Falling into Us Read online

“And now?” I sipped my Coke and waited for his answer. If I didn’t like it, I was ready to bolt and walk home. This whole situation was skirting the edges of my ability to handle it.

  It almost seemed like he was actually seeing me for me, and that was dangerous for my sanity. I almost didn’t want him to want me, because that would mean doing something about it.

  “And now?” Jason swirled the ice in his glass with his straw. “Now I’m seeing things a bit differently. I thought about you, and I guess I realized I didn’t really know you. We’ve moved in the same circles our whole lives, you know? And I mean, you’re one of Nell’s best friends, but with Nell, pretty much anyone is going to come second after Kyle. Anyway, I realized I don’t know you, and I’d kind of like to. I mean, I know you’re really smart, like, smarter than pretty much everyone I know. And I know you’re really beautiful. But I don’t know much else. I think your parents are immigrants, but I’m not sure. I know you stutter sometimes. But really, that’s it. ”

  He thought I was beautiful? I had to focus on breathing to keep calm.

  I laughed. “I’m not sure the term ‘immigrant’ is politically correct, Jason. ” I was proud of myself for getting that out sounding casual, and without stuttering. I was still reeling from his throwaway comment about me being beautiful.

  He shrugged. “You know what I mean. They moved here from another country. ” He waved with a piece of bread. “Immigrants. Not a bad or good thing, just a thing. ”

  “My father is from Italy. He’s from a port city called Brindisi, which is in the region of Puglia—”

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  “Is that by Rome?” Jason asked.

  I laughed. “No, it isn’t. It’s on the opposite side of the country, and farther south. He moved here when he was thirty, and he met my mother as he was leaving LaGuardia Airport. ”

  “Where’s your mom from? Italy?”

  Our server dropped off our plates at that moment, and I dug in with pleasure before answering. “No, my mother is from Beirut, Lebanon. She moved here at the same time as my father, but she was much younger, only twenty-three. They fell in love, and got married within a year. They ended up moving here just after I was born. My older brother Benjamin was born in New York and lived there for three years. ”

  Jason had stopped eating to stare at me. “You’re Arabic?”

  “Half. ” I set my fork down. “Why do you seem so surprised?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. I guess I just didn’t realize it. Do you speak your parents’ languages?”

  It was my turn to shrug, turning my face away. “Yeah. It’s complicated, but we all speak all three languages. My mom speaks Italian as well as Arabic and English, and my dad speaks Italian plus the others. Ben and I both speak all three. My parents insist we know their languages, plus we take vacations every year to Lebanon and Italy to see family. ”

  He gaped at me. “Wait. You speak three f**king languages?” He said it so loud the people around us looked at us.

  “Do you have to shout?” I demanded, my voice quiet but intense.

  “Sorry,” Jason mumbled.

  “And yes, for the record, I do speak three f**king languages. ” Jason’s eyes bugged out at my curse word, which apparently surprised him. “And yes, I can drop the F-bomb in all three. Can, and do. Just because I’m quiet and have a stutter doesn’t mean I don’t like to swear. ”

  Jason frowned at me. “That’s not why I’m surprised. You just seem…good. Like, not the kind of person to drop F-bombs at all. Not that you couldn’t, but that you wouldn’t. I’m actually kind of insulted that you’d think I’d think that about you. ”

  I felt myself blush with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. That was a rude assumption. It’s just how most people think. They never hear me talk, or when they do, it’s when I’m upset and stuttering. So then they assume I’m stupid or something, despite the fact that I’ve got a 4. 0 GPA, speak three languages, and have college credit already. ”

  Jason stared at me again. “College credit? How?”

  I waved my hand. “AP courses. Instead of skipping grades, my parents have me staying with my peers in the same grade, but they’ve worked out a plan with the school board. I’m in all kinds of advanced classes. I’m in a senior-level lit class right now, and that also counts as college credit. I’m also doing a co-op at the local community college. I go there every Tuesday morning instead of the high school and attend a class there. It’s complicated and boring to talk about. It just means a shit-ton of homework. ”

  “That’s impressive, Becca. ” He sounded genuinely impressed.

