Hard Fall

by Ney, Sara

  I can’t make him a promise like that; Trace is hilarious and is always managing to make me laugh. He can’t help it—he’s funny and irresistible.

  We’re both staring at the ceiling in my dark bedroom, on our backs, and it’s hard to believe we’re lying here, fingers intertwined. Two lovebirds basking in the afterglow.

  “Of course. You can tell me anything.”

  “Do you believe in…” Trace clears his throat then hastens to add, “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

  I turn to face him, though I can’t really see him that well in the dark, wanting to know what he was about to say. Give his hand a jostle. “What? You can say it—I won’t judge you.”

  “I’m too embarrassed now,” he says lightly. I feel him tug the blanket up to his chin and hide. “Don’t look at me.”

  “Oh come on! You have to tell me now that you’ve brought it up—don’t give me information blue balls.”

  He’s still under the blanket like a weirdo. “I’m shy.”

  “Oh my god, you are not shy. You’re the least shy human I know.”

  “I have stage fright.”

  I sputter out a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

  There’s something fantastic about laughing while you’re naked, being vulnerable with someone you just had sex with, and this moment will live with me forever—no matter what happens between the two of us. It is too cute and unforgettable.

  He’s being sweet.

  I want to smush his cute face and coax out of him what he’s too embarrassed to say.

  I desperately want him to talk.

  I try to be patient.

  Wait him out.

  “I hate rejection.” The words are spoken quietly—so softly I have to strain to hear them.

  “I think we all do.”

  “Hollis, I need you to know something,” he says out of the dim lighting. “I’m not playing games with you.”

  Um—okay. Not what I was expecting him to say.

  “But I think it’s important because you’re coming off a bad experience, and you didn’t really want to start dating me. Yet here we are.” He has my full attention now. “This is going to sound strange, because we just met. And maybe you’ll think it’s moving too fast…”

  Oh shit.

  Oh god.

  Is he going to tell me he loves me? Already, after two weeks?

  God what if he’s going to propose?!

  Whoa, Hollis. Whoa girl, where did that thought come from? The man simply said things were moving too fast.

  Wait.

  No.

  He said maybe he thought I thought things were moving too fast.

  My brain needs to stop talking so I can listen to what he’s saying.

  “…but I feel like maybe…we’re soulmates.”

  The record player in my mind screeches to a halt, backs the conversation up, replaying the sentence in my mind on a loop. Soulmates soulmates soulmates.

  He thinks we’re what?

  WHAT!

  “You think we’re soulmates.” It’s a statement, not a question; I am still floored by the announcement, letting an awkward silence linger in the air.

  I don’t know what to say, and it shows.

  Beside me, I feel Trace’s body stiffen. “I shouldn’t have said anything—forget it.”

  The words “Uh, that’s not going to happen” fly out of my mouth.

  “You think it’s stupid.”

  “No, I don’t think it’s stupid—I’m just surprised you don’t. You’re so manly and masculine.” I say the words to soothe his bruised ego, my mind still reeling at a thousand miles per second. “I didn’t think you’d be this sensitive.”

  I release his hand so I can roll over. Find his shoulder in the dark and kiss his bare skin, hand running over his chest. “I love that about you.”

  Shit.

  I said l-o-v-e.

  What if he thinks I’m in love with him?

  I mean I’m not. Can’t be!

  Pfft, it’s been two weeks!

  “Do you?”

  “I do. I think you’re…” Just tell him how you feel. “Wonderful.”

  If only my father felt the same way.

  18

  Trace

  “…It’s a shame Hollis couldn’t make it today.”

  My mother attaches the statement to the tail end of another sentence, as if sliding it in under the radar will mean it goes unnoticed, as if she just announced the sky is blue, or flowers are pretty.

  Innocuous and unassuming—yet glaringly horrifying.

  “I’m sorry—what?”

  We’re at dinner after my game, the entire Wallace clan having driven to the Windy City for this one, including my brother and sister. We’re seated at a large, round table in one of Chicago’s most elegant restaurants.

