Headfirst Falling Page 11

  Can we talk?

  I don’t think so, not yet. I’m an immovable object, and I will not reply. I refuse to allow myself. I can’t let my emotions make me their bitch. I have to rein them in, get them under control. And that’s impossible when Jackson is in the scenario.

  Another comes later that evening.

  Let me come over tonight. We should really talk.

  He’s trying, and it’s kind of sweet, but I don’t respond. I never want to feel the way I did last night, waking up without him there when I expected him to be...wanted him to be.

  * * *

  The remainder of the week is sufficiently awkward. I’m being adolescent about the entire thing, but I need time to cool off. So every morning I arrive early and set up fort in my office, closing the door behind me. I take lunch at my desk, eating what I’ve packed for the day. I stay a little late, long enough to avoid seeing Jackson in the elevator. And when I return the next day I do it all over again.

  By the time the weekend rolls around I’m feeling much better and less like a loser. Taylor and I spend a long, much-needed day at the spa on Saturday, primping and pampering. I leave feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, the way any woman should after a trip to the spa.

  On Sunday I spend the day organizing things around the house and preparing for the upcoming workweek. There’s something about organizing that calms me. I like having things arranged, easy to find. I like it when my brain’s that way as well, and I hate that it’s been such a scattered mess lately.

  What can you even do when it’s your brain that needs organizing? Anything? Nothing comes to mind. To me it seems like the more I obsess over it, the more scattered it’s going to become. But then again, how will it ever straighten itself out without being acknowledged?

  Thinking is my problem. I just need to flip a switch and turn it off. That’s what Taylor would do. In high school, when the only other boy that I really liked, besides Jackson, kissed me and dumped me the next day for his ex-girlfriend via text message, Taylor knew exactly what to do. His name was Will, and he was actually an idiot who wore way too much AXE body spray, but that’s another story.

  His rejection turned me into a crying, ice-cream-inhaling mess. There isn’t a soul in this world who would believe the amount of Ben & Jerry’s Everything but the Kitchen Sink I ate over the course of three days. Except for Taylor, but she was there to see it. She witnessed it all, watched me cry and dissect every little Will-related thought in my brain like a sick person with a disease.

  She wanted me to go outside and play dodge ball, like that would fix anything. She swore it would make me feel better, but I wanted to be miserable, so I refused. We sat in my room on a quilt her grandmother made. “The quilt of strength,” she’d named it, only because she wanted me to buy in to the whole fiasco, and I did. I sat on it with her with legs crossed, eyes closed and palms up.

  And I listened to her for three hours instruct me to do stupid things like, “Wipe all visions from your mind clean, got it?”

  So I would erase everything from my mind and force myself to see only a white backdrop and I’d say, “Got it.”

  “Okay, now picture a big blue door to the right. See it?”

  And a big blue door to the right appeared in my brain. “I see it.”

  “Okay, open it and go through it.”

  So I walked through it.

  And she would describe the room I walked into. Behind the blue door was something like a bunch of Ty Beanie Babies with ridiculous names. And in that room was a red door. Behind the red door we found a treadmill that Taylor insisted I run on. All of this occurred in my mind, of course, my scrambled-and-fried-thanks-to-a-boy brain.

  But for three hours, sitting on “the quilt of strength” in the middle of my room, I didn’t think of Will. And I decided that if I could forget about him for three hours I could forget about him, period. And so I did.

  I bring myself back to the present and sit in the middle of my bed, legs crossed, palms up, and I close my eyes. I take a few deep breaths and focus on wiping my mind of all thoughts. A clean slate.

  It’s easier than I expect, to pick out thoughts and stack them into piles or stuff them into closets and close them behind doors. Just shove them away for a while, the way Taylor would.

  It’s easy, and it’s impossible. Because there’s one thing that keeps coming back to me, one stupid little thought. And it’s Jackson.

  Maybe I should just go back to the spa.

