I Fell In: A mostly true story about lust, redemption, and true love.

by Tiffany Winters

  She was grinning like the bitch she was. "I happened to be driving by after a date. I meant to call you. You know, to check in and see how you were. You looked pretty flustered." She cupped half her face as though telling me a secret, though she was talking loud enough for everyone around us to hear. "It was a great date, by the way. He wanted me to stay the night, even. But I'm not that kind of woman."

  The implication I was that kind of woman had me seeing red.

  She continued, barely containing her delight. "I almost stopped and offered you my jacket, since your blouse was undone. It was pretty chilly that night, as I recall. But then you scurried into your little car and sped away like a hive of bees was after you. I figured you were probably fine."

  I looked back to Nick, pleading with my eyes. What I'd done with Truman wasn't OK, but it certainly wasn't the picture Darcy was painting. I needed to get him home so I could explain.

  A loud, strained, laugh exploded from him. If you didn't know Nick, you wouldn't recognize how unnatural he sounded. He followed it up with a huge, charming smile, directed right at Darcy. That did the trick. She was as mesmerized as any woman would be to have his attention. He looked from me to Darcy and back again, as if remembering the incident.

  "Oh, you mean a couple of months ago when Truman had the stomach flu, threw up on you, and you had to run to the store to get him some meds?"

  It crushed me to know he was faking it.

  Darcy's face looked like it was ready to melt right off her skull, it dropped so fast. Her grin morphed into a tense smile. In any other circumstance I would've laughed my ass off. Instead, I prayed a hole would open up under me, right in the middle of the restaurant.

  But Nick was tossing me a lifeline, showing me he had my back, even though my "friend" had implied I'd fucked around on him. I would not give Darcy the satisfaction of knowing she'd succeeded, so I smiled and coughed out a chuckle.

  "Um, yeah. Not funny at the time, but good we can laugh about it now." I did my best to sell it, before standing quickly and slinging my bag over my shoulder.

  Nick stood, too, moving past Darcy, close enough she had to step back to allow him through. We'd turned to leave when he stopped and looked at her, his smile fading as he met her gaze. "You're single?"

  Darcy stared up at him as he towered a good six inches above her and nodded her head enthusiastically. She pouted her lips and batted her eyes at him. "At the moment."

  Nick stepped away from her, turning to follow me. "Figures."

  ***

  "Nick—"

  He put his hand up, motioning for me to stop. The other one wrapped around the steering wheel in a white-knuckle grip. "Not a word until we get home. I need time to wrap my head around what that vindictive twat just said."

  I wanted to respect his wish, but I couldn't let him drive thinking the worst. "It wasn't the way she made it out to be." My voice was quiet against the hum of the freeway.

  Nick ventured a quick glance at me, his jaw set in anger, before he turned back to the road. "Is that supposed to make me feel better? Because, I gotta tell you, having you confirm there was an 'it' we need to talk about at all makes me feel about a thousand times more pissed off than I was a minute ago."

  My voice shook. "I'm sorry."

  He took the exit off the freeway toward our house. "Jesus Christ, every fucking word out of your mouth makes me feel worse! Please, shut up until we get home, so I don't kill us both in a goddamned car accident."

  I couldn't stop the tears. The tension in the space between us was a heavy blanket, making me feel trapped. I laid my head against the window and watched the houses in our neighborhood pass by. I wondered if this might be the last time we made this drive together, as a couple.

  Once home and inside, the awkward silence continued as Nick tossed his keys and wallet into the bowl by the front door and proceeded to pour himself four fingers of bourbon. He polished off the whole glass in two gulps before turning toward the bedroom. I followed, watching and waiting, as he changed from the pressed slacks and button down shirt he'd worn to dinner into old sweats and a faded tee.

  I couldn't move from the doorway. I had no idea if I'd be asked to leave, so I kept my dress on and stayed in my heeled boots, despite the fact my toes were aching after wearing them all day.

  Finally, he looked at me—only for a second—before he rested his forearms on his thighs, pointed his face at the floor and ran a hand through his thick hair.