  They even have us seated in our own private room to avoid interruptions.

  Mom loves it.

  Makes her feel special.

  “What, dear?” She won’t look at me, just raises her brows and cuts a tomato on her salad plate.

  “You said ‘It’s a shame Hollis couldn’t make it today.’ Were you implying something?”

  Genevieve’s shoulders rise and fall in an innocent shrug. “I just said it was a shame she couldn’t come.”

  Why would she have come? “Did…you invite her?”

  “I might have?”

  Translation: she did.

  “Dang it, Ma! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What difference does it make? She couldn’t make it.” Mom continues busying herself with her appetizer salad, successfully avoiding my wild eyes and gaping stare.

  “Who’s Hollis?”

  “Your brother’s girlfriend,” Dad causally tells my sister like it’s no big deal.

  Shit. How did I forget I’m perpetuating a lie to my parents and now my sister? “She’s not…I mean…Hollis is…”

  Everyone watches me while I fumble over my words.

  Tripp puts down his utensils and crosses his arms, leans back into his chair and settles in for the show he knows is coming—let’s face it, he knows the Hollis thing is bullshit, and he’s here for my inevitable downfall in front of our parents.

  Fucker.

  “You have a girlfriend?” My sister’s surprise is palpable. “Why haven’t I met her? Why isn’t she here?” She reaches behind her, into her purse and pulls out her phone. “What’s her name? I want to look her up on social media.”

  “True, leave it be. Hollis isn’t…” I can’t even say it without a guilty lump forming in my throat.

  “Hollis isn’t what, dear?” Now my mom is watching me, hope on her brows. “Hollis isn’t on the ‘Gram?”

  Jesus.

  I hate myself right now. I sigh. “The truth is…Hollis is more like…she’s…” Let’s see, how do I tell them the truth? “She’s more of a friend.”

  “Friends with benefits?” True asks.

  “No—just friends.”

  “Friends to lovers?” Mom clarifies. Leaning over, she touches my sister’s arm conspiratorially. “That’s my favorite genre of romance novels, just so you know.” She beams around the table and I want to throw up.

  “No, Mom.” But technically yes, now that we’ve slept together, we would be considered friends to lovers. I think. “More like not friends to sort of friends.”

  “But…” The hope on Mom’s face turns to bewilderment. “Then why did she come all the way to our house? Why did you tell us you were dating? Why did she go through all that trouble? I’m so confused.”

  “Uh…” is my brilliant answer.

  “I think what dipshit here is trying to tell us is that Hollis doesn’t want anything to do with him and only came to the house because he was lording something over her head.” Satisfied he’s solved some great mystery, he resumes his dinner, picking up his steak knife and chiseling away at the meat on his plate.

  “You’re saying that like it’s a crime.” I want to punch my brot
her for his accuracy.

  “The real crime here would be that poor girl becoming Hollis Wallace if she permanently attached herself to this one.” My sister throws her thumb in my direction, forking the chef salad in front of her and stuffing a mouthful in her face.

  Do both my siblings have to be such heathens? Where is the humanity? Where is the compassion?

  “Hollis Wallace.” I set my fork down, dismayed. “Why does everyone keep saying that like it’s a bad thing?”

  “Literally no one has ever said that,” my brother quips, rolling his eyes. He’s on the far side of the table so I can’t kick his shin.

  “Literally people have, so shut up.”

  Our sister laughs, her brown eyes lighting up gleefully. She always has loved it when Tripp and I argue—when we were kids, she’d purposely get us into fights, then she’d sit and watch from the sidelines until one of us ended up getting yelled at by our parents.

  Never her.

  Always us.

  “You shut up,” Tripp counters.

  “I said you shut up.”

  We are five.

  “Don’t say shut up to your brother,” Mom chastises, always in mom mode. “Stop it, both of you.”

  “Yeah, don’t tell me to shut up,” Tripp retorts.

  True cackles.