  I tried to wave it off, uncomfortable with his attention. “It’s not. My parents believe in using what you’re given. I’m apparently very smart, so I have to push myself as hard as possible. The best isn’t good enough. If I succeed at being the best, I have to go up to the next level. ”

  Jason’s face darkened. “I know how that is, believe me. ”

  “Your parents push you in school, too?” I asked. He never really seemed like the studious type. Not that he was stupid, just not an academic type of guy.

  He laughed. “Well, don’t sound so surprised. But no, not like yours do you. My dad expects perfection from me in everything. I mean, everything. I have a 4. 0, too, but I’m in normal classes, so it’s not as impressive as you. It’s just part of the deal. What I meant was, it’s like that with me and football. It’s not good enough that I make the varsity team my freshman year, which is really unusual, by the way. I have to break school records for most receptions and most touchdowns. And that’s not good enough, either. No, I have to break district records. So I do all that, and I’m only a sophomore. Now he’s after the state record. ‘Go bigger, Jason. ’” His voice went deep and his eyes glazed over as he seemed to channel his father. “‘Stop settling for second best, you piece of shit. Play harder. Break the state record, Jason. ’”

  I felt something clench inside me at the obvious torment on his face. “He says that to you? Your own father?”

  “My father. ” He seemed to find the term “father” funny somehow, but it didn’t lessen the darkness in his eyes. “Yeah. He says that shit all the time. Whatever. He’s a dick, but he’s the reason I’m gonna set the national high school record for most career receptions. ”

  “You are?”

  He laughed outright. “Yeah. The record was set by Davis Howell between 2009 and 2012, with 358. That’s according to the National Federation of State High School Association Sports Record Book, which my dad checks nearly every day. I’m not even halfway through my second season, and I’ve already made over 150 receptions. I need to average at least six receptions per game to break the record, and I do that easily. I’m only a sophomore, so I’ve still got the rest of this year and all of junior and senior years. But that’s just that particular stat record. Dad has his sights set on receiving yards, too. Which, by the way, is set by Dorial Green-Beckham from Springfield Missouri, at 6,356. To break that, I have to average at least 115 receiving yards per game. Which is absurd. Those are pro stats, Becca. These kids setting these records, they go on to be first-round NFL draft picks. They’re future Heisman winners. I’m…well, I’m good. I can do it. I have to. ” I could hear him actually psyching himself up as he said it, convincing himself.

  I didn’t know the difference between receptions and receiving yards or what a draft pick was, but I could see the panic in his eyes, and I could recognize the hardened determination of someone who’s been given a goal and no option but to achieve it; I saw it in him because I saw it in myself every day. “What happens if you don’t?” I asked.

  His face shut down, went hard and cold. “That’s…not an option. ”

  “I don’t like how that sounds, Jason. What do you mean, it’s not an option? You have to break the national record, or what?” He didn’t answer, just picked at his chicken parmesan. “Jason? Or what?” I leaned forward, tri
ed to get him to meet my eyes.

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  He looked up suddenly, and the hate in his eyes had me scooting back in fear. “Or nothing, Becca. I will. Because I have to, okay? That’s it. ” He looked away, and I wasn’t sure what to say, what to think. “I’m sorry. I—that was—I’m sorry. I’ll be right back. ” He shot to his feet and retreated to the bathroom, leaving me with a half-eaten plate of pesto and no appetite.

  He wasn’t just driven, he was being pushed so hard it was consuming him. I would never have guessed. I watched him play every game, since Nell and Jill dragged me to games all the time. Kyle was the quarterback, and the star of the team, flashy and beautiful and godlike in his near-perfection, and Jill’s boyfriend Nick Nagle was on the team, too, but he was one of the guys in the front line who wrestle with the other team’s front line. I watched Jason play all the time, and he always seemed to have fun, like being on the field was his element, as if there was nowhere he’d rather be. I was seeing a different reality now, it seemed.

  Jason came back and seemed to be in control once again. He sat down and touched the back of my hand with his, sending lightning shooting through me. “I’m sorry I blew up, Becca. It’s no big deal, really. Yeah, my dad pushes me hard, but it’s for the best. It makes me better. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

  I recognized a blow-off when I got one. “Okay, well, that’s bullshit, but I’ll let it slide. ”

  He grinned, and confident, cocky Jason was back. “So. Enough about me and football. Tell me something about you. ”

  “Like what?” I asked, nervous.