  "Talk."

  My mouth opened and closed several times. I'd wanted this, for so long, and now it was here and I didn't know where to begin.

  After a minute, he looked at me again, his eyes cold as he studied me. "Don't waste time figuring out the right way to say it. Fucking tell me. Start in the middle if you want, I don't care. I need to know who I'm looking at right now, 'cause I thought it was my wife, but half hour ago I found out she might be someone I don't even know."

  I went to him, knelt in front of him and gripped his knees as the tears flowed freely down my cheeks. "You know me, Nick. You're the only one who really does. I—I fucked up."

  I swiped at the tears now soaking my cheeks but couldn't get them to stop. I gave up and met his gaze. Whatever happened, we were not going to end our relationship based on Darcy fucking Schmidt's observations.

  "Truman said he was going to kill himself. The last time I was down in Eugene."

  Nick only nodded, his face a mask of indifference. This was not good. How could I get him to understand how desperate I'd been, in that room with Truman?

  I put my hands on his forearms, hopeful when he didn't flinch or push me away. "He wasn't kidding around, Nick. He was dead serious. I spent hours trying to talk him out of it."

  "Why not call the police and have him sent to the hospital?"

  I shook my head. "I thought of that. I did. But I knew he'd eventually get out and it'd still be his choice. I was trying to get him to choose differently on his own, not because he was just saying that to get out of some psych ward."

  Nick sighed and pulled out of my grip. He shook his head, as though he were watching me make a stupid mistake all over again.

  I nodded. "You're right, of course. And I can see now that that was the way I should've gone, but I just...I don't know, I panicked, I guess."

  I took a deep breath and Nick tensed. We both knew this was the hardest part. "I kissed him."

  I couldn't look at him. I couldn't face his disappointment, his rage at my behavior. I stared at the floor and finished. "It was late, I was exhausted, and I freaked out. I'm not saying that's an excuse, but it's what happened. I wanted him to remember the parts of life that are worth fighting for, so I kissed him."

  The silence stretched between us, still I couldn't look at Nick. It was torture, not being able to read his face, to touch him, but I was terrified of what I'd see. I continued looking down, like an errant toddler. I was just as helpless.

  "Is that it?" Nick's deep voice penetrated my fog.

  My hands balled into fists, fingernails digging into the flesh of my palms. I welcomed the pain. However hard it was to admit I'd instigated a kiss, telling him I'd let Truman feel me up was a thousand times worse.

  I started with the only positive I could think of. "I didn't sleep with him, Nick." My eyes found his, finally. "I promise you with everything I am, I did not fuck him."

  Nick leaned back slightly, as though he'd been prepared to hear the opposite. What I had to say next was downright painful.

  "But ..."

  He tensed up again and shifted away from me. "But?"

  "He, um, touched me. And I touched him. A little."

  Nick stood, the motion so swift I found myself flat on my ass before I could react.

  "Fuck!" He roared the word to the ceiling, veins in his neck protruding with the strain. His face was red as he paced to the opposite corner of the room and stared out the window.

  "I stopped it."

  He wouldn't look at me, but he didn't tell me
to get out, so I kept talking. "I don't know what came over me. I was scared. I wanted to save him. But I realized I was only repeating history. Trying to save him made me sick back then, and the same thing was happening again. I stopped everything and ran out of there without even saying goodbye. That's when Darcy must've been driving by. I'd just told Truman I couldn't do it anymore, that he needed to find someone else to help him."

  I stood up. "I chose you, baby. I chose us. I even told him as much. I love you more than anything. If this ruins what we have, I don't know how I'll get through it."

  I wasn't even trying to hide my sobs. I openly cried into my hands, the absence of Nick's strong arms around me, a further injury. After a few minutes I managed to swallow the sounds, wrapping my own arms around my stomach.

