Falling in Love

by Stephen Bradlee

  I told myself it was like a book I had read once about quitting smoking, to smoke pack after pack of cigarettes, all at once and to just keep smoking them until they made you sick and you never wanted to see another cigarette as long as you lived. That was what I wanted to do that night and that was what I got, sick of the world and the guys in it and mostly sick of myself.

  It was almost dawn when the last one finished and I managed to find most of my clothes and stumble downstairs and out to my car. I drove away quickly but at the first stop sign, I stopped and started crying uncontrollably, hating myself, wanting to ram into the nearest tree.

  Instead, I drove back to Arlene’s house as quickly as I could. Gratefully, she wasn’t up yet. I didn’t bother to even try to sleep. My whole body ached, every bone, every muscle. I got into the shower and futilely tried to wash the pain and shame and anguish down the drain.

  After brushing my teeth for about fifteen minutes, I finally managed to put on some clothes and tried to make myself look presentable. When I got downstairs, Arlene again didn’t say a word to me, but seemed engrossed in another morning TV news show. The kitchen had a warm tasty aroma and I knew that Arlene had made herself breakfast but she had obviously already done the dishes, as the kitchen was spotless. I poured myself a cup of coffee and drank it greedily, trying to dull my throbbing headache. I would have loved a couple of aspirins but even I wasn’t crazy enough to ask Arlene if she had any.

  There was a soft knock on the door and Paul came in all smiles, as he had the day before. I downed the coffee and gratefully, he whisked me out of there after only the minimum of pleasantries between Arlene and him.

  Paul then spent the day instructing me on the intricacies of typing contracts and wills and agreements. I was so exhausted and hung over that I couldn’t concentrate and keep making the same mistakes over and over again but Paul was patient and we finally made it through the day. He offered to take me out to dinner but I told him that I felt like I was coming down with a cold and that I probably should just go back to Arlene’s and rest. He agreed.

  I told Arlene the same story and went up to my room and without even bothering to remove my clothes, I fell exhausted onto the bed. I slept straight through until Paul came to pick me up the following morning. Worried that I might be sick, he suggested that I stay home from work but I couldn’t face a day with Arlene and after thirteen hours of sleep, I actually felt pretty good.

  Instead, I quickly showered and dressed and we went to work. I was much better and by the end of the day, even though I wasn’t exactly sure about all of the legal terms, I felt like I could actually do the job.

  We went out for a quiet, lovely dinner that night and Paul was a perfect gentleman and brought me home early. Arlene was still giving me the silent treatment but I was in love with Paul and so happy that I didn’t even mind. I felt the urge to go out and, as crazy as it seemed, to be with some other guy so I could fantasize that I was making love to Paul. But the horror of that previous Sunday night reminded me that I never wanted to do anything like that again. I hoped that I would always feel that way. Instead I took a long luxurious bath and went to bed hoping that I would dream of Paul.

  I was ready and waiting on the front porch swing when Paul drove up. At work, I was actually beginning to enjoy the job and Paul’s numerous red corrections of my typos were dwindling to one or two.

  “I can’t believe how quickly you’ve picked this up,” he said. “You could be a great a legal secretary, if you wanted.” He gave me a smile. “Provided you don’t find something better to do with your life.”

  Then he grabbed my arm and led me to the front door.

  “What are we doing?” I asked.

  Paul put a “Closed” sign on the door and we walked outside. “The beauty of a small town practice,” he said, “is that everything can wait until tomorrow. Let’s got for swim.”

  When I protested that I didn’t have a swimsuit, Paul drove me to a nearby shop and bought me one. Then we headed for the lake, passing by a practice field where several young boys were kicking around a soccer ball. When a carrot-haired boy scored a goal, Paul stopped and cried out, “Nice one, Jim. You’re looking good, Guys.”

  The boys beamed. “Thanks, Coach,” said Jim. “We’ve got to beat Franklin this year.”

  “Keep working,” Paul encouraged them. “We will.”

