Fall for Me

by Jc Emery

  A last-minute red-eye ticket to New Orleans was going to cost me four-hundred and ninety-six dollars. I hovered over the purchase link for about a half an hour before giving up and shutting the computer down. If I’d gone, I’d have never made it back in time for my shift the next day. What the fuck was I supposed to tell the Chief I was doing out of town instead of on shift the next day?

  So I’ve held on this long, not exactly pretending to be happy, but not yet voicing how unhappy I am. Now I’m about a month out from taking the first step to ending this nightmare. Lydia will be happier. She has to be.

  “I’m clocking out,” I say to Hennessey, who is doing a double check of the rig to make sure all her shit has been put back where it belongs.

  “You do that,” he says. “I’m almost done here myself.”

  “Yeah, you got plans?” I’m desperate enough to get out of my own head that I’ll willingly dive into H’s. His eyes dart to me and then back to what he’s doing in a strange, reluctant movement. I know that move. He doesn’t want to share, which isn’t like him. My little brother gets off on sharing. Even when we were kids, he couldn’t keep a fucking thing to himself.

  “Spill or I’m on the phone to Mom,” I say and pull my mobile out of my pocket.

  “We’re fucking adults, man. When you gonna stop using that bullshit ploy?” he says in the same grouchy way he has since he was a child.

  “When it stops working.” Our mother could have been a private eye if she hadn’t spent so much time popping out kids. Would have made a damn fine one, too. Anything goes down in this family and she knows about it first. In the rare case she doesn’t and somebody is hiding something, she’ll investigate until she gets to the bottom of it. Can’t say she was my favorite person throughout puberty, but she comes in handy now.

  “Just havin’ drinks with Mel,” he says and raises his chin as he shoves his hands in his pockets. I don’t do what I want to do—knock him the fuck out—so instead I shove my phone back in my pocket and fold my arms over my chest. “Look, she asked me not to tell you. Don’t know why, tried not to wonder. That’s not really working out for me.”

  “Drinks, huh?” A warped laugh escapes me.

  “Something going on I should know about?” he asks.

  “I don’t know, brother. There something going on I should know about?”

  “Holy shit,” he says with a shake of his head. “I thought Dad was full of shit when he said you had a thing for Mel. Lucky for you, Mom’s oblivious.” It was bound to come out eventually, but it feels fucked that it was Dad who started this clusterfuck.

  “How often do you two sit around and shoot the shit like a couple of hens?” I ask. The dig is subtle—something only a sibling would notice—but it doesn’t confuse him. Hennessey has done his best to put a stop to being called Hen. Makes him sound too feminine, apparently. He takes a step forward in challenge.

  “Right about last night when I asked Mel out and she said yes. Damn shame you didn’t say something sooner, because we could have avoided how awkward this is.”

  “Dad tells you I got a thing for her and you ask her out?”

  “Other way around, actually. Doesn’t matter, though. I’m single. She’s single. You know who’s not single?”

  “This gonna be one of those things we have to settle on the court?” I ask. Growing up, Dad believed in settling scores in a responsible way—usually on the basketball court. It’s still our preferred way of settling shit, and just like when we were kids, somebody ends up throwing an elbow and somebody else retaliates with their fist.

  I force myself to chill out as best I can. It’s not working very well, but if I can just keep my feet still, maybe I can stop them from closing the distance between the two of us and driving my fist into his face right here in the station.

  “Make you a deal. You tell me right now that she doesn’t deserve better than what you’re not giving her, and I’ll back off,” he says.

  My vision narrows to the point I can barely see anything around me. I’m so focused in on H’s bright blue eyes that everything else ceases to exist. I want so badly to tell him I’m what Mel deserves. She doesn’t deserve better than me, because I can’t handle her having something else. I realize that at some point liking her turned into some kind of sick obsession, and that obsession feels a fuck of a lot like love. If I had my way, I’d keep her in a bubble away from every man who poses a threat to my claiming her. But that’s not realistic, and she deserves to be able to make her own choices. If Mel feels even half of what I feel for her, she won’t do anything with my brother. I have to trust that this is going to work out for us, and that she’s going to protect what we’re going to have.

