Falling: A Love Story

by lesley,allyn

  I whisper to my co-conspirator, “Betcha this gets us your bag. Watch and learn.” Cupping my hand over my mouth, I yell, “Where’s this chick’s fucking diaper bag?”

  My girl doesn’t miss a beat, showing me all her gums, just the way I love to see her. Mentally, I begin the countdown: three, two...

  Feet rush to where we’ve re-nestled ourselves on the cushions.

  “Em, slow down. He was just—”

  “Give me my innocent baby, you heathen,” my sister-in-law tells me, standing over her daughter while tapping her foot.

  I take one last look at Juli, who’s back to her gurgling self. “Well, take her and change her smelly ass.” I pass her to her mother. I can’t help laughing as steam practically billows from Emma’s ears.

  “If you corrupt my daughter, I’ll kill you myself.” She harrumphs, cradling Juli before backing out slowly. “I’ve got my eyes on you, Dyllan Sterling,” she says, pointing two fingers at her eyes then mine before blowing a kiss at me.

  I pretend to catch it, bringing her air kiss to my heart, and hearing the giggle from Emma’s lips reminds me how close we all came to losing her. I don’t ever want to experience those couple of days back in August, when she was in a coma. The family was unsure what would happen, and Chels was an emotional mess. We hardly kept it together. JC was a trooper, never leaving his wife’s bedside, while the rest of us took turns sitting with Juli when she was in the NICU.

  From the corner of my eye, I see the gusty November morning whipping up stray debris, and watch as they land wherever they may on my patio. The turbulent weather reminds me of how my stomach had churned hearing the words, ‘Can we be friends?’ from Chels’s lips in mid-September.

  Friends.

  After she’d suggested our new status, I’d been too much of a punk, both then and now, to tell her I’d never been anyone’s friend, outside of my family. I don’t socialize much, and I’d never had the desire to stick around and get to know any of the other women I’d slept with.

  Friends.

  Even now, the word is still as alien as it’d been then. I’ve yet to say it out loud, because I’ll either laugh at the ridiculousness of me being friends—just friends—with Chels of all people, or cry like a man-bitch, because I’m cornered in the friend zone.

  Friends.

  I test it out, and it still leaves a bitter aftertaste. I don’t like that fucking word, but at least I get to—

  “... with us?”

  The leather creaks, drawing my attention to the person relaxing beside me.

  “When did you get here?” I try to concentrate. Hadn’t he left the living room with Emma to change Juli?

  “Been here the whole time, while you zoned out on me like an old man.” JC’s shoulders shake with what I hope isn’t laughter. “So, I guess you don’t even know what I said.”

  Just to make sure he’s not, in fact, laughing, my open palm knocks some sense upside the back of his head—hard. He’s fast with this right hand, much better than when we were younger, and in an instant, we’re rocking back and forth, dipping, blocking, and jabbing at each other’s upper body, and are now tussling with each other.

  “Stop, Dyllan,” he says, laughing, but not giving an inch to me.

  JC’s head drops forward, and I can taste sweet victory. I hook my left hand around his exposed neck then drag him under my arm. What follows is what brothers have been doing to each other since the dawn of time: I attempt to beat him into submission with a few noogies.

  “Dyllan, man.” I feel his hot breath coating my upper arm. “We’re not fucking teenagers anymore.” His sides shake with laughter. “I’m a man with a wife and daughter, you putz!”

  I join in, laughing over his head at his defeat. “Declare me the winner then, chump.” My knuckles continue rubbing into his scalp, past his freshly twisted dreads.

  “All right, all right. Damn, ease up.”

  JC’s now halfway in my lap, but I’ve got a firm hold on his neck. I refuse to stop trying to give him a bald spot from the noogies. He can barely talk through all his laughing.

  “Say it, dipshit,” I demand; my win is in the air and it feels great. All he has to do is call me by the title I’ve held since I was seventeen years old.

  “You’re King of the Noogies, you asshole.”

  Letting his head go, we both fall backward as our loud laughing brings a shushing Emma toward us.

