Falling Away Read online

  And shit, I've been lonely for a long fucking time.

  I have to lean on the cane more than I'd like on the way up to the front door of my apartment, which, fortunately for me, is on the ground floor. Cheyenne is beside me, not really hovering now, more just...there. In case. I unlock the door, shove it open and let it bang against the inner wall. I hobble through, and glance back at Cheyenne, who hasn't crossed the threshold.

  "Hey, so...you want to come in for a second?" I ask.

  She hesitates. "I..." Her eyes go to mine, and then she smiles. And it's that other smile. Still bright and warm and genuine, but...intimate. I don't know how else to describe it. "Sure, for a few minutes."

  I flick a switch to turn on the lights in the kitchen, and then the lamp in the living room. And that's the apartment. Kitchen, living room, a bedroom. Tiny, but mine. Well, Dad's. He's been subsidizing me while I got started in the FXFL, the experimental minor football league. Except now...I'm not sure what's going to happen. I didn't tell him about the hit I took, or what it means. I've been avoiding it.

  And fuck, my place is messy. Dishes in the sink, clothes on the floor in the doorway to my room, unmade bed, a pizza box on the counter.

  I grimace and glance sheepishly at Cheyenne. "This place is kind of a mess. Sorry."

  She just grins. "You're a bachelor. I'd be worried if it wasn't." She lifts the lid of the pizza box with a thumb and forefinger, glances in and closes it again quickly; it's been there a while. "And you should see my place. It's not much better."

  See her place. Huh. I'm not sure I'm entirely comfortable with the thoughts that inspires. I think of a cute little two-bedroom house in the 'burbs somewhere, and then I think of a king-size bed, maybe a blue quilt, and a bra hanging on the bathroom doorknob. I feel my cheeks heat and turn away from her before she sees.

  "I do have some pizza that's only from yesterday," I tell her, grabbing the box from the fridge. "And some Killian's."

  Her eyes light up. "Now that's the best idea I've heard all day."

  So that's how I end up sitting on my couch, finishing off a large pepperoni pizza and a six-pack with my physical therapist, watching Die Hard 2.

  More confusing, though, is our arrangement on the couch. I'm in the corner, feet propped up on the coffee table, and she's sitting right up against my side, body twisted to face the end of the couch, legs curled up under her, watching the movie. And my arm...it's along the back of the couch. Not around her, per se, but close. Very close. And my pulse thunders in my veins, my hand itches to go lower, to curl around her shoulders. I mean, that's crazy talk, right there. But the desire is there.

  And I can't help but wonder what she'd do if I did let my arm slide down onto her shoulders. Maybe nothing, maybe she'd welcome it, maybe she'd get upset. But no, she's not that kind of person. She'd find a way to let me down gently, and that'd be that.

  Halfway through the movie, she gets up to visit the bathroom, and with my nerves jangling, I let my arm slide just a bit lower on the couch back. She comes back, her eyes flicking to me, to my arm. But she sits down anyway, and she settles in close once more. And now...my arm is around her. She sinks lower in the couch, and actually leans in closer to me.

  My mouth is dry.

  The exhaustion of the day catches up to me, and I find myself blinking to stay awake. Beside me, Cheyenne is fighting sleep as well, drifting closer and closer to me so that, by the time the movie is over, she's fully propped up against me. For a woman who's fit and taut and muscular, she's also soft. My hand slides down as the credits roll, and it comes to rest against her waist, my fingertips brushing the upper swell of her hip.

  I'm nearly asleep, but her proximity, the feel of her against me is heady.

  But eventually I can't fight sleep any longer, and I drift off.

  *

  I start, blink, and realize I've fallen asleep. The TV has turned off on its own to conserve energy. I crane my neck and glance at the red numbers of the microwave: 2:23 am.

  Shit. We slept for a long time. I quickly re-cap the last several hours--my therapy appointment was at seven, it lasted for an hour and a half, and then Cheyenne drove me home, and then the movie...

  Cheyenne stirs against me, stretches, making a sound in the back of her throat that has my heart clenching for some odd reason, something to do with how cute it is, how intimate a sound it is.

  "Time's it?" she asks.

  "Two-thirty."