  “Don’t fuck her over,” I say. My jaw is tense, my heart is beating so hard it might protest right out of my chest, and my throat is dry. There’s a knocking in my stomach that freaks me out. They’re just words. I talk to people about all kinds of shit every day. It’s funny, though, how letting something go that you never really had puts a sickness into your soul that feels like its rotting away your insides. “She’s not some random woman you can fuck and then forget about.”

  “It’s just drinks,” he says and gestures between us. “But I don’t want any bad blood.”

  “You’re my brother,” I say. “Nothing changes that.”

  He nods and his jaw ticks. I watch as his eyes search for a long moment before he seems to settle on something.

  “I don’t want to be that guy anymore,” he says. “Mel calls me on that bullshit. Tells me I can be better.”

  “So then be better.” I walk toward him, clap him on the shoulder, and keep moving through the garage bay. I clock out as quickly as possible, grab my shit, and head out into the cold.

  The walk home is pretty short—one of the perks of the stupid expensive apartment—so short in fact that I’m barely processing what I just did by the time I hit the doors to the third floor walk-up that I call home. Hennessey gave me an out, and I didn’t take it. I could have told him not to make a move and he wouldn’t have. My brother may be a dick most of the time, and he may run through women like some men run through disposable razors, but he’s loyal and doesn’t lie.

  My eyes sting and my gut makes me feel like I’ve been hit by a Mac-10. There’s got to be something in the air, because the sensitivity in my eyes can’t be tears. I’m a man, one of New York’s Bravest, and a Hayes. We don’t cry. Crying is for pussies. I suck in deep breath after deep breath until my eyes dry up and I’m able to breathe somewhat normally again. I’m losing something I didn’t really have, so why does the loss feel so insurmountable? The tension in my body is almost too much to bear—like I’m going to explode or freak out and just start swinging at random shit.

  I’m at the bottom of the first floor staircase when I decide that it’s the perfect night to get shit-faced. At the base of the second floor staircase, I decide I’m not going to let this bullshit control me any longer. I’ll quit Facebook if I have to in order to avoid the inevitable evidence that Mel’s moved on. With my brother.

  Tell me right now that she doesn’t deserve better than what you’re not giving her, and I’ll back off.

  At least with Hennessey I can make sure she’s taken care of. At least I know if he does get serious about her that he won’t totally screw her over. He’s never been serious about anyone before, but I have to believe that all those good things that make up who Hennessey is will translate into him being a decent enough man. He won’t be enough for her—nobody is, including me.

  By the time I’m unlocking the door to my apartment, I’m already preparing myself for sitting across the table from them at family dinners as they grow together as a couple. It’ll start with dating exclusively, then the “I love you” bullshit, then the living together. Eventually he’ll want to marry her, because who the fuck wouldn’t want to do everything he can to be with her forever? Mom’s too pushy and Mel’s too fucking pretty and kind and maternal to not have kids, so
that’s going to happen. And one day they’re going to try to set me up with somebody because I’ll be alone, and I’ll decline.

  I open the door and see Lydia in our tiny kitchen. She’s putting away a sack of groceries she must have picked up on her way home. Looking at her now, with her perfectly smooth ponytail and pleated khakis, collared blouse, and fitted cardigan, I realize that I feel nothing for this woman. Maybe a little resentment, because her presence in my life is the reason I’ve missed out on the best fucking thing that could have ever happened to me. It’s not fair to Lydia, to keep her in this bullshit relationship when I feel so little for her. Because it’s become perfectly clear that I’d rather be alone and miserable than with her and miserable. No matter how much it’ll hurt her.

  But I’m a selfish bastard and I need something to distract me.