  * * *

  The new week brings a better situation at work. I don’t mind the occasional small talk with Jackson, polite good mornings and good afternoons, but things between us are still stiff.

  On Tuesday I leave the office to have lunch with Jessica. She chooses a small organic restaurant that I’ve never been to before. It’s only a few blocks from the office, so we decide to hoof it. I’m thankful to be wearing flats today. She walks the entire way in high heels, which is impressive.

  “What are you having?” I ask, studying the menu and feeling indecisive.

  “A Greek salad, I think,” she says. “The grilled chicken pita is good too, though.”

  I sip my water and nod. “The pita sounds good. I think I’ll try that.”

  The waiter comes and takes our order before disappearing in the sea of lunch-goers.

  “How was your weekend?” I inquire, mostly because I want to ask her before she can ask me. I’m not sure there’s any way to make mine sound less lame than it really was without lying.

  She flicks a tiny grain of salt from the table and shakes her head. “You don’t even want to know.”

  “If it’s going to make me feel better about how sucky mine was, I do,” I say, grinning. “And it couldn’t have been that bad.”

  “I had an awful date. Maybe the worst one of my life.” She rolls her eyes and pushes a strand of hair from her face like she’s embarrassed.

  I raise my eyebrows. “With who?”

  “You’re going to think I’m nuts...” She lets out a small, nervous laugh. “I went out with someone I met online.”

  I can’t help but chuckle—not because she went out with someone she met on a dating site, but because she’s so nervous about it. “What was so bad? The commercials are so...inspiring.”

  “Where do I even start? The guy’s profile makes him seem sophisticated, refined...and, I don’t know—decent.”

  I circle my hand through the air, coaxing her to give me more. “And?”

  “And he was none of those things. He was rude, obnoxious, forward. He wanted to go Dutch on the dinner. He sneezed without covering his nose, he was rude to the waiter, lied about his career and interests—the list is endless.” She laughs, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. “His profile picture must have been taken ten years ago. He looked nothing like I was anticipating. The list is literally endless. I’ll never do it again.”

  “You can’t let one rotten egg spoil it for you. You never know who you may meet.” I try to be encouraging, because it’s hard to meet someone decent. Trust me, I’ve been ordering takeout for one for a while now. Something about being forced to be so open and available makes the whole process suck. It’s impossible not to feel vulnerable when you’re putting yourself out there like that.

  I’m sure a fair number of decent men exist, but fishing them out is a different story. I haven’t been on more than three dates with the same guy since I was eighteen.

  “I know, I know,” she says. “I just hate the fact that you know nothing about the person you’re meeting with, not really anyway. Sure, you read about them on their profile, but I feel like it’s so easy to lie on those things.” She takes a sip of her tea, the subject dimming her usual bright mood.

  A lightbulb pings to life in my head. “I’ve got an idea. If you’re up for it, of course.”

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nbsp; She grins sheepishly. “I’m up for anything these days.”

  “You should let me set you up with someone,” I say. “A blind date. It would be fun! And it would take the anonymity out of the situation.” I grin, giddy with excitement and already listing the possibilities in my head.

  “No way,” she protests, but she doesn’t look completely closed off to the idea. “I couldn’t ask you to do that for me.”

  “You didn’t ask. I offered.”

  She blinks a couple times, looking a little doubtful, then returns my grin. “Okay, yeah, that sounds fun.”

  We exchange stories from our most disastrous dates until our food comes. She has way more stories than me, but she also looks like a model, so I’m not going to let my lack of experience hurt my ego. I’ve really grown to like her, trust her even. It’s enough to make me want to confide in her.

  I spear a piece of broccoli and push it across the plate with my fork. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that Jackson and I are on the rocks.”

  She frowns, nodding. “I thought something was going on with the two of you. What happened?”