  She jerks upright. "Shit. I've got a client at nine, I've gotta go."

  I lever myself to my feet, leaning on my cane. But I forget how weak my knee is and put too much weight on it and stumble. And she's there, catching me. Close. So close. She's looking up at me, hazel-green eyes full of things I don't know how to interpret.

  "Okay?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

  And she hasn't moved away, and somehow, for some reason, her arms are around my waist...or one is, the other resting on my chest. My breath comes slowly, deeply, because my arms are around her too, resting on her back and sliding lower, and she's not doing a damned thing to stop me.

  She blinks, and her tongue slides across her lips, and my eyes follow that movement.

  I refuse to think, just let whatever is going to happen happen.

  She smells like shampoo and faintly of sweat, and she's small and soft in my arms, and her chest is pressed up against mine, breasts that even a sports bra can't hide despite her svelte, athletic build.

  Fuck me, I want to kiss her so bad. I've been so lonely, dealing with such wrenching heartbreak for so long. I held myself back from making a move too soon with Kylie, wanting the time to be right. I waited, and I waited too long. I don't want to make that mistake again. I'm not going to let fear hold me back any longer.

  So I lean in and I feel her breath on my lips, feel her fingers curling in my Under Armour shirt...and I feel her lips, soft, damp, warm, against mine...

  But then she's backing away slowly and carefully, but decisively. "Ben...god, I can't. We can't." She waits until she's sure of my balance, thinking of me even now.

  Embarrassment, hurt, and disappointment all war within me. "No, I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking."

  She reaches toward me, but doesn't touch me. "Don't apologize, Ben. It was as much me as you. But I just... I can't." She lets out a long, shaky sigh. "I have a daughter your age, Ben. And I'm your therapist. You're my client. I just can't let this...I just can't."

  I nod. "I get it." I shutter my emotions, shove them down, forcing a casualness into my voice that I don't feel. "You're a great therapist, Cheyenne. For real. You've helped me a lot over the last month. I just hope...I hope this doesn't affect our working relationship."

  She smiles, but it's strained and slightly closed, now. "It'll be fine." She lets out another breath, and then rubs her eyes. "I have to go. It's late and I live on the other side of town."

  And now that I'm paying attention to anything other than how I feel, I see how tired she is. There are dark circles under her eyes. She seems to sag for a moment, and then gathers her strength and straightens up.

  "Cheyenne, maybe you should..." I hesitate to offer, considering what just happened. "Are you sure you're okay to drive?"

  She smiles and shrugs. "Oh, sure. I was an ER nurse for a long time, remember. I'm used to it."

  I gesture at the couch. "You can stay here, you know."

  She shakes her head and moves toward the door. "No, I should go. But thank you."

  I follow her to the front door, leaning on my cane. She pauses with the door open, and I wasn't expecting it, intending to follow her through and watch her go from the front step. So when she stops and turns back, I'm right there, and she bumps into me. And now my arms are around her again, and I don't know what the fuck I'm thinking, but I'm milliseconds away from trying to kiss her again.

  She stumbles away from me, less carefully this time. Her eyes seem pained, haunted, as if pulling away is difficult for her. "Ben, stop. Please
don't."

  I back away. "Jesus, I'm sorry, Cheyenne. I'm sorry."

  She stays in place, hands over her face. She suddenly seems so tired, so small. "You don't know how I wish I could...it's been so long, and--" She shakes her head. "But I can't. Not with you, not now. I just can't. I'm sorry, I really am."

  She walks away then, and her feet drag. Her shoulders are bowed, as if the pressure of refusing my kiss, twice, is too much.

  "Cheyenne?" I call. She stops with one foot in the cab, holding on to the roof. "Are you sure you're okay to drive? You seem really tired."

  She smiles faintly. "I'm fine, Ben. I didn't sleep well last night is all. But thank you."

  She climbs into the truck, closes the door, and starts the engine. Backs out. I stand in the doorway, the warm San Antonio night wrapped around me like a blanket. I watch her as she turns onto the main road, and I watch as she waits to make a left turn. There is no traffic and the streets are quiet. I'm about to go back inside when the light turns green and she steps on the gas.

