Falling into Us Read online

Jason brought me home five minutes before my 1 a. m. weekend curfew, and we kissed slowly and tenderly in the warmth of his truck’s cab before I got out. We kissed differently, I realized. We were aware now of what came after kissing.

  I waved to him from my front door and went to my room, flopping on my bed with a crazy grin on my face, thoughts floating around my head as I fell asleep. I was a little sore between my legs, and I knew I would be tomorrow, too. It was worth it, even though I wondered, at the bottom of my heart, if it had been too soon, if we were too young, if I’d been totally ready.

  NINE: A Tree Falls

  Jason

  August, two years later

  I lounged on my couch, expecting a call from Becca. My phone was on my thigh, the TV on, tuned to Sports Center. It was odd to be graduated, at loose ends. I had acceptance letters from the University of Nebraska and the University of Michigan, full-ride scholarship offers to both on the merits of football and grades. I needed the scholarships, especially since I’d stopped accepting any money from Dad for anything. I’d broken the national records I had my sights on by the middle of my senior-year season, and Dad had tried to give me something like two thousand dollars for each record broken. I refused it, he got pissed, we fought, and I put him in the hospital. He hadn’t even looked at me since.

  Becca was supposed to call me when she was done with her hair appointment, and we were going to go out for a late lunch to discuss university options. She was set on U of M, to the point that she’d only applied to there. Of course, she’d gotten in with a huge grades scholarship on top of all the other grants and scholarships she’d applied for. She was the valedictorian of our graduating class with a 4. 26 final GPA. Yeah, she was that kid. Her speech was moving and fluent, not one stutter. She’d even gone down to one ST session a month from twice weekly. She had so many scholarships her entire BS degree was going to be totally paid for, and I wasn’t quite sure how she’d done it. Well, I did, actually. She spent hours every day her entire senior year applying for them, writing essays, mailing them out, hunting for more scholarships. Her parents could afford to pay for her education, I was fairly sure, since they were pretty loaded—although they were quiet about that fact—but Becca refused to accept their help since it came with conditions. Namely, that she and I couldn’t live together. A deal-breaker for my girl, god bless her.

  I glanced at my phone: 3:52 p. m. She was supposed to call me at 3:30. I wasn’t worried or mad, just curious. She was punctual to a fault, so her being this late was unusual.

  I flicked off the TV and went to the dining room table, where the bills and mail were piled up. I lifted the two acceptance letters and stared at them, unsure of what to do. I really liked Nebraska’s football team, plus they had a great architecture program that I was interested in. Nebraska was Dad’s first choice for me, which sort of worked against it, in my book. The big issue with the University of Nebraska, of course, was the fact that it was in Nebraska. Fucking Nebraska. Six hundred and ninety-five miles from Ann Arbor, where Becca would be.

  Hell, no.

  U of M, of course, meant living with Becca. It had a couple of academic programs I was interested in besides their football team, which had improved over the last few years. Their starting quarterback was promising, and I was pretty sure his style would mesh with mine. Kyle and I had talked about going to the same college just so we could play together, but we had different careers in mind, and it just wouldn’t work. He didn’t really plan on trying to go pro, I didn’t think. He liked football, and he was damn good, but…it wasn’t his focus. He wanted to be a trainer, I think. I wasn’t sure. Me? I wanted to go pro, but I also wanted to have a degree to fall back on, a secondary career in mind. I’d learned something from Dad after all. He’d never planned on anything but playing ball. He’d floated through school, had a degree in English that wasn’t good for shit when it came down to jobs, since all his life was focused on ball.

  I didn’t want that for myself. I knew I was smart; I knew I had potential beyond football. I hadn’t spoken to another living person about this, yet, not even Becca, but I’d been browsing degree programs on the U of M website, and the one that had jumped out to me was their art and design department. Photography.

  I had a huge portfolio of photographs put together. Becca had helped me with it, claiming it was for herself so she could leaf through my photos in physical form. I knew better. She loved my photography. She was always encouraging me to pursue it. She’d be over the moon if she knew I was even considering a degree in photography.

  As stupid as it seemed, the biggest reason keeping me from it was my father. He’d disown me. Photography was art, and art was for sissies. I’d play ball, and that was it. As much as I hated my dad, deep down I knew I still wanted his approval.