  Dad grunts, biting into a jumbo prawn, ignoring the entire table as per usual.

  “So she’s not your girlfriend,” Mom goes on. “She didn’t look like just your friend to me.” Then a thought enters her brain. “I let the two of you share a bedroom! Trace Robert Wallace do not tell me anything untoward happened in that guest room.”

  “Does dry humping count as untoward?” I muse, glancing off into the distance.

  Mom’s water glass stops halfway to her mouth. “You better be lying.”

  Tripp cackles.

  True is laughing so hard she can hardly breathe.

  I hate them both.

  “Trace.” My name on my mother’s lips holds a warning. “Tell me you’re lying.”

  “Okay, I’m lying.”

  She tries again. “Are you lying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Trace!”

  “You told me to lie!”

  “I meant tell the truth!”

  “Fine, okay, we kicked it old school. Is that what you want to hear? Heavy petting only. Jeez, Mom, there was no penetration—we’re just friends.”

  “Don’t say penetration at the supper table,” Dad finally says, scolding me, causing my sister to launch into a laughing fit.

  “Penile-tration,” Tripp mumbles, not wanting to be left out of the fun.

  “Boys!” Mom gasps.

  “I’m 28,” Tripp reminds her. He points to me. “Tweedledumb is 27.”

  I scowl. “I hate when you call me that.”

  My brother shrugs, slicing more meat from the steak on his plate, setting it on his tongue. “You’re the dumb to my dee. Get over it.”

  I open my mouth to speak.

  Tripp interrupts. “Ah, ah, ah—don’t say it.”

  True chokes on her bacon, waving her hand in the air for us to, “Stop. Just stop, I can’t.”

  “Why do I bother with you people?” I’m so friggin’ irritated right now. They’re so annoying sometimes!

  “You people? You people?” Tripp feigns indignance. “I have never been so insulted.”

  Mom pats him on the arm. “Trace, you’re hurting your brother’s feelings.”

  “Yeah, you’re hurting my feelings.”

  Idiot.

  “I am not.”

  Before any of us can say another word, Dad reenters the conversation. Good old Rog, who can always be counted on to make everything awkward.

  “Circling back around to Hollis,” he drawls out, as only my father can. “Are you dating the girl or not?”

  And it all begins again.

  * * *

  Me: A little bird told me you were invited to the baseball game tonight.

  Hollis: Was that little bird your mom?

  Me: Lol yes.

  Me: Why didn’t you come?

  Hollis: I didn’t know if you’d want me to. I didn’t want to assume…

  Me: We slept together.

  Hollis: That doesn’t mean you want me just showing up places.

  Me: Uh…remember how I said you’re my soulmate?

  Hollis: You didn’t say I’m your soulmate, you said you THOUGHT we might be.

  Me: What dude says shit like that if he doesn’t want the girl hanging around?

  Hollis: Dudes who want to get in your pants.

  Me: We’re not starting that shit. You know that’s not the case.

  Hollis: I’m still trying to sort it all out, okay? I’m… I just need to take it slow.

  Me: Slow…

  Me: For what?

  Hollis: I don’t know, Trace! It felt like the right thing to say.

  Me: Since when are we picking and choosing the right words to say? I thought we were going to be honest and say how we felt.

  Hollis: I don’t remember having that conversation.

  Me: Wow.

  Hollis: I didn’t mean it like that. You know what I meant. I’m sorry, I’m just tired…

  Me: It’s fine.

  Hollis: Fine: something people say when things aren’t fine. This conversation is way too serious for me right now. What happened to lighthearted Buzz?

  Me: Oh, the Buzz you don’t want to date because he’s NOT SERIOUS ENOUGH? That guy? The one you don’t trust because he’s on a team with your fuckboy of an ex?

  Hollis: Don’t put words into my mouth, okay? All I said was maybe I’m just trying to figure stuff out.

  Me: Hey it’s cool.

  Hollis: Somehow you saying that is worse.

  Me: I don’t know what you want. I thought we were getting along. Making progress and shit.