  She’s in front of us with her hands on her hips, a scowl on her face, and her voice veering between a whisper and a yell. “Will you two numbskulls keep it down? I’ve just gotten Juliet settled into her nap.” JC and I both straighten into upright positions at the formidable sight Emma presents.

  “He started it,” her husband complains, hunching me with an elbow to the side.

  My fingers rub the tender spot. “Do that again, and Ma’ll be ordering your casket early.”

  Emma becomes a real mother in front of me. She folds her hands and gives us that look, the one that says ‘cut the shit’. “I don’t care who started what and who’ll be ordering what. You’ll both be dead if you wake up my daughter.” With that, she turns as if to leave, but shares these parting words. “Trust me, you want Juliet sleeping now before you have to babysit.”

  “You all act like my sweet baby’s such a horror,” I grumble, fixing my shirt. “She may not like you all, but she loves her Unk Dyllan.”

  JC snickers behind his hand. “If you say so, but she’s like any woman we know. No beauty rest for them means they’re a pain in your ass.”

  My niece chooses that moment to show off. Her loud wails are making me second guess whether Juli’s parents really need an adult night out, or if it’d be a more productive time if they bonded with their kid.

  “You see what you’ve both done?” Emma shouts over her shoulders, rushing to the spare bedroom.

  Once she’s gone, I try to get JC to tell me what he was talking about before. “I missed whatever you said. Want to remind me about it?” I wriggle on the couch, getting a good position for my body, because this babysitting job will be a breeze.

  “You need a break.” That’s true I think on a sigh. “Em and I are going away for Thanksgiving. EC is going to Jill’s folks’, and Ma and Dad are going to California. And, I was thinking—”

  “You know you shouldn’t do too much of that, right?”

  His middle finger is all I see before he tells me, “Come with us, Dyllan.”

  What is this? First, Ma wants me to be a third wheel on her and Chuck’s trip, and now this? I know he means well, but if there’s one thing I hate, it’s being pitied, from strangers and, most especially, from family. Swallowing down my conflicting emotions, my curiosity gets the better of me. “And, just where are you going?”

  “The thing is...” My brother rubs the back of his neck, where I predict my fingerprints will be found after I choke him. “St. Thomas is an exceptionally nice place, or so I hear. The weather and the beaches are perfect year-round, especially since this winter looks like it’ll be brutal. Bet you’ll meet some hot chick down there to get you out of your funk.”

  “Funk? What are you even...” I can’t finish, because his dumb statement doesn’t deserve to be addressed.

  But he continues with his brilliance. “Yeah, funk. Deep, dark, stinky funk.” He nods as if that settles my emotional state of being. “The bright sun will put a happy end to your funk,” he says, flinging out the last word as if it’s too vile of a word.

  Funk? I’m not in a funk.

  “And, Chelsea already told Em she’d love to see you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  It’s been a few hours since Emma and JC left for their date, and I’m still reeling.

  And, Chelsea already told Em she’d love to see you.

  She’d love to see me. Yup, that’s what she’d said. I can’t help the pride, edged with a bit of gloating, that tingles my spinal cord and straightens my back. My lips pull up in a grin, like one of those giddy ones I
’ve seen Ma and Emma share when I catch them talking about their spouses.

  I can’t get over that Chels would love to see me. The etchings of the ink I’d gotten right after her twentieth birthday embed themselves deeper into my skin. As her surprising message replays itself, tugging on the deepest part of me, it’s like I’m back in my tattoo artist’s chair all over again, feeling the pressure from the metal needle jutting into my skin, inscribing the Roman numerals. It was easy to make up my own font, one that matches Chels’s uniqueness. Behind the curvature of my left ear is a replica of Chels’s tattoo: bold in its color and design, yet small in size. It’s a reminder of the silent promise I made to myself after she asked about being friends: that I’d become a better me.

  A sound from the baby monitor brings me back to reality, where I’m not Dyllan, the man who’s happy the woman he likes wants to see him, but Unk Dyllan with a job to do. Standing, I leave behind the dreary outdoors with its biting winds and withering leaves and walk toward my spare bedroom. Not too long ago, this room was used more for storing my seasonal clothing and extra shoes and less like a bedroom. But, since that little tyke made her forceful and early entrance into the world, this is now her room.