  Page 48

 

  An engine in my driveway had my attention immediately. It wasn’t my dad’s diesel F-350, that was for sure. I went to the window and nearly passed out when I saw Becca getting out of a sleek, black, brand-new VW Jetta. Her parents had refused to buy her a car, especially since I was always driving her everywhere, and they also refused to let her get a job to buy her own. That had been a point of contention in her relationship with her parents, which had improved over the last two years somewhat.

  I pushed through the screen door to greet her. She jumped up into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist, a huge grin on her beautiful face.

  “They bought me a car!” She kissed me hard, holding the back of my head with both hands; I loved when she did that. “Isn’t it gorgeous? They said I needed a car to get back and forth from school. ” She wiggled out of my arms and ran to her car, running her hands over the hood.

  I laughed at her excitement, happy for her. “It’s awesome, baby. I’m so happy for you!”

  She straightened, bouncing up and down on her toes and clapping, acting more girly than I’d ever seen her. “I c-can’t believe it! I have a car!” I couldn’t keep myself from watching her boobs jiggle as she bounced on her feet. She caught me staring and gave me a wry glare. “Eyes on me, hon. ”

  I grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I can’t help it if you’ve got a rack I can’t take my eyes off. ”

  She slid into my arms. “Haven’t you gotten enough of my rack by now?” She grimaced at the term I’d used. “Our two-year anniversary is next month. You’d think you’d be used to them by now. ” She smiled up at me, knowing the truth.

  I shook my head. “That’s impossible. I’m a guy. You can never get too much of a good thing. And, baby, your boobs are a great thing. ”

  She smacked my arm, but it was an empty protest. “You’re such a pig. ”

  “Yep. Oink oink. ”

  She just giggled, and god, did I love her cute little laugh. “Get in, hot stuff. This time I’m gonna take you for a ride. ”

  “I love it when you take me for rides. ” I grinned as I slid into the passenger seat.

  Becca ignored my not-so-subtle innuendo. “It’s a hybrid, sss-so it gets forty-two miles per g-g-gallon city, and forty-eight highway…” She backed out of my driveway, rattling off all the various specs of her new car. It made me seriously happy to see her so excited that she didn’t even notice her own stutters, which only happened when she was super nervous or excited. Or during the throes of passion, you might say. She tended to stutter a little as she came, and that always put a smile on my face. It was adorable, to me. A part of who she was, and knowing she felt comfortable enough with me that she didn’t even get embarrassed when she stuttered meant a lot to me.

  We passed my dad pulling into the driveway, and he gave us a cursory glare, lifting his eyes derisively at Becca’s foreign car. Buying foreign was a sin in his book; the fact that Becca was half-Arabic bugged him to no end, and we’d actually gotten in one of our worst fistfights over that very fact. He’d used a derogatory slur about her during my junior year, and I’d flattened him without hesitation. We
’d gone three rounds right there in the kitchen until we were both bloody and needing stitches. Neither of us got them, though, and damn it if we weren’t alike in that way. I’d left in a red rage, still bleeding, and Becca had met me at our tree with a first aid kit. She hadn’t asked what the fight was about, thank god. I don’t think I could have told her without losing my shit all over again.

  I forcibly moved my thoughts away from my dad and listened to Becca chatter happily. I’d tuned out and had no clue what she was talking about, so I had to play catch-up, realizing she was talking about having already started on the required reading list for her classes at U of M.

  Of course Becca would be already registered and have the books and reading, and I wasn’t even sure which school I was going to. Becca refused to weigh in on my decision. She never brought it up, ever. She said she wanted me to make my own decision. She loved me; she’d support whatever I chose. I knew deep down she wanted me to go U of M with her, but she’d never say that. She’d said we’d make our relationship work even if I chose Nebraska, and I knew she meant it.

  I held her hand as she drove, listening to her talk, letting her words wash over me. It wasn’t that I wasn’t paying attention—I just knew that sometimes she needed to just talk, get out all the words she’d held back throughout the day. It was one of the ways she coped with stuttering, I’d discovered. She kept quiet during the day, only saying what she was sure she could get out fluently, and then when we were alone, she’d just ramble without expecting me to respond, and she’d let herself stutter, let it happen as it would, knowing I didn’t care.