  As we drove away, Paul told me, “Our middle school couldn’t afford a coach, so I offered. I can’t wait until the day when I am a soccer dad.” He glanced at me. “That reminds me of our challenge.”

  When we arrived at the beach, Paul grabbed a soccer ball from his trunk and soon we were racing across the sand. When I tried to dribble past him, he intercepted the ball. So I charged him and stole it back. As he was about to intercept it again, I kicked it between Paul’s legs and dashed around him. That really angered him. As he was about to catch me, rather than let him win the ball again, I kicked it into the lake. We both dived into the water, and instead of the ball, we accidentally grabbed each other and ended up kissing as the ball drifted away.

  After this wonderful, lazy afternoon, Paul decided that I needed to learn his favorite hobby. As the setting sun sprinkled sparks across the water, we fished off a nearby pier. He baited my hook and I sat patiently with my pole, just happy to be near Paul. Suddenly, my pole bent forward and a fish leaped from the water.

  I panicked and nearly dropped the pole.

  “Just reel it in slowly,” Paul instructed me. “Slowly. You’re doing fine.”

  I finally managed to get the fish out the water as it jerked and flopped, spraying us with water before Paul unhooked it and dropped it into a nearby pail. He baited my hook again, cast my line and then laid his head comfortably on my lap.

  “It’s days like this that I love it here,” he said. “If I was still on Wall Street, I’d be working until eight every night. But then again, I’d be in New York, which has a little more to offer than Oak Grove.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Then again, I also miss singing rock ‘n’ roll.”

  “What?” I wasn’t sure that I had heard him right.

  “I had my own band. We were pretty good, too, but I got scared that we would never make it big.”

  “Ever regret not going for it?”

  He looked reflective and then said, “I think I miss Wall Street more. There’s something about toiling in secret for weeks on a deal. Then when it makes headlines around the world, I could say, ‘I worked on that.’” He looked up and said, “I’m bored with me. Tell me about your dreams.”

  My dream is to marry you, Paul, I thought, and to have lots of your kids. I didn’t have the courage to say that though, afraid that he would think I was too forward. Instead, I admitted, “I haven’t had that many.”

  “Come on. You have to have had some.”

  I thought about it for a second and then replied, “Well, when I was a little girl I wanted to be a fireman.

  “A fireman?”

  “Well, firewoman, I guess. I dreamed about climbing ladders and saving children from burning buildings and I figured that if I died, I’d be a dead hero.”

  He laughed. “That sounds reasonable.”

  I slapped his shoulder, a little embarrassed. “Hey, you asked. Then I wanted to be a school teacher. I figured that if I taught any kids who were really unhappy, I’d try to help them.” I thought for a second and then admitted, “I guess, maybe, I still have that dream.”

  “I think they’re sweet dreams.” He got up. “I think I had better take you back. I should really work tonight.”

  After such a wondrous day with Paul, I was afraid of what I might do if he left me alone. So I offered, “How about if I take you to dinner. At the cheapest place in town.”

  Paul smiled. “Sherry, we’ve caught the best dinner in the county. And all you have to do is make a salad.”

  Paul took me to the home that he had grown up in and where h
e still lived. It didn’t look like it had been redecorated since he was a boy and I half-expected his parents to walk in on us. Instead, Paul prepared our fish while I cut up vegetables and tossed a salad. Paul’s expertise in the kitchen was evident. “Where did you learn to cook?”

  “From cookbooks,” he said. “With my dad gone and my mom sick, someone had to put a meal on the table.” He glanced at my salad with an approving look, announcing, “Dinner is ready.”

  We enjoyed the lovely candlelit meal and a bottle of expensive wine. I only sipped my glass, knowing what I was capable of when I had drunk too much. Paul polished off one glass and then poured himself another, noticing my nearly full glass.

  “You don’t drink much,” he asked.

  “Sometimes.” Actually, I felt tipsy, intoxicated by our lovely time together.