  I turn the doorknob, and my feet hit the sand-colored carpet. I should rename this room as Juli’s. Everything in here is hers, and decorated with her favorite color, pink, according to her mother. There’s boxes of diapers up to when she begins to walk, a fully stocked changing table from a company Emma swears by, blankets, and a portable bathtub I’ve yet to use that’s tucked away in the closet, which is now overflowing with outfits I got just for my Juli. If my go-to online baby retailer sells it, I’ve ordered it and it’s here somewhere in my condo.

  She’s cost me a fortune. And, I love it all.

  I walk over to Juli’s crib, see she’s still napping, and back out soundlessly. With Chels’s schedule, I have about an hour before she gets online, I think as I sit in my chair in my bedroom. I do a quick armpit and breath test. It’s not like she can sniff stench through the airwaves, but every time before we Skype, I do it. Maybe it’s a case of nerves. Powering up my laptop then typing in my password, I consider my previous thought. Does Chels make me nervous?

  Maybe not nervous, but my stomach muscles clench right before we talk, and during our conversations, I find myself goofily smiling for no reason. I know what it is, but I hate admitting it... she makes me giddy, like a very happy kid riding his favorite roller coaster. My eyes dart to the wall clock as my laptop’s home screen takes an unusually long time to spring to life. I hope I’ve not missed the window to call her. When we chatted last night, she made it clear that today was not a day she’d be able to spend our normal hours on end talking.

  “Finally,” I tell my computer, as if it has ears. A picture of Juli’s innocent, gray eyes that are so much like her mother’s, greet me on my homepage. I waste no time logging into my Skype account, where Chels’s own avatar pops up. She’s in a two-piece bikini, but her face is scrunched up, and the words ‘Dafuq am I doing here?’ runs across the top. When I asked about that particular tag line, all she’d say was the place wasn’t all she’d thought it’d be. Whatever that means.

  “Maybe, I’ll ask her again today,” I mutter. Maybe beg her to be mine while I’m at it.

  “Ask me what?”

  I blink a few times, having no idea when the connection was established. I buy some time by coughing to feel less like a dumbass. “Nothing,” I spit out quickly.

  She peers into her computer’s camera, and I swear she’s trying to do the same to me, pulling apart my words and deciphering their intent.

  But, I’m not nearly as interesting as she is, and I easily switch the investigative light onto her. “Why must you drill me every time we talk? I thought you were going to school to be a Journalist, not a detective.”

  She shrugs then flips her curled dark hair over her shoulder. “Would you let me handcuff you if I switched career focus?”

  And, with her heated words, we’re tiptoeing on the line between whatever this friendship dance is and the quasi-flirting we’ve been doing since the first time we spoke on Facebook and added each other to our Skype’s contact list. How do I respond? Do I be the old Dyllan and say, ‘Hell fucking yes’? Unconsciously, my hand tugs on my left earlobe. The gesture reminds me of the markings there, as well as the promise I made to myself. “Chels.” I can’t help that the last syllable in her name ends on a moan, though I try to play it off.

  The apples of her cheeks are pulled up to her eyes, which are looking every which way but at her computer screen. It must dawn on her that I’m still dumbfounded on the other side of her screen, because she mutters, “I’m sorry.”

  Her lips move again, and it kind of sounds like she’s saying, “Being friends is hard”, but it’s way under her breath, and I could’ve made it up. I mean, that’s how I feel. I’m sure Chels is A-okay with our new friendship thing. Instead of worrying about what she could’ve said, I fill the dead air with a question I’ve had since our last talk. “How did the writing assessment go this morning?”

  Her gaze is direct, but I’m distracted by the wisps of her hair teasing her thin-strapped shirt.

  “It was horrible. Horrible, I tell you. If I pass, it’ll be a miracle.”

  “Now I feel bad that we talked for too long last night.” My body sinks heavily in my swivel chair.

  She waves her hand in my direction, but there’s a slight delay, which makes her movement look blurry. “It wasn’t really a test. I just had to write an unbiased essay responding to that article about white privilege.”