  Hollis: We are.

  Me: Alright. Well. I just wanted you to know that we missed you at dinner tonight, and—sorry my mom invited you. Hope it didn’t put you in a weird position.

  Me: If it makes you feel better, I told everyone we were just friends, so you’re off the hook.

  Hollis: Honesty is good. I did feel bad for your mom.

  Me: Yeah, I know. Everyone always feels bad for Genevieve Wallace with her two unruly sons.

  Hollis: I didn’t mean it like that…

  Me: I know. I know you hated lying and now you don’t have to anymore. I’ll never ask you to lie for me again—I shouldn’t have in the first place, and again, I apologize.

  Hollis: Now you’re making me feel bad.

  Me: For what?

  Hollis: I don’t not like you, Trace—I’m just letting it all sink in. You know what I want, someone who is there for me.

  Me: How do you know I won’t be there for you when you need me if you won’t give me a chance?

  Hollis: You’re in the midst of your season. You don’t have time to date now anyway. Maybe we should wait until the season is over.

  Me: Sure.

  Me: Whatever you say Hollis.

  19

  Hollis

  Why do I get the feeling I’m forgetting something?

  The thought niggles at the back of my mind as I sit across from a potential new author in the conference room of the small publishing house I work for, one of three that exist in Chicago. Would I love to work for one in New York? Yes. Is that my ultimate goal? Also yes.

  Will that ever happen?

  Who even knows.

  I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m only half present for this meeting with Lesley Ashby, an interior designer pitching a coffee table book to my boss. Her book is bold, bright, but—nothing groundbreaking or new.

  I already know my boss is going to red-light the pitch unless Lesley comes up with something more creative than photographing expensive interiors and floral tablescapes.

  Who can afford that anymore?

  “We’ll get back to you, Lesley,” my boss is saying as s
he rises. “Thank you so much for coming in.” She extends her hand to shake Lesley’s. “Tina in reception can grab you a swag bag for the road if you’re interested.”

  That’s what Wanda gives to everyone she’s giving the green weenie.

  A canvas tote bag filled with Twilite Publishing goodies no one, but a book nerd actually wants: koozie, bookmarks, reading light, magnet, car decal.

  Lesley Ashby is going to trash the entire bag once she hears back that we’re not going to represent her and shop her book.

  When she leaves the room, my shoulders sag.

  It’s been the longest day, the Mondayest Tuesday ever, and my feet are killing me in these heels. My feet and my heart, both throbbing, though in entirely different ways.

  It’s been five days since I last spoke to Buzz. He has left me alone since our texts on Thursday, but that hasn’t stopped me from reading and rereading them over and over.

  Like the script for a bad play, they make me cringe. Seeing what I wrote and reliving it? Also embarrassing.

  He didn’t deserve what I said and I realized over the weekend that I was projecting my relationship fears onto him. Fears about ending up with a man just like my father. Fears about ending up with a man just like Marlon. Fears about ending up alone because I’m too stubborn and scared to let myself open up.

  I have a few more things to get done before I head home for the night and I make quick work of my to-do list. A few emails, a bound manuscript that has to get mailed back to its author for edits, I tidy up. Grab my coat, laptop bag, keys.

  Our office isn’t in a skyscraper. Rather, it’s an eight-story, brick confection sandwiched between two corporate edifices, but with an attached parking structure. In the winter, it’s a lifesaver having covered parking in downtown Chicago. In the summer, it’s a lifesaver not having to walk block after block in the heat.

  My car is where it always is, parked in the third spot next to the stairwell. Not too far from the exit, but not so close that it’s the last car in the row and thus susceptible to vandalism. In the past, we’ve had issues with that. Because it’s a small, less-expensive building, security isn’t as tight as it would be in a high-rise.

  With a heavy heart, I sigh, another day down but a full night of alone ahead of me. I wonder what Trace is doing tonight, what he had for dinner. He probably went to crash Noah and Miranda’s supper. No wait—it’s Tuesday.