  “Like, I don’t know. Something no one else knows. ”

  I searched for something unimportant to tell him. “I’m double-jointed in my hands?” I bent the fingers of one of my hands back with the palm of the other so the tips of my fingers touched the back of my forearm. Jason winced, and then again when I bent my thumb back double. “It helps with piano, since I have nimble fingers. ”

  “You play the piano, too?” he asked.

  “Yeah, since I was four. I have to practice at least two hours every day. ”

  “Plus all AP classes and courses at a community college. ”

  “And don’t forget speech therapy. ”

  “What?” He paused with his fork halfway to his mouth.

  “My speech impediment? The stuttering? I didn’t just wake up one day and decide not to stutter anymore. I go to speech therapy twice a month. I have to work at it, all the time. ”

  He tilted his head to the side. “Work at it how?”

  I shook my head. “You don’t want to hear about this. ”

  He smiled, and this wasn’t a flashy, cocky grin, but a slow, sweet smile that melted something inside me. I’d been working the whole dinner to keep my pattering heart under control, to just enjoy the time I was getting to spend with Jason and not expect anything, but this smile…it made me feel like he liked me. Like this could be something.

  “I do too want to hear about this,” he said, taking my hand in his and rubbing the back of my thumb with his.

  It was an intimate gesture that had my every pore tingling, my scalp tightening, my heart hammering. I pulled my hand away and twirled a curl of hair around my index finger.

  I composed my thoughts and tried to answer him in a way that would make sense. “Well, there’s a lot to know, honestly. I’ve had my whole life to figure all this out. Some kids have stutters when they are young, but they grow out of it. For them, it is just a difficulty in the process of learning correct speech. For others, like me, it is a lifelong battle, something I will never completely be free of. ”

  Jason was focused and interested, toying with his straw as he watched me. “So do they know what causes stutters?”

  “They, which will someday be me, don’t know exactly, other than that it is a combination of elements. It is thought to be both genetic as well as environmental, and there is evidence showing a difference in brain structure as well. It isn’t an indication of intelligence, nor is it the same as childhood apraxia of speech, which is a different kind of developmental disorder. ”

  Jason sat back in his chair, seeming stunned. “You really know a lot about this. You sound like…I don’t know. Like a doctor or something. ”

  I smiled shyly. “Well, since I suffer from stuttering, I decided a long time ago that I should know about what it is I’m dealing with. I plan to major in speech therapy in college and eventually pursue it into post-graduate studies to become a researcher. I want to help find new ways to help children with stutters overcome it, if finding a cure isn’t possible. ”

  “So you really are going to become a doctor. ”

  I nodded. “Yes, definitely. I’ve known since I was eleven that I wanted to be like Mrs. Larson, my speech therapist. She’s helped me more than I can ever express. Not just in fluency techniques, but in learning to be confident and to like myself despite my stutter. ” I paused, not sure I should share the next part of my speech, but something about Jason drew me to him, made me trust him. “Mrs. Larson was the one to suggest I write to express my feelings. ”

  “What do you write?” Jason asked.

  I shrugged, spinning a tight curl between my fingers. “Just stuff. What I’m thinking, what I’m feeling. The things I can’t necessarily say, or wouldn’t say. ”

  “So is it like a book? Or poetry?”

  I squirmed. Nell knew I had poetry journals, but even she had never seen them. I barely knew Jason, and this was getting intensely personal and very difficult. His bright green eyes like pools of sunlit jade pierced me, drawing my secrets from me, drawing words from me that I hadn’t intended to speak.

  “Poetry,” I said in a barely audible voice. “But not like rhyming, Shakespearean sonnets about flowers and things. It’s different. Free-verse, I guess you’d call it. Just words on a page that come from inside me. ” This was more than I’d even told Nell about why I write. My heart hammered, and I felt nauseous.

  He just smiled at me. “I think that’s cool. I wish I could do that. Write poetry or whatever. Words aren’t something I’m good with, especially writing. I get the thoughts sorted in my head, but then they just don’t end up on the paper like I’d thought them. ” He tossed his napkin on his plate and pushed it away, but his eyes never left mine. “Could I read something you wrote sometime?”