  And then I see it. I see the oncoming older model red Mustang run the light.

  She doesn't see him. She's too tired to check for traffic, probably focused on the light ahead of her.

  Her white truck is halfway through the intersection when the Mustang slams into her driver's side door, going forty or fifty miles per hour.

  "CHEYENNE!" I shout and hobble forward.

  Her truck rocks with the impact and jolts to the side, topples, and then momentum and weight take over and the vehicle rolls over onto the roof. I watch the cab crumple. Smoke rises from the hood.

  I can see that her driver's door is smashed in, crumpled.

  "CHEYENNE!" I'm trying to run, but I can't. I can barely walk, but I somehow make it out into the street, knee throbbing and protesting.

  The Mustang is a few feet away, the hood accordioned, smoking.

  I get to her overturned truck, just now remembering my cell phone is in my pocket. I dial 911, my heart hammering, fear ramming my pulse into overdrive.

  "Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"

  "A car...it ran the light and slammed into her." I don't know how to make sense. "The truck...I think she's hurt..."

  "Sir, can you tell me your location?" Her voice is calm, smooth, emotionless.

  I glance at the street names and relay them, and then I'm awkwardly, painfully lowering myself to one knee at the driver's side window, which is smashed out.

  There's blood on the road.

  She's not moving. Her head hangs; her braid is dangling over her shoulder.

  "Cheyenne. Talk to me. Hey. Come on. You're okay. Talk to me." I reach in and tap her shoulder hesitantly. She doesn't respond. "No. No. Cheyenne? Come on. Fuck. Fuck."

  "Sir?" I'd forgotten about the 911 operator. "Sir, are you there?"

  "She's not moving, she's not--she's not--"

  "Help is on the way, sir. We have your location and paramedics are en route. Just stay calm and don't try to move her..."

  But it's no good. I can tell.

  They won't be able to help.

  And when they show up and check her pulse and vital signs I know from the minute shake of a head...

  She's gone.

  My gaze falls upon the lock screen of my phone: 2:36 AM.

  FOUR: "Whiskey Lullaby"

  "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn the tragic passing of our dear friend, Cheyenne Leveaux." The minister is a big, bearded bear of a guy wearing a black suit and white collar despite the Texas heat. "She was taken from us too soon, much too soon indeed. A beautiful life was cut short by a tragic accident, and I know we who are left behind are so often wont to ask God why. Why? Why do these things happen, God? We cannot know the mind of God. We cannot know His will, or foretell His plan. But we can know that He is with us, especially in times of heartache such as these."

  I'm leaning back against a headstone, at the back of the tiny crowd gathered around Cheyenne's grave. There's her mother and father, frail, hunched, tear-stained eyes. Half a dozen friends, Dr. Lane and a few other former co-workers from the hospital, and three women about Cheyenne's age, beautiful, lithe, dancers for sure. They are mothers now, but are clearly Cheyenne's friends from her days as a dancer.

  And me.

  In the back, hoping my guilt doesn't show on my face.

  There's one other person here, a young woman about my age, standing nearest the grave. I can't see her very well, since she's got her head down, her shoulders shaking now and then. Black dress, blonde hair falling in a loose cascade around her slim shoulders. In profile, at least, she is the spitting image of her mother.

  Cheyenne's daughter.

  "I knew Cheyenne, actually," the minister says, his voice shifting from preacher to friend. "She was...a beautiful person, in every way. I suffered a heart attack some years ago, a very sudden one. I thought I was healthy, but apparently my body thought otherwise. And Cheyenne? She helped me get in shape, helped me find a healthier lifestyle. She was...the kindest woman I ever knew. Patient, encouraging. But she never gave up, and never let me give up, even when I wanted to."

  Everyone is nodding, including me.

  "So...I don't know God's reason for taking Cheyenne from us so unexpectedly. I'm sorry if that's...if that's not what a man of God in my place is supposed to say. But I can't and I won't spout the usual cliches about God's plan, or about celebrating her life rather than mourning her death." He pauses, lets out a harsh breath. "Those are true, though. God does have a plan; we just don't know what it is. And she did live a wonderful life, touching many, many lives in her forty-three years. So we should celebrate her life, remember the beauty of her soul, and we will. But I also believe we who are left behind are granted the right to mourn the loss of someone we loved. We have that right. We must give ourselves permission to be sad about her death. We are here, and she isn't, and that's hard. But let us not lose ourselves in mourning, for God isn't done with us, any of us. Let us pray."