  Gratefully, Paul didn’t pursue this and asked me about my love of poetry. So I dazzled him with my wealth of worthless information on the subject. “I bet you don’t even know how many words in the English language have no rhymes?”

  Mystified, Paul acknowledged, “I really don’t.”

  “Seven,” I said, proudly. “Orange, angst, gulf, month, sixth, pizza and purple.”

  “That’s it? That’s all of them?”

  “Well, there are probably more,” I conceded, “but that is all I can think of at the moment.” I went on, “And I also bet that you didn’t know that almost all of Emily Dickinson’s poems can be sung to the theme song of Gilligan’s Island.”

  “That, too, had escaped me,” he admitted, duly chastened by his extreme lack of knowledge in this area.

  He began singing, “Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me.”

  I joined in, “The carriage held but just ourselves. And immortality. And immortality.”

  I complemented Paul on his nice voice. “Will you sing for me, rock ‘n’ roll star?”

  “No way.”

  “Come on. Go for it.”

  Paul downed his glass. “You’re on.”

  He found an acoustic guitar buried in some closet and we sat on the living room sofa as he strummed and tuned it. “You understand,” he said, “that my amps and electrics are in the attic, so you won’t get the full effect.”

  “I’ll imagine the rhythm section,” I promised.

  He strummed the guitar again, satisfied.

  “I’ll play you the first song I ever learned on a guitar.”

  He began singing Buddy Holly’s “That’ll be the Day.”

  Well, that’ll be the day when you say goodbye

  Yes, that’ll be the day when you make me cry

  You say you’re gonna leave, you know it’s a lie

  ‘Cause that’ll be the day when I die.

  He sang the chorus and on the next verse he played with more rhythm. We got up began dancing as I sang harmony on the verses and joined him on the chorus. Afterward, we laughed and applauded ourselves. Paul offered, “We make great music together.”

  He sat down his guitar and kissed me. For the next two hours, we kept on singing, dancing and kissing. If Paul had tried to do more than kiss, I don’t think I could have stopped him. I was so in love with him. But Paul remained a perfect gentleman, only kissing and hugging me endlessly before finally taking me back to his aunt’s.

  Inside, I went straight up to bed without even bothering to talk to Arlene. I managed to keep myself from going out by constantly masturbating until I was sore. I didn’t care. I never wanted to do anything again that might hurt Paul or our relationship.

  Paul told me that the band’s best singer was his best friend. “You should get to know him.” Paul smiled. “He’s going to be the best man at my wedding.”

  That Friday night, Paul and I headed into Sparta to meet his friend at a karaoke bar. “We might have to coax him into singing,” Paul explained. “He was too shy to sing lead in the band so he ended up be the world’s best backup singer.”

  The karaoke bar was softly lit with several tables facing a small stage. We were early and the singing hadn’t started yet but Paul spotted his friend sitting at the bar.

  “Hey, Guy,” Paul said, slapping him on the back.

  The friend turned around with a big smile until he saw me and then it quickly vanished. He looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t remember where I might have seen him. My stomach tightened in fear.

  Paul introduced us. “Brian, this is Sherry. Sherry, Brian.”

  Brian just stared coldly at me and then it hit me. He was the guy who had been looking for his jacket at that party the night I had decided to do all those guys to humiliate myself and stop doing it forever. I couldn’t believe my terrible luck. Of all the guys in the world, he had to be Paul’s best friend.

  Brian continued to silently stare at me. I wasn’t even sure that I could speak. My insides felt twisted up to my throat. I finally managed to smile and utter, “Hi, Brian. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Barely above a whisper, he returned, “Hi.”

  Paul looked at us and asked, “You two know each other?”

  “Not really,” said Brian. “But I think we’ve met.”

  Paul laughed. “In your dreams, Buddy. Isn’t she something else?”

  Brian agreed. “Definitely.”