  I tuned back in as she made a left turn onto the main road through town. “S-so anyway, I’m pretty excited about this lit class I’m in. It’s err-early eighteenth-century British literature. We’re f-focusing on Defoe, Jonathan Swift, and Galland’s translation of One Thousand and One Nights, which is really unusual. It’s a higher-level class, since I’ve taken most of the freshman-level classes already. ” I’d only heard of Defoe, but wouldn’t have admitted that except under duress. “My major coursework classes are the ones I’m most excited about. It’s all undergrad stuff, of course, but U of M is a respected university, ee-even if they’re not really ranked in the speech-language pathology field. My graduate work will probably be at somewhere like the University of Iowa. They’re the b-best, I’ve heard. I c-can’t say I’m excited at the idea of living in Iowa, but…it’s far enough away that I don’t have to decide n-now. ”

  I laughed. “But you’re already thinking about it?”

  She grinned at me. “Yeah, you know how I am. ”

  I snorted. “Yeah, you’re a career overachiever. ”

  She frowned at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Uh-oh. “It’s a good thing, Beck. You’re just always prepared, and you’re f**king amazing at everything. Like, I don’t think you could fail at anything, even if you tried. ”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “I got a D on a test once. ”

  I stared at her, unsure if she was kidding. “Dear Lord, a D? When was this? Second grade?” I teased.

  Page 49

 

  She didn’t look at me as she answered. “It was the end of the year, last year. This year, whatever. Senior year. In my stupid research paper writing class. I mean, the whole point of the thing was learning to write for research, going past the block-outline method. There aren’t supposed to be any tests other than the papers themselves. So then she springs this idiotic mu-mu-multiple choice test on us, no rubric, no warning. No one got better than a C because no one had studied for it or even had any c-clue what the questions were talking about. ” She was getting worked up just thinking about it. “God! That one test, that D-plus? It took me down four-tenths of a percent! I would have graduated with an even four point three if it wasn’t for that stupid f-fucking teacher!”

  Damn, she used the F-word.

  I couldn’t help laughing a little. “A whole four-tenths of a percent? That bitch. ” There might have been just a little sarcasm in my voice.

  Becca’s head swiveled slowly toward me, her eyes narrowed, her jaw set. “It’s a b-b-big d-deal…to m-mmm-me. ”

  I sighed. “I’m sorry, babe. That was a dick thing to say. ” She snatched her hand away and drove in silence until I couldn’t take it anymore. “Becca, I’m sorry. I wasn’t making fun of you. I’m just saying, you still graduated with one of the highest GPAs in the entire state. I know it was a big deal for you, though. I’m sorry. ”

  “And that four-tenths of a percent could have been the difference between one of the highest and the highest. ” She glanced at me. “Like how if you’d missed even one catch, it might have made the difference between breaking the record or not. ”

  I nodded. “I know, Becca. I was just being stupid. ”

  “Well, you are a guy. ” She smirked, and I knew she’d forgiven me.

  “Yeah, and guys are idiots. I don’t know why you put up with me. ” I really didn’t, in truth, but I let it sit as a joke, knowing Becca would have a field day if she sensed that insecurity in me.

  “It might have to do with what you did last night. ” She licked her lips and winked salaciously at me.

  “Which part?” I asked, deadpan.

  She pretended to consider. “Hmm. Probably that thing you did with your tongue. ”

  I nodded seriously. “Oh, that. Well, I’ll have to make sure to do it again, if that’s why you put up with me. ”

  “You’d better, farm boy. ” Ever since we watched The Princess Bride together last year, she’d taken to calling me “farm boy,” which she found cute for some reason. I let it go, because arguing was futile.

  I slid my hand onto her thigh and cupped her sex. “Pull over, and I’ll do it right now. ”

  She clamped her thighs around my fingers, feigning horrified shock. “No! It’s broad daylight!”

  “That didn’t stop you from letting me go down on you in the bed of my truck yesterday. It was daylight then, too. ”

  “Barely. The sun was going down. And that was at our tree. There was no one to see. This is a busy road. ”

  “So let’s skip dinner and head to the tree,” I suggested.

  “I would, but I’m hungry. I never ate lunch. ” She grinned at me. “We’ll go after dinner. ”

  She was as eager as I was, as insatiable. More so, if anything. I’d heard other guys complaining that their girlfriends never wanted it as much as they did, but I didn’t seem to have that problem. She was often the one trying to get me up for round two…and three. I couldn’t stop her some days.