  It felt like hours before he turned and walked toward me. I was so relieved, the tears returned. They flowed even harder when he continued past me to his gym bag. He spent several minutes moving around the room in silence, stuffing the bag full of clothes and toiletries before he spoke. Every movement he made was a physical pain in my body.

  When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with the strain of containing his emotions. "I need some time. I need to, I don't know, figure out if I can live with this."

  Numbness spread through my aching feet, up my legs into my torso. The air seized in my lungs. A strange sort of buzzing in my ears took over. I couldn't accept the reality in front of me. Nick was leaving me. He was a proud man, a possessive man. He'd never be able to live with what I'd done. I knew it, even if he didn't. Yet.

  My insides caved, as though sucked into a vortex of nothingness. Without Nick, I wouldn't exist. He would take the best parts of me when he left. I'd emerge from the destruction a lesser person.

  His eyes softened for a moment, as he witnessed the devastation surely playing out in my features, before he straightened up again. "A woman totally committed to her husband doesn't kiss another man. No matter what."

  His cold, accusatory gaze was like a slap in the face.

  "I think you need some time too, Jessa. Whatever is going on between you and Truman, clearly shit is not resolved between you. Talk to him. Or leave the motherfucker to rot. I don't care. But, figure out what you want."

  My vision blurred as I watched him walk down the hall before the front door closed quietly. A moment later, I heard his car leave the driveway. I stood, watching the door, willing all of it to happen in reverse.

  One thought echoed in my head. The same thought had been echoing since I'd said the words. I repeated them to our empty bedroom.

  "I choose you."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I'll never stop being yours

  Past~

  "My boyfriend's dad killed himself a year ago." I looked around at the circle of faces, all of them reflecting the same depth of wounded I was feeling. It was spring term of my junior year at the University of Oregon and, after two years of struggle, I'd discovered therapy.

  This particular experience was of the group variety. In the six weeks I'd attended the open sessions, I'd come to know the four other students and their stories well. Until today, I was too nervous to say more than hello.

  Mumbled apologies followed my confession. As a collective bunch, we were struggling with death, depression, anorexia, and self-esteem issues centered on being simultaneously religiously devout and homosexual. No one was shocked by my admission.

  "Jessa, I'm glad you've decided to share today."

  The therapist leading our merry band of fuck-ups was an eerie doppelganger for Bob Ross, the cheerful painter/host of the art show on public television. I wanted, badly, to ask him about "happy little trees", but refrained. Humor was quickly becoming my way of diffusing tension, and as good a coping skill as it was, now probably wasn't the time.

  I nodded instead. Listening hadn't done anything to help me. If talking would make me better, I was all in. "I've been having these episodes for a while now. It's like nothing I've ever known. I can't breathe. I feel like I'm going to throw up, but I never do. I get dizzy." I looked down and picked at imaginary lint on my sleeve. "I used to get a few a week, but since Tr—, uh, my boyfriend's dad died...I get them almost everyday."

  I met the sympathetic gaze of Bob, who urged me on with a nod. The group of women studied me with mild curiosity, quiet as they waited for me to spill my secrets.

  I swallowed, my mouth dry. "It's getting hard to act like I'm OK around him, especially if I start to have one at his house. I have to get out of there, but I don't want to tell him because he's got his own shit to deal with. When I leave, he gets mad because he thinks I'm rejecting him. Arguing only makes me feel worse. And...he's been drinking a ton and smoking weed again. I think he might be doing other drugs, too, so he's not the most rational guy." I blew out a defeated breath. "Basically, everything's really fucked up, and I don't know how to fix it."

  Bob leaned forward. "Do you have a history of panic attacks, or did they start once you entered college?"

  I met his gaze, his kind brown eyes weathered by all he must've seen and heard in his years of treating people like me.

  "Panic attacks?" I'd been calling them episodes. I thought about how panicky I was when they occurred. I definitely felt like my body was attacking me. It'd just never dawned on me to put two and two together.

  "Yes, Jessa. What you're describing is a panic attack. They're typically the result of a generalized anxiety disorder. Your system's response to stress is maladaptive. When you're stressed, your fight or flight response kicks into high gear and engages your central nervous system. The sensations can be quite frightening. Some people are even convinced they're dying."

