tell him. God but the honesty hurts. It sucks. "The only way to get him through until his appointment is to take him to the ER."

  I can't bring myself to be totally honest though. To tell him about my father's dance with alcohol and pain medication and everything in between that keeps him in the constant limbo. It feels like he'll never escape.

  And I won't either.

  But Noah catches my sleight of hand. "Why do you have to wait to take him?"

  I want to avoid the answer. The hard truth of my life. I don't want to tell him about Dad having to sober up before the ER can treat him, or the lies I've told to get him medication when he needs it, or the alcohol I’ve bought with my fake ID.

  I stab a piece of chicken, trying to come up with anything other than the truth.

  "It's easier if we go after I'm out of class for the day." A weak story. I can practically feel the weight of my lie on my tongue. It’s like a blazing neon sign over my head.

  Noah’s eyes tell me he’s not buying it. There's a skepticism in those dark brown depths. I'm not ready to share all the dirty little details of how I'm making it through school taking care of my dad. Trust is a fragile thing. Something I don’t give away easily.

  More than anything, I don't want his pity. I don't want to answer the questions about why don't I leave him to take care of himself. Why am I working so hard when my dad isn’t? Or the accusations that I'm being held back by my dad.

  I won't hear it again.

  My heart aches a little as I brace for the inevitable. My chicken is deeply interesting at the moment. I want to change the subject, but my words are locked in my throat.

  But Noah continues to surprise me.

  "You're amazing, you know that?"

  I freeze. His answer is completely unexpected. There is sincerity in his brown eyes. Something close to respect. It’s not an emotion I’m used to seeing looking back at me. I don't know what to say.

  It's hard to breathe all of a sudden. I want badly to go back to the parking garage. To take things back to simple, like they were before. When he kissed me and there was nothing else between us.

  But now he's told me that I'm amazing, and it doesn't jive with anything in my brain.

  "That’s a nice thing to say." Great, now I'm arguing with him over a compliment.

  He sets his fork down and folds his arms on the edge of the table. I can suddenly see Noah the soldier watching me and it is not a comfortable feeling. I imagine his soldiers felt two inches tall when they were subject to this look. My dad used to have the same look when I messed up when I was little.

  He hasn’t given me the look in a long time.

  But Noah watching me now is disconcerting at best. I don’t know what to say.

  "I was on guard duty once with this lieutenant. He'd gotten married before he left, but his wife got sick. Thyroid cancer. I remember because he was talking about how easily it was cured. Like, if you've got to get cancer, get this one." He pauses, takes a drink of water. "He tells me he's filed for divorce. When I ask why, he tells me it’s because he wants to have kids. If she's already gotten sick at twenty-three, he's not going to be saddled with her and her health problems his whole life. Time to cut sling load and all that."

  Revulsion squeezes my throat. "He sounds like a pretty horrible person."

  Noah nods, sipping his water. It’s a long moment before he speaks again. "I think so. He was cheating on her with the supply clerk, too."

  "Sounds like a real charmer." I want badly to turn the conversation to something less depressing than cancer and infidelity.

  "He was a shitbag, but it surprised me how many people I talked to afterward who agreed with him. Like they were completely mercenary about taking care of family. They wouldn’t risk what they’ve worked so hard for." He takes a drink. "I think you can be like that until you've been through some bad stuff," he says after a moment. "Then you kind of hope you've found someone you can count on, you know?"

  "My mom left us," I tell him. Because why not just put my entire life story out there, right up front, so he knows what he's dealing with. "When Dad got hurt. The first time he was laid up for more than a week, she shacked up with his platoon sergeant. Filed for divorce and took off." He’s listening, no judgment in those sexy dark eyes.

  I don't know why I’m telling him this. We’re not a thing. He's going to a top twenty school; he's doing well enough in life. He hasn't been taking care of a hurt dad since he was sixteen. He doesn’t need to know what my life entails. And yet, I tell him. Not everything. But a lot. A lot more than I tell most people.

  And he listens. Really listens.

  He pays the bill and holds the door once again. We walk toward his car, his shoulder bumping against mine. After a moment, I feel his fingers sliding down the top of my hand until his fingers thread with mine.

  I hold on tight. Because I'm afraid that this might all be a dream that comes crashing to a halt just when things start to get good.