  “Oh, it’s complicated...but to sum it up, I had too much to drink one day, and I texted him. I acted like an idiot when he got there, and then that night I made a complete ass of myself. I threw myself at him, big-time. That’s why I wasn’t at work last Monday.”

  She looks thoughtful for a moment then smiles. “Jackson was beside himself that day. Your absence really shook him up. In fact, he’s been off his game since.”

  “I haven’t noticed,” I admit. I haven’t had enough interaction with him to notice.

  “It’s cute, actually. He really likes you. Whatever crime you committed must have been a minor one, because he’s still swooning.” She senses my uncertainty and continues on. “And I wouldn’t say the two of you are on the rocks—it’s more like on the mend. You just don’t know it yet.”

  “I don’t know.” I put my fork down and drop my hands to my lap. “It was pretty bad, and I’m ashamed of the way I acted.”

  “Don’t let your pride get in the way of a good thing.”

  And I know that she’s absolutely right.

  * * *

  The next day at noon, there’s a quiet knock on my office door.

  “Come in!” I call. I’m busy correcting an inventory report that Stewart has royally screwed up. I’ve spent the entire morning on it, tracking parts and trying to catch the mistake, to no avail. Would anyone notice if Stewart just dropped off the face of the earth? If I find out he doesn’t have a grandmother or neighbor to file a missing-persons report, I may just kill him.

  Jackson steps into my office. He looks apprehensive, and his hand is on the doorknob, like he could bolt any second. Seeing him standing there is enough to make my heart melt. “Hi,” he says.

  I smile tentatively. “Jackson.”

  He doesn’t step any farther into the room. “How’s your day going?”

  He’s been off his game lately... Jessica’s words replay in my mind, and distantly I wonder if she’s right. I hope she’s right.

  I roll my eyes and point my pen at the mess in front of me. “Not great. Stewart’s a complete idiot, to say the least.”

  He laughs. “Tell me about it.”

  Silence swoops in, leaving us to stare at one another. When I can no longer stand the awkwardness, I say, “So what’s up?”

  “I thought maybe we could grab some lunch?” He shoves one hand into a pocket and rubs the back of his neck with the other. I think he might even be blushing.

  “Oh...I would. If I didn’t have such a mess here. I’ll already be staying late as is.” I toss my pen onto the papers scattered across my desk, vowing to kill Stewart once more. “I packed my lunch, anyway,” I add in a rush.

  Disappointment registers in his features, and my heart tugs in my chest.

  “Maybe another time?” I suggest, doing my best to reassure him with my smile.

  “Yeah, maybe.” His smile is a little sad when he waves and says, “I’ll catch you later.”

  He retreats through the door, and as soon as he’s gone, I wish he wasn’t.

  * * *

  At five-thirty I finally put away the work scattered across my desk. I gather the hole punch I borrowed from the supply room and set out to return it. I place it in the spot I found it, but not without noticing the mess of supplies lying around.

  My dad’s doing, I’m sure. I begin to work, quickly stacking and putting things away, so Jessica won’t have to deal with it in the morning. She puts up with enough of his quirks as is, poor girl. I’m sure he’s the only person in the world who creates larger messes inside the smaller ones he’s trying to clean up.

  “Charlie?”

  I whirl around in surprise, nearly jumping out of my skin. “Jackson!” I gasp, my chest heaving. “You scared the hell out of me.” My heart is racing, and I cover it with my hand to calm it.

  “I’m sorry. I just...I have something I need to say to you.” His eyes are fixed on mine, intense and determined.

  “What’s—” I begin, but before I can finish he crosses the room in three big steps, closing the distance between us. Hello! He smells amazing. Like Jackson.

  He boxes my body against the supply cabinet. Instinctively I pull back, bumping into it. His left hand reaches up to cradle my face as he leans down, his right hand skimming along my waist.

  He stares down at me for a beat with eyes full of an emotion I can’t read. Before I can blink he brings his lips down to mine, kissing me hard. The intensity of his touch is almost like a slap. The air in my lungs explodes then vanishes, leaving my chest tight. My blood flames, surging to my head, reeling from his touch.