  I stared at him blankly, unseeing, as I tried to absorb what he'd said. I'd never thought I was dying, though I'd had the thought, often enough, that death might bring relief from the hell of what I was feeling.

  Given my present company, and out of fear that admitting that fact could very well bring a forced stay in the nearest psych ward, I'd kept it to myself.

  Shaking my head to clear it, I asked, "So, you're saying this is normal?"

  His smile was remorseful as he shook his head. "Getting stressed is normal. Feeling overwhelmed sometimes is normal. Your body having some kind of reaction to those situations is, as well. But panic attacks every day? No, Jessa. It's not normal. But it is very treatable."

  I held on to those last two words like a lifeline. Treatable meant I might not have to live like this anymore.

  I sat up. "Tell me what I need to do."

  ***

  "C'mon baby, stay until the last song."

  Truman's eyes were nearly solid red, they were so bloodshot. The stench of whiskey and pot emanating from his sweat-soaked body made me dizzy. I looked around at the sea of drunken co-eds around us and yawned.

  "Tru, I've got midterms tomorrow, and it's already after one. I have to get some sleep. Plus I've heard all these songs before; it's not like I'll be missing anything."

  Tru grabbed my hips and jerked me toward him, clumsily slamming his pelvis against mine. His breath fanned over my cheeks as he slurred, "I need you here, babe. It's one more set, then I'm done. I'll have Charlie pack up my shit, and we can take off right after."

  He looked over his shoulder at the band, the movement making him lose his balance.

  I steadied him with my hands on his biceps as I tried to keep from rolling my eyes. "Another set means another hour, at best. That gets me home close to three, and I have to get up at seven. I can't pass my tests on four hours of sleep, Truman. I need to get to bed. I'm already screwed as it is."

  Truth is, I was over it—the party and drunk-stoned Truman. I'd been ready to leave since midnight. Balancing my studies, my relationship with Tru, and my new treatment plan, which included what Bob-Ross-Lookalike called "honoring" myself, was exhausting work. Essentially, the cure for at least some of my anxiety was to acknowledge my own needs and then respond accordingly.

  When we'd discussed this in
my private session with Bob a few weeks prior, I'd almost snorted in disbelief at how simple his "solution" sounded.

  "The damage you've been doing by pretending everything is fine, when your inner voice is telling you it isn't—that's the root of your panic attacks, Jessa. When you fake feeling good, your body rebels, and you start to feel sick."

  He scooted forward, his office chair squeaking with the sudden movement as his eyes lit up with excitement. "It's really quite an ingenious system. Your body is basically forcing you to be honest. Admittedly, that's not a pleasant process. But the beauty of it is you're going to learn to stand up for yourself. To leave a restaurant in the middle of dinner if that's what you need. To say no to a friend if their request is too much of a burden. Your fear of having an attack is your protection. When you start being your own best advocate, you'll experience relief from your attacks. It's as though, subconsciously, you learn to trust yourself, and when you have that kind of trust, there's no need to panic."

  The seemingly simple homework was proving harder than I imagined, as I gazed into Tru's crestfallen dark eyes. Christ, why couldn't I just take one for the team and have it all turn out fine?

  We both needed a lesson in self-care, but Tru had lacked the capacity to understand the concept lately. If he wasn't doing it for himself, how could he possibly support me in the same thing? He didn't even know I was going to therapy.

  Since Pete's death, he'd started drinking and smoking weed whenever he had downtime, which wasn't often. He worked fifteen-hour days with his uncle to keep the business afloat and help support his mom, Sawyer, and Grace. His plans to get his own place and start the apprenticeship at a new job had been put on hold, indefinitely. Tru was breaking under the pressure. He needed me to be strong, but all I seemed to be able to do was watch, powerless to bring him back from the dark hole in which he'd fallen.

  And I'd wondered why the frequency of my attacks had only increased.