  Noah

  I wasn't lying when I told her I thought she was amazing. My words clearly make her uncomfortable. I can't help reaching out to her. To make sure sh
e is real. People like her are so rare in this life.

  As we walk to my car, I pause near her door. Anticipation curls through my belly. Her fingers tighten in mine as I lean in closer, cupping her neck with my free hand. "Thanks for letting me buy you lunch," I whisper against her mouth.

  She makes a warm sound deep in her throat. The sound vibrates beneath my fingertips. I brush my thumb over her pulse, and it scatters under my touch. I want to feel her tremble. I want to pull her close and feel her body against mine, skin to skin, but I'm afraid to rush her. Instead, I nibble on her bottom lip. A gentle tug. She rewards me with a gasp, a quick rush of breath against my skin.

  Then she slips her fingers free of mine and slides her arms around my neck. She threads them through my hair, her nails scraping against my scalp. "I enjoyed it very much," she whispers, a moment before she opens completely for me.

  Her tongue slides against mine, questioning, tasting. My hands slide down her back, pressing her closer to me. Her back is strong and slim. I love the feel of her soft strength against me. I want to be alone with her. To explore her body, the hard and soft contours. To discover where she likes to be touched. I want to feel her fingers on my skin.

  I still then, ceasing my exploration. That would mean showing her my scars.

  I'm not ashamed of them. I long ago made peace with how they came to be and what they mean for the rest of my life.

  But I'm not sure I want to answer those questions yet. My fingers tighten on her lower back. She moans quietly into my mouth and I forget about the scars on my body and am lost completely in the taste and touch of her. Her nails dig into my skin and all I can feel is her, everywhere.

  I'm not a warrior monk. I've been around the block a time or two, but there is nothing like feeling Beth pressed against me, her body swaying in time with mine.

  "God but you can kiss," she murmurs.

  "I can get used to being called God." Because I can't possibly think of anything cornier to say.

  She laughs and it’s like warmth and sunshine against my soul. Yeah, maybe I was a little bit of a poet in another life. A bad one but hey.

  "Thank you very much for lunch."

  "I think I'd like to see about taking you for dessert."

  "Sad trombone noise," she says, but she's smiling and everything is right in my world. "I'm really glad I'm not here because of your strength in pick-up lines."

  "We all have weaknesses," I say. But I haven't let her go, and her body is still pressed to mine. I want to keep her there, to protect her and shelter her from the reality of whatever she's getting ready to face with her dad.

  In truth, I'm not sure I'm in any shape to have anyone in my life, but Beth is too tempting to let my better judgment take hold. Her body against mine makes me feel alive for the first time since I came home from the war. In her arms, I've found a place I fit, that feels right.

  I slip my hand beneath her prim sweater and run my thumb down the center line of her spine. She shivers, but doesn't pull away. Her nails massage my scalp. I trace the same line over her skin. She makes that warm noise in her throat again. I press my lips to the spot.

  "I wish we had more time." She tilts her head to one side in an offering that is so damn sexy, I'm ready to beg her to come back to my place with me.

  I've got a sudden blinding fantasy of her naked in front of me, her back arched beneath my touch. I want to run my hands over her smooth skin and soothe the tension from her muscles until she turns to liquid in my arms.

  "But duty calls."

  She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. "Thank you for understanding."

  I cup her face then because she sounds so sad it almost breaks me. "I admire you for what you're doing. A lot of people wouldn't."

  "My dad gave up everything for me to be here in this program," she says. "I won't walk away from him just because things get tough."

  I can't help but wonder what everything means, but I don't push her on it. I suddenly want her to trust me enough to tell me about it. I'm curious about her dad. About a man who could raise a daughter as steadfast and loyal as Beth is.

  I kiss her then because I'm falling. Hard. And there will be no soft landing for me at the end of this.

  Chapter 10

  Beth

  He leaves me at the same address as before. I'm not ready to show him the full reality of my life. Maybe that makes me a coward, but I'm enjoying the fantasy I'm building around Noah. That maybe he wouldn't let me down. That maybe he could be someone I could trust.

  He said he admired me.

  I walk quickly to the house I share with my dad.

  It's not admirable to take care of someone you love. It’s just what family does. My dad went to war to take care of me. He sacrificed his health so that I could go to college. Taking care of him when he's hurting is a small thing, considering the gifts he's given me.