  Cheyenne's daughter is sobbing, now. Her grandmother wraps a thin arm around her shoulders, and they cry together.

  I'm sorry, I want to say. It's my fault. I let her drive away. I'm so sorry.

  But I can't move, and I know the words won't come out.

  And I couldn't tell them anyway. Even though nothing happened, the circumstances would lead to questions I don't know how to answer. Why was she there so late?

  I tune out the prayer, feeling only anger toward a God who may or may not exist, and if He does, how does He get off letting shit like this happen? Cheyenne's death, or my leg, or any of the horrible shit that occurs every day.

  "Excuse me?" I hear a soft voice, and a small, feminine hand touches my shoulder.

  I realize I've got my eyes closed, and I'm fighting my emotions. Cheyenne should be alive, but she's not and it's my fault, and...now what?

  I blink, startled, and look down at the person who just spoke to me. My heart seizes, and my guilt is almost too hot and hard and thick inside me to bear. It's her, Cheyenne's daughter. And fuck...she looks just like her: blonde, perfect ripe-wheat blond hair, the color of honey and sunlight. Wide eyes somewhere between gray and brown and green, slices of stone and streaks of rich soil and patches of moss. She's an inch or two taller than her mother was, and curvier in build, not as tautly toned.

  Guilt strikes even harder, now, because I'm checking her out. I mean, no, it's not checking out per se. It's noticing her beauty, but in these circumstances it feels like one more ton of guilt on the pile.

  "Do I know you?" she asks, and her voice is low, musical.

  I shake my head. "No--" My voice catches, and I have to clear my throat and try again. "No. I was...I was a client of Cheyenne's."

  "Oh." But her eyes are on me, like she sees something in me that doesn't jive with my brush-off answer. "It's just...she had so many clients over the years and..."

  Why am I here? That's what she's getting at.

  I move to my feet, keep my cane
planted in the grass so I don't pitch forward. "Sorry to intrude, and I'm sorry for your loss."

  I move past her, take a rose from the vase and toss it onto the casket, stand there for a moment wondering if I should say something or just have a moment of silence, and then I shake my head and limp back through the cemetery where a taxi is waiting for me, the meter running.

  I'm climbing into the taxi, cane between my knees, when I hear feet approach on the gravel drive, and then the girl is in the taxi with me, shutting the door.

  "Nearest bar, please," she says, her voice choking.

  I'm at a loss. Her shoulders shake, and she's clearly crying, and I have absolutely not a single fucking clue as to what to say or do, especially with this girl, the daughter of the woman whose death can be laid at my feet.

  She takes a deep breath, then wipes at her eyes. "Sorry. Sorry. I just couldn't take it anymore, Grandma and Grandpa hovering, Father Mike hovering, everyone hovering."

  "I--" Words fail me, but I've got to say something. Something, anything, damn it. "It's fine."

  Wow. I mean really? It's fine? Is anything fine anymore? But she doesn't reply, just puts her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands.

  I feel an odd compulsion to comfort her, but I don't know how.

  The taxi pulls into a parking lot. It's a dingy dive bar, only three cars in the lot, an open sign flashing, red letters lit one by one--O...P...E...N. "Thirty-nine fifty," the driver says.

  I hand him two twenties and a five, and then I'm hobbling after the girl, who's already in the bar, sitting on a stool with two pints of beer in front of her, and two shots of whiskey. I take the stool beside her, lean my cane against the bar, and look around as I take the first sip of my beer. This place is a shithole. The bar is sticky, scratched, and pockmarked. There are a few small square tables covered in shitty plastic red-and-white checkered tablecloths surrounding a makeshift stage with cheap in-house karaoke equipment. A dartboard on one wall, a pool table with ripped felt and only three sticks, a pinball machine, a TV tuned to poker on ESPN 3, and an electronic poker and lotto machine on the far end of the bar.