  With a loud slamming sound, the door shuts behind me. I remove my gloves and jacket, toss both on the sofa, and stalk toward her.

  “Hi, baby,” she says quietly as she notices what I’m doing. She’s half-breathless and half-wary. I close the distance between us and press her back into the counter. My lips claim hers instantly, and like I’ve lit a match, she’s on fire in seconds. I drown myself in the pathetic desperation of trying to feel something from the touch of a woman who only makes me feel numb.

  Chapter 11

  Jameson

  We’re on our bed and almost completely naked now. I’m not being slow or gentle. I don’t care if she enjoys it, really. This isn’t about connecting. It’s about fucking and feeling something and not feeling a damn thing and losing myself in the motions if even for a moment to drown out the pain of throwing away the best thing I never had.

  Lydia mewls from beneath me and drags her nails down my bare back. Frustrated, I grab her hands and hold them above her head. She bucks against me excitedly. I hate it when she marks me like that.

  “You’re feisty, baby,” she says with a grin.

  With my free hand, I start pulling her panties down, but it proves difficult with the way she’s wiggling like a fucking cat in heat, so I free her and roll to my back where I discard my boxers onto the floor. I’m hard enough to fuck her¸ courtesy of the images I’m working hard to keep running through my mind.

  Mel at the house watch desk.

  Mel at the hot dog stand.

  Mel on the porch at her beach house.

  Mel in an expensive red dress.

  She’s nowhere near naked in any of the images I call up, but I’ve got an excellent imagination. It’s the only thing I’ve had to go on for the past six months. Her Facebook account has a few pictures of her wearing something tighter or more revealing, but it’s not as good as the memories. It doesn’t matter what she’s wearing—the real thing is always better than a captured memory of something I didn’t get to experience.

  Lydia crawls across the bed, now bare from head to toe, and swings a leg over my hips. If she slides up, I’m going to be inside of her. Very slowly, she moves forward, inching closer to welcoming me into her body. We’ve done this so many times that I know her moves like they are second nature to my own. I place my hand on her lower belly to stop her.

  “Condom,” I grunt out and reach into the half-open top drawer of the nightstand. She bites her lip and rocks against my hand. I fish a square foil packet out of the drawer and place it between my teeth. If I move my other hand, she’s going to slide right onto me.

  The foil is smooth against my top lip, but there’s a roughness along my bottom lip that surprises me. Pausing, I pull the wrapper out of my mouth and eyeball it for anything I should be aware of. Near the sealed edge is a small tear in the packaging. It happens once in a while, so I toss it on the floor and reach for another one. This time, I inspect the package a little better and don’t rely on a random perforation. Everything looks good. I’m about to put it in my mouth when something compels me to squeeze the package to check that it’s air sealed.

  It’s not.

  “Hang on,” I say and try to pull Lydia off of me. But she refuses to move, instead leaning forward and creates a trail of kisses up and down my neck. One of her hands wraps around my dick as she strokes me, effectively keeping me hard and clouding my mind while I try to figure out if I’m just being paranoid or if—

  No.

  The condom stash can’t be compromised. It’s the only thing we’ve been using for the past few months. It was Lydia’s idea to start using condoms because she was worried about not being as diligent with her birth control as she should be. After that pregnancy scare last summer, she eventually admitted she’d been a few days behind, and she’d promptly freaked out, spiraling into tears and getting me to tell her it would be okay. She was so worried about slipping up, so she bought the condoms when we had the talk about how kids and marriage aren’t an option. She took it as right now, but I meant it as in never. She just wouldn’t listen.

  I check two more, and neither hold the air in their packaging when squeezed. I’m on the fifth condom, nearing the end of the stash, when I feel Lydia moving slowly onto my bare dick.

  “Hey, get up,” I say firmly and force her off me while pulling myself into a sitting position.

  “What’s wrong?” There’s a shaky edge to her voice that makes me go perfectly still.