  Then her phone rang. There wasn’t anyone but me and her parents who would ever call her. Nell and Kyle were up north together, so it wasn’t Nell, and her mom and dad were at some fundraiser gala weekend in Washington, D. C. , so it wouldn’t be them.

  Becca stared at the screen of her phone. “Hmm. It’s Mrs. Hawthorne. I wonder why she’s calling me?” Becca fumbled a Bluetooth earpiece out of the center console, fit it into her ear, and touched a button to answer the call. “Hello? Hi, Mrs. Hawthorne, how are—what?” Becca’s face paled. “Are you f**king kidding me? He’s—what? No. Please, no. ”

  She hit the brakes and skidded off the road on the shoulder, her hand over her mouth, eyes wide, tears flowing, shaking her head in denial.

  “Becca?” I shoved the shifter into park for her and touched her shoulder. “What is it?”

  She didn’t answer me. “No. No. It’s not true. ” She turned to look at me with horror in her eyes. “And Nell? Is she okay? Oh, god. Oh, god. Okay, we’ll be there. Yes, he’s with me, I’ll—I’ll tell him. Sh-shit. SHIT!” She ripped the earpiece out of her ear and threw it so hard it smashed against the dashboard.

  “Becca? What happened?” Something bad was going on, and my stomach was flipping. “Why wouldn’t Nell be okay? Talk to me!”

  Becca was sobbing, her head against the steering w
heel. I lunged out of the car and circled around to the driver’s side, tugging open the door. Becca fell against me, and I had to hold her with one arm and unbuckle her with the other. I gathered her limp form in my arms and carried her around into the grass at the side of the road, kicking her car door closed behind me. I sat down with her on my lap and held her.

  “Becca, you have to tell me what’s going on. ”

  She sniffed and choked on her breath. She looked up at me, and I could see the tragedy in her expression. “There was an accident. Up north. It-it’s Kyle. He’s—he’s—h-h-he’s d-dead. ”

  I didn’t hear her right; that was my first thought. I misheard what she said. “What? What do you mean? Kyle? Kyle Calloway?”

  “Yes, Kyle! Our Kyle. He—he’s dead. A t-tree fell on him. Nell’s parents are on the way back from Traverse City with Nell. She’s got a broken arm, and she’s…she’s not talking. ”

  “How…I don’t understand. How can Kyle be…” I was unable to process what I was being told.

  “I don’t know! All I know is what Mrs. Hawthorne just said. There was a bad storm, a tree fell and hit Kyle, and now he’s dead. ” She struggled in my arms, squirming to stand up. “We have to go. We have to meet them at their house in half an hour. ”

  I was frozen. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t possible. He’d…he’d told me he was going to propose to Nell. Just this past Thursday he’d told me. I’d told him he was crazy-train, he was barely eighteen, but he’d insisted that he knew he loved Nell enough that he didn’t want to wait till they were older.

  Page 50

 

  It was all a joke, that was it.

  I fumbled my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed his number, listened to it ring and ring and ring…it went to voicemail. “Hey, this is Kyle. I’m probably out being awesome somewhere, so leave a message and I’ll get back to you. If I feel like it. ” The snorts of laughter in the background as he recorded the message were mine.

  I felt a small, cold hand take the phone from me. I let her. She tugged me up to my feet, hauling me bodily up. “Come on, baby. Nell needs us. ”

  I stumbled, and she caught me with her shoulder under my arm. I stared down into her wet black eyes, and I saw a compassion there, a love, an understanding. Her own sadness was taking a back seat to her sadness for me. I didn’t know what to say, what to do. All I knew was I needed Becca to get through this, and I could only hope she’d stay with me, keep loving me through it.

  I found myself in the leather seat of Becca’s Jetta, the new car smell almost cloying now. Becca’s iPhone was plugged into the auxiliary jack, and when she started the engine, a song came on: “Your Long Journey” by Robert Plant and Alison Krauss. My eyes burned, and my throat closed. Becca went to turn it off, but I stopped her. She took my hand in hers and drove, letting the music play. A song I didn’t know came on, and I picked up her phone to check the Pandora display: “Been a Long Day” by Rosi Golan. It was a quiet, beautiful song, piano providing a backdrop to a sweet female voice.