  “Well, let’s have a drink,” Paul suggested and quickly bought a round. We sat down at a table near the stage. Unlike the times with Paul when I had barely sipped my glass, I began staying with Paul drink for drink, petrified that at any moment Brian would tell Paul about our sick tryst. But Brian wasn’t saying much of anything. Paul told Brian how we had met and how doing a good deed was being repaid by changing his life.

  When the music started, Paul tried to coax Brian in singing. “We have to find a song that all three of us can sing,” Paul insisted.

  Brian said, “I don’t think I’m in the mood.”

  “Nonsense,” said Paul. The place was getting crowded and Paul couldn’t find the waitress, so he got up to get us another round.

  When we were alone, Brian seemed to be mulling over what to say. I hoped it was about which song to sing but I knew I was wrong. He finally snapped, “What are you doing?”

  I wanted to explain everything, that it had all been a bad mistake. Instead I hoped against hope that he hadn’t remembered me, saying, “Having a drink.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Of course, I did. But I just couldn’t bring myself to admit it. “No, I don’t.”

  “The other night. When you screwed half of the guys at Nick’s party?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insisted.

  “What?” He looked around for Paul and I got scared.

  I grabbed his arm. “Look, that wasn’t me,” I tried to explain. That part I truly believed was true. Then I began lying. “Some one put some drug in my beer.”

  He turned and stared at me. “Connors drugged you? I can’t believe that.” He jerked his arm away.

  “I’d never do anything like that,” I insisted. My voice was a plea.

  “You have to tell Paul. He’s sure to find out.”

  No! That would be the worst thing I could do. “I can’t,” I said. “You can’t.”

  Paul returned, armed with three drinks and a smile, and sweetly asked me, “He can’t what?”

  I attempted a sweet smile. “I didn’t want you to know that I started smoking again. I mean buying them. I met Brian in line at the Quick Mart. Right, Brian?

  Brian got up. “Paul, I’ve got to go.”

  Paul couldn’t believe it. “What? It’s because I want you to sing, right? All right, you don’t have to. But it’s not like you’ve never been on a stage before.”

  “Forget it,” said Brian and headed for the door.

  Dumbfounded, Paul watched Brian leave. He turned to me. “Sorry about that. But don’t worry about it. Brian gets a little moody now and then.”

  Within a few minutes Paul had forgotten about it, and we ended up si
nging several songs together. He sang with gusto but my heart wasn’t in it, except for one duet, “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.”

  The next morning, Paul gave me his credit card and told me to go into Sparta and buy myself a beautiful dress. He also planned to shop for something special before jogging along the lake with Brian.

  Hearing Brian’s name made my heart sink to my stomach. I tried to mention offhandedly that I hadn’t known that he had made plans with Brian.

  “I didn’t,” Paul replied. “He just called this morning and said that he wanted to get together. I guess he’s trying to make up for being so rude last night.”

  How I wished that were true but I knew that it wasn’t! I flashed anger at Brian. He was trying to take my Paul away from me. I wanted go along, to stop Brian from telling Paul but before I could say anything Paul gave me a quick kiss, promised to pick me up at seven and was out the door. I turned to see Arlene entering the room. She had seen Paul kissing me. She gave me the cold stare that Brian had in the karaoke bar. I ran out the door.

  I started out for Sparta filled with misgivings, not even sure that I should waste Paul’s money on a dress that I would probably never wear. But I figured that I couldn’t let on that I knew what Brian was going to say. I would just have to lie to Paul and tell him that Brian had been mistaken, that it wasn’t me. I thought about admitting the truth, of trying to convince Paul that I truly loved him and that I would never do anything like that ever again. That might do it. Yes, if he really loved me, that just might work.

  I tried not to think about Brian and Paul as I wandered though Sparta’s only mall. I found a lovely small dress shop with a beautiful black dress. But I couldn’t buy it, afraid that I would look like I was going to a funeral. I considered buying a white dress but was afraid that this might also be a little too much. Finally, I found one that I thought might work, beige and very prim looking.

  I walked around the mall for three more hours, as I didn’t want to return to Arlene’s house. I couldn’t stand sitting there while she stared daggers at me.