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  I shifted in my seat. “I don’t know. It’s kind of like a diary for me, you know? It’s…really personal. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Jason. It’s…” I felt my nerves rising, threatening to erase my fluency. “It-it’s…no one has ever read it before. Not even Nell. Ssss-so I don’t know. Not yet. I’mmmmm—I’m sorry. ” My entire face was hot with embarrassment, my eyes shut and my head ducked down.

  I felt a hesitant finger push away a tendril of hair and then I felt my face rising, gently lifted by Jason’s hand. “Hey, it’s fine. No big deal. If it’s private, it’s private. ” I heard the smile in his voice, how much he wanted me to understand that it really was okay. “For real, Becca, don’t worry about it. I didn’t realize it was a diary, or I wouldn’t have asked. ”

  I could only shrug and focus on breathing. Once I had myself calm enough to speak without embarrassing myself, I forced my eyes to his. The understanding and compassion in his green eyes was so palpable I could feel it radiating off him and into me.

  “Thanks for getting it,” I said.

  He just waved his hand. “Nah, I shouldn’t have asked. ” He looked around and flagged the waiter down. “You want some tiramisu or cheesecake or something?”

  “I’d love some cheesecake,” I said with a grin. Cheesecake was my weakness. I just couldn’t say no, even if it meant an extra twenty minutes on the elliptical in my basement.

  Jason smiled happily. “Will I sound like a tool if I say I’m glad you’re not the kind of chick who eats like a bird? T
he fact that you like to eat and seem to enjoy your food makes me happy. I’m a foodie, and dessert has always been my favorite part. ”

  “A foodie?” I asked. I’d never heard the term before.

  He shrugged. “I love food. I love to eat. I work out so much that I need a lot of calories. My dad will eat pretty much anything put in front of him, and my mom could burn water, so I do most of the cooking at home. ” His eyes hardened at the mention of his father, and I realized that was probably the reaction he’d have every time.

  “What’s your favorite thing to make?”

  He thought about it for a moment. “That’s a good question. I make a lot of pasta, because it’s good for carb-loading, but I can put different kinds of meat in it for extra protein, plus veggies go great in pretty much all kinds of pasta. I love to grill, too. I’ve been known to grill burgers in the snow, all bundled up in my coat and gloves and everything. ” He laughed at himself, and I laughed with him, easily able to picture Jason bouncing up and down in the snow with a knit cap and thick gloves while burgers sizzled on a grill.

  Our cheesecake came, and we stopped all conversation, demolishing the big wedge of strawberry-topped deliciousness within minutes. Jason paid the bill and held the doors for me again, waiting until I’d tucked my skirt out of the way before shutting the truck door. He pulled out of the lot, cranked up the radio, and rolled down the windows to let in the warm late summer air.

  “This is my favorite band,” Jason shouted over the music and the wind. “Zac Brown Band. Song’s called “Whatever It Is. ’”

  I dug in my purse for a hair tie and put my hair back so the wind wouldn’t tangle it, then closed my eyes and let the music wash over me. He didn’t dedicate this one to me, thankfully, but I could feel his eyes on me, flicking over to me as he drove and then back to the road. We weren’t headed back to my house, I realized after a few minutes. We were zipping down a two-lane blacktop road, away from everything, the late evening haze shifting from dark gold to deepening gray.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  He just shrugged. “I don’t know. This way. ” He pointed at the road ahead of us with a snarky smirk. “Just driving. ”

  I nodded and let my right hand hang out the window, and settled my left hand on the console between us. The song shifted to some slow and sleepy ballad, and Jason left it on but didn’t tell me who it was or the song title. I didn’t care, I realized. It was perfect music for a date, romantic and sweet. I felt Jason’s proximity like an inferno beside me. His hand was out the window like mine as he drove with his right, slowing down and turning us onto a narrow dirt road with trees growing up at the very edge. Fields stretched out into the distance beyond the trees, and the road twisted and turned, gravel bouncing off the tire wells and dust kicking up in the side-view mirrors.