  “The condoms have been fucked with.” With deep breaths and an unhealthy dose of denial, I try to push away the nagging feeling that she knows what I’m talking about. We have our problems, but fucking with the condoms isn’t like leaving the toilet seat up or even falling out of love. It’s unforgivable.

  I grab as many of the unopened condoms as I can and take them into the bathroom. I plug up the sink and fill it with water, then toss them in. An untampered, air-sealed package won’t fill with water. But every single one of them ends up with water in it. Leaning forward, I place my hands on the rim of the pedestal sink and take a deep breath. I like denial. It’s a comfortable place to be, especially when faced with the possibility than your longtime girlfriend has been fucking with your birth control. My stomach rolls with the devastating possibilities of what she’s been up to and the very real possibility that breaking up in a month could be complicated by something I don’t want with her.

  “Advantage to knowing you so well, Lyd?” I’m partially talking to myself. I don’t really want to open a dialogue with her about this shit, but I don’t have much of a choice. “I know your tells.”

  Pushing away from the sink, I stalk back into the bedroom. She’s got her legs tucked beneath her and she’s still as can be. There’s a vacant look on her face. I think I’m going to be sick. Everything I need to know is right in front of me. This woman doesn’t take the blame for something she hasn’t done. She’s never been so quiet before in her life, I bet.

  I stand there just watching her do nothing for the longest time. I want to say something, to scream, flip out. I want to shake her and ask her why the fuck she would do something like this. I mean, who does shit like this?

  Lydia does.

  I think, somewhere, in the back of my head I knew she had this in her. I just didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to face the truth of who I’ve spent the last several years sleeping next to. I always saw her as this woman who needed to be saved that I never really looked at her and saw her for what she is: a manipulative bitch.

  Eventually her shoulders shake just slightly as tears fall down her face. Her grief is so quiet and yet profound that I can feel it from across the room. I can’t bring myself to scream even though I want to. My nerves are shot and my filter is gone. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I let myself truly respond to what she’s done.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. I stare at her in disbelief as she raises her tear-filled eyes and fights to maintain some composure. Those two words aren’t enough. We switched to condoms months ago at her urging. After she fucked up her birth control.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t ever find out? That we’d magically wor
ked out because you manipulated me into getting you pregnant?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  So how many times have I fucked her without proper protection?

  “Please don’t hate me. I couldn’t stand it if you hated me.” She’s almost shouting the words like I’m more likely to take them to heart if she says them louder. The thing is, it’s not necessary. I just feel numb.

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “I’ll go back on the pill. I’m so sorry, baby. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “I don’t really care what you do,” I say. My brain is working so slowly that I’m struggling to get the words out. “Anything comes of this bullshit you’ve pulled and I’ll step up. You know that. But us? We’re done.”

  “Please don’t,” she says through a sob that tears at her body. “Please. After everything you’ve done. Please don’t.”

  After everything you’ve done.

  “You wanna explain that?” My voice rises with every word. I’m finally angry. How fucking dare she try to manipulate me into getting her pregnant without realizing it. She could be pregnant now. Fuck. How in the hell am I supposed to move on, with or without Mel, if Lydia is fucking pregnant? “What the fuck have I done?”

  She sucks in a few unsteady breaths and centers herself before she crawls to the edge of the bed and stands on shaky legs. Her eyes are bright red and swollen from the crying, her lower lip trembles, and she wraps her arms around herself.

  “Melanie Kincaid,” she says like Mel’s name makes her physically ill. My eyes narrow, and my lips turn into a snarl. “I’m not blind, Jameson. Everybody knows.”

  “This the direction you want to take this, huh?” I ask. Mel hasn’t done a fucking thing to Lydia. In fact, Mel’s the reason I haven’t cheated on Lydia. She made it clear if I did that, I wouldn’t be the man she needs me to be, so I didn’t push it. I was good.

  “Yeah, I do. At least when I confronted her about it she had the decency to be honest.”