  The TV is off when I enter the house, but I hear the music from his bedroom.

  It's never good when the music is playing. It means he's remembering. Maybe good times, maybe bad, but I never know what to do when he's facing the memories.

  He’s sitting in the old leather chair in the corner of his bedroom. He's showered and sober.

  He smiles sadly when he sees me. His face is worn and lined, but he's still the most handsome man I know. His dark hair is greying at the temples, and he's not as big as I remember him from when I was little. But right now, when he smiles and he's all there, I smile back because, in that moment, I've got my dad back.

  I know it won't last. The pain meds will take him away again soon enough, and I know that as soon as he tries to stand, the pain will tear at him all over again.

  But I'll still have that moment when he’s relatively sober and he hasn’t moved yet so the pain isn’t overwhelming him.

  "You're up."

  "Mostly," he says. "How's school?"

  "Really good." Because it is. I enjoy school so much more than I did in high school. I truly love my classes. "You doing okay?"

  He shrugs. "Well, I got my pants on by myself so that's always a plus." He looks a little sheepish like he always does. I’ve had to put his pants on him before. "I could use some help with my shoes though."

  "Sure thing."

  I find his boots near the edge of the bed where I'd put them the last time I took them off. Kneeling down in front of him, I pull his socks on first, then slip his feet, one after the other, into his boots. I double knot them because I know if they come untied, he gets annoyed. Plus, any sudden movements caused by stepping on an untied lace could cause him to black out from the pain.

  We're going to take the car. I don't drive it often because well, gas costs money we don't have. And, well, there’s parking at the hospital. Add in that the idea of putting him on public transport to the ER involves too much pain and uncertainty and it’s just easier to drive him. When it’s just me, I tend to take the bus.

  His mouth is pressed into a tight, flat line. I know he's hurting and I hate it. I hate the VA for being incompetent in treating him. I hate whoever said his injuries weren’t service related. Just a few more percentage points on his disability and things might have been dramatically different.

  I stand and offer him my hands. "Ready?"

  He takes a deep breath. "Not really."

  "Can I get you anything first?"

  "This is one of those times where I wish I could find something funny to say. The reality is that I just don't want to move." There's resignation in his voice. We've done this drill one too many times.

  He's got to psych himself up to face the pain. Anyone who ever says back pain is just people making shit up have never seen what it does to someone. And the people who do fake it deserve a special place in hell because they take appointments from people like my dad, who need them.

  He's not faking. God but I wish he was. There have been too many times, though, when he's tried to pretend he's not hurting.

  It's not a good thing to see your father on his h
ands and knees in the kitchen because he can't get to his feet. It's terrifying when you're sixteen years old and you don't know what to do.

  I learned, though. Just like I learned that right now, I need to let him find the courage to stand up. I can’t rush this.

  All I can do is stand there and wait for my dad to take my hands.

  Then I'll lean back and help pull him to his feet. I'll slide beneath his arm and help hold him upright while the pain passes.

  Then we'll shuffle out to the car. He'll slowly lower himself into the passenger seat, and I'll help him swing his legs inside. I'll drive carefully to the ER where they'll check us in.

  And then the real anger management will start. Because they'll pull up the bills we haven't paid. And ask about insurance that he doesn't have. And I'll be frustrated and angry because all they'll do is get him stabilized. They won't treat him because they're not required to.

  But all of that comes after.

  First, my dad has to take my hands.

  Noah

  Part of me wants to go with her to the hospital.

  But I hate hospitals more than I hate snakes and spiders and being caught in small dark places.

  Even if I went with her, I'd be next to useless. I'd have to double up on the anxiety meds just to walk through the door and that’s not counting what I’d have to do to stay there for longer than a few minutes. Yeah, me and hospitals have some issues.

  It's not like hospitals don't send me Christmas cards or anything like that. It’s just that I really hate hospitals.

  I need to get my homework done and prepare for our tutoring session tomorrow. I know Beth’s not going to look at me like I'm some kind of Neanderthal mouth breather, but I still don't want to be a complete imbecile in front of her.

  I've got some pride, after all. Just a little bit. You tend to lose a lot when you spend any quality time in a hospital. Tubes and nurses and needles do a number on any dignity you’ve got left. Who needs self-respect, anyway?