  “What article?”

  I belly-laugh at the look she gives me. It’s a mixture of: Really?! and What uncultured rock have you been hiding under?

  “Oh my God, Dyllan. It’s all over; everywhere you go is that stupid article. What the heck have you been doing with your days?”

  I know what she’s talking about, but I love when she gets animated and shares with me her thoughts on racial, social, political, and economical issues. Her passion incites my intellect like no one else has, she never makes me feel less educated because I didn’t go to college, and is always respectful when our viewpoints differ. She launches into a stinging rebuke, many of which I agree. I remain silent as Chels brings to light many valid points about the doors that open up to us because of our skin complexion even if we don’t recognize them.

  “It was just an overall problematic and weak argument.” When she gets really amped, she speaks with her entire body: her fingers slice through the air, her eyes widen, and her lips curl up in a sneer. It’s magnificent to watch.

  “Did you write all of this in your own essay?”

  She’s fired up now, jabbing a finger on her desk. “You bet your ass I did.” Right before my eyes, my firebrand fizzles away. She chews on her bottom lip, worrying it nervously. “But, I think I may have still blown it.” She sighs, facepalming herself.

  “Hey,” I call out. When she looks up, I continue, “If you presented your arguments just as you’ve shared them with me, you passed with flying colors. I know it.”

  She looks bright-eyed and hopeful. “You really think so?”

  “I know so.” My nod is firm, even as the unsaid thought flits through my head: Or, I’ll fly there and kick that professor’s ass.

  “Pish posh, enough of that. How’s my baby, Juli?”

  “You mean stinky butt?” I chuckle then rehash all she’s missed in the short hours we’ve not spoken. We go back and forth, trading Juli tidbits for quite some time, and then we get to the discussion of her room. “So Emma forced me to paint,” I lament, still unsure how that short woman was able to strong-arm as she’d done.

  “To Peptoville, I heard.” She snickers. I guess Emma also told her what I call that particular color. “Ever since we were kids, Em has a way of getting folks to do exactly what she wants. It’s like an inborn trait or something. But, I thought you hated ‘pink shit’.” She air-qu
otes, slipping her hand over her mouth, which I bet is turned up in laughter. At me... the sucker.

  “Well, what happened was...” I can’t even come up with a good rebound, so I join her in grinning.

  When she recovers, Chels says, “What happened is Unk Dyllan is a sucker for a pretty face.”

  I want to tell her she’s the face who can sucker me into doing anything. But, I don’t; I watch her. Chels’s shoulders shake with her deep laughter. A strap falls, innocently, from its place. My eyes are glued to her exposed clavicle, while my tongue longs to trail the defined ridge and my traitorous dick hardens. I adjust myself under the table, pulling closer to the laptop.

  “So, you know what I heard?”

  I really don’t. I’ve come to expect the unexpected from this mystifying woman. “Can’t say I have.” But, I think it might have something to do with Emma, JC, and Juli going to visit her in a few days.

  “A redheaded birdie told me I’ll be seeing four Sterlings very soon.” She has four fingers in the air as if I can’t count, and her voice sounds excited and assured.

  “Is that what she said?” I grab the letter opener, my go-to anxiety de-stresser, twirling it around then tipping the end into my palm.

  “Yeah.” The confidence from before disappears. In its wake is something my heart won’t put a name to, because I fear I’ll make a mountain out of a mole hill. “Um. Aren’t you coming, too?”

  “I’m buying my ticket as soon as we sign off.”

  Her grin can only be described as cheesy. Yet, it’s the best kind: wide, showing all her pearly whites and the tip of her tongue.

  She does a dance move in her chair, and even though her image is momentarily blurry, her enthusiasm reaches me inside my Riverdale condo. “Yay. We’re going to have so much fun. I’ll be your tour guide. We can go parasailing, island hopping, snorkeling—”

  “Whoa, whoa. Slow down. This is a vacation. What you’re talking about sounds like—”

  “Fun, and if you say otherwise, I’ll bop you one,” she says, waving her fisted hand at the screen.