  He pulls away much too quickly, leaving me clouded and confused.

  “I should have stayed. I’m sorry.” He scowls—at himself, I think—then turns on his heel and leaves.

  I stand there, sagging against the supply cabinet, panting, lost and wanting. What the hell just happened?

  * * *

  I pick up my cell phone for the fifth time in one hour. Taylor slaps it out of my hands. Like I’m a five-year-old showing my mother a worm I just dug up in the flower bed, or a hot coal that’s going to scorch my hands.

  “You are not calling him,” she says, voice stern.

  “But I want to call him,” I whine, feeling desperate and dangerously close to breaking.

  “No, you don’t.” She plucks my phone from the bar top and stuffs it into her purse. “You’re just drunk, and you’ll thank me in the morning.”

  I roll my eyes and reach for my glass of whiskey. I frown when I realize it’s empty and motion to the bartender. He slides a refreshed glass my way. Taylor wrinkles her nose as I take a sip. “I don’t know how you drink that stuff all the time.”

  “It’s good,” I say.

  She scoffs. “If you like paint thinner.”

  I arch my brow. “Tell me, Taylor, have you been drinking paint thinner? Because that’s probably not healthy.”

  “Shut up. You can tell exactly what something tastes like by the smell. Everyone knows that.”

  I laugh. “You’re a serious whack-job, you know that?”

  The corners of her lips turn up in a smile. “Let’s just agree to disagree on that one.”

  “Which one?” I ask. “The whiskey? Or the fact that you’re crazy?”

  She shrugs and brings her wineglass to her lips.

  Jackson’s supply-room kiss slips back into my memory for the millionth time since it occurred. I want to talk to him. I need to talk to him. “Can I have my phone back? I have a call to make. What?” I say when she raises her eyebrows. “I do! I bought some stuff online, and I forgot that I’m having it shipped to my dad’s house. I should call him.”

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sp; She shakes her head from side to side. “Lame excuse. And no, you can’t.”

  Jackson is going to drive me crazy. More specifically, his lips are going to drive me crazy. This isn’t normal. It just isn’t. Just thinking about what he did to me shouldn’t be enough to make me feel that way again. It shouldn’t be enough to make me feel weak in the knees, but it does. I’ve got butterflies too.

  “Hello?” Taylor snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Where’d you go? And when are you coming back?”

  “I’m right here,” I assure her. “And I’m paying attention.”

  “Good,” she says, slapping the table with her hand. “Now tell me what you’re thinking, because your face is a weird mix of dreamy and disturbed right now.”

  I raise my eyebrows from over my glass as I take a sip. “That Jackson might be some sort of alien from outer space that has superpowers.”

  She chuckles. “God, you are drunk. And funny.”

  I set my tumbler back down on the bar top and push it away from me. “I wasn’t joking.”

  She purses her lips and lets out a long, low whistle. “That boy’s sending you off the deep end.”

  Damn straight.

  * * *

  When we get home I drop my clutch by the door and saunter into the kitchen. Taylor goes straight to her room, my cell phone still in her purse. It’s probably a good thing.

  I open the freezer and peer inside, in pursuit of ice cream. I withdraw a carton of Ben & Jerry’s and pop the top. “Damn it, Taylor,” I shout. She’s either ignoring me or doesn’t hear me. One spoonful of ice cream remains. I toss the carton into the trash can, annoyed. Seriously, who can eat one spoonful of ice cream and feel satisfied?

  Taylor has this weird quirk where she refuses to finish anything she’s eating. Today it’s the ice cream, and yesterday it was the bag of chips I found with three measly chips left at the bottom. We’ve got a jar in the fridge that’s had the same pickle spear in it for three months. She won’t finish it, and I don’t like pickles. That’s just Taylor.