Headfirst Falling Page 2

  I’m starting to learn that, more than anything, I hate doing what’s right.

  * * *

  As I sit on a squeaking bar stool beside Taylor, I’m unable to deny my building anxiety. I run my hands through my hair, then cross my right leg over my left. After a second, I uncross them, only to cross them again. I’m still not comfortable. I would rather be any place but here. I would actually rather seal a thousand envelopes with my tongue.

  The hum of excited conversations drifts through the crowded room. We’ve all gathered with one intention—to welcome a soldier home from his most recent tour in Iraq. More specifically, we’ve gathered to welcome Jackson Stiles home. With open arms, of course. Actually, I’m not sure about the whole open-arms thing, because I’m really only here because of Taylor. Which is ridiculous, because she’s really only here because of me. This leads me to one conclusion—we shouldn’t be here.

  My gaze darts to the emergency exit to my right. Maybe I’ll use it. Maybe I’ll just run. I’m a runner. I run from problems. At all costs I avoid them. Here’s the thing: Jackson and I have history. A history that goes deeper than him being my brother’s best friend. But it’s long and complicated and thinking about it only makes me sad.

  Three steps, and I could be out that door. Three measly steps, and I wouldn’t have to face any of this. Three microscopic steps to freedom—

  “Don’t even think about it,” Taylor says, zoning in on my line of sight.

  I take a deep breath and laugh a little. “I wasn’t,” I say, swiveling my chair around to face the bar. I realize someone seated a few spots away from Taylor is watching and remind myself to look pleasant. Which I’m not sure I’m capable of right now, so I settle for indifference. I’m happy about Jackson coming home. I shouldn’t have to force myself to look that way. I’m beyond happy for him, actually. But this all seems disloyal somehow.

  Jackson and my brother, Adam, were best friends. The kind of friends who did everything together. As children, they played video games and tag together. As teenagers, they played baseball together. And as adults, they enlisted to serve together. They were best friends. Not anymore.

  On Tuesday, Jackson returned home as a decorated hero. Adam returned months ago, but the circumstances were drastically different. That’s why I spent Tuesday at Fairview Cemetery with Adam. My brother, six feet below the cold, unforgiving ground. Buried in a sealed box.

  Unwelcome tears well in my eyes, blurring my vision. As fast as they come, I blink them away. I can’t let this night be about Adam. Tonight is about Jackson. At the very least, his family deserves respect. Plus, I have something I need to say to Jackson. He pulled seven soldiers from a building on the brink of collapsing, risking his own life. One of them was Adam. He didn’t save his life, but he saved his body, and because of that I need to thank him.

  I close my eyes and chase the thoughts away. When I think about Adam, I start to feel sick, so for the most part I don’t think about it. Not about the way he died, anyway. Very cowardly, I know. But I’m trying to survive, and sometimes surviving doesn’t mean coping. It means adapting.

  Taylor slides a drink into my hand. “Have another.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” she says, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You’re pretty charming once you’ve got a few drinks in you.”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” I say. “I was born charming.” Actually, that’s not true, so I laugh and lift the glass to my lips. It’s bitter and burns the entire way down my throat.

  I focus on the room, which is decorated in mahogany and dark wood grain. Dim lights reach up old walls of peeling wallpaper. There are various bouquets of balloons, streamers and signs hanging throughout the room; they look juvenile in such a serious place. There’s also a cake, and from what I can remember, some of Jackson’s favorite foods.

  As I’m signaling for another round, the thunder of clapping erupts. The roar is followed by a series of shouts and whistles. I turn in my seat, and my eyes find him. Jackson Stiles. There is no craning of my neck or sweeping of the crowd. Just the magnetic pull of my eyes to his; it’s almost robotic. For a fleeting moment our eyes remain locked, and then he’s swept into a sea of hugs and handshakes.

  I wait for it to come...the resentment, the hate, something. I’m not sure what I expected to feel, but I expected it to be bad. The strange thing is that it isn’t. Instead, I find myself fighting the impulse to sprint across the room and launch myself into his arms, Olympic long jump style.

  He’s so...grown. And ridiculously well dressed, I decide as I take in his tailored three-piece suit. He’s the same person I remember. Tall and lean with boyish blond hair and sincere blue eyes.

  Taylor clinks her tumbler to mine to get my attention. “He looks great.”

  I nod and will myself to tear my eyes from him. Waving to the bartender, I hold up two fingers, signaling for another round. “I don’t hate this as much as I expected to,” I admit.

  She arches one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows at me. “What do you mean?”

  “I just feel different than I thought I would.”

  “What did you expect to feel?” she prods.

  I shrug and do my best to act indifferent. “Resentment, I guess. Maybe.”

  I expect her to press the subject, because if Taylor excels at anything, it’s forcing me to be direct when I skitter around a subject. The bartender sets our glasses in front of us just as she opens her mouth. Without a second of hesitation, I lift mine to my lips and drain the entire contents.

  “You’re right,” I say, setting my glass on the bar top. “I’m way charming with the addition of booze.”

  She shakes her head, unable to deny her smile. “So charming.”

  I laugh, and a few layers of tension melt away, making me feel lighter. Taylor starts rambling about her job at the hospital. I’m almost always clueless when it comes to whatever bit of scientific crap she’s spouting, so I zone out instantly, turning my attention to Jackson.

  He’s seated at a couch against one of the far walls, and the remaining partygoers surround him. Many of the guests have made their way out after getting a minute or two with him, so the crowd is thinning.

  When he glances up, our eyes catch. He’s staring. I’m staring. And my heart starts to race. His lips curve into a slow smile, and I swear I can see the gleam in his eyes from here. My cheeks heat, and I immediately turn my back to him.

  Taylor’s boyfriend, Devin, has joined us. His rust-colored hair is disheveled from a long day at work, and he’s still dressed in his clothes from the office, tie loose around his neck. They’re deep in conversation, closed off from the rest of the world. I wave to him, and he smiles apologetically.

  I don’t mind. I’m used to being the third wheel, and it’s pretty cool that they’re used to me being the third wheel. Devin has the Charlie Day stamp of approval. He must adore Taylor to put up with me the way he does...and with her, for that matter.

  From the corner of my eye, I watch Jackson stand and make his way to the bar. My palms start to get sweaty, and panic rises in my throat. I frown. What’s wrong with me? Within seconds, I’m lost in an internal debate, to talk to him or not to talk to him. Before either side wins, my feet are lifting me, and I’m closing the small space between the two of us.

  “Charlie.” He looks at me coolly, and my wits vanish into thin air. Just poof, gone. Here’s the thing about Jackson...he’s always had this crazy effect on me. Like this weird magnetic pull. Here’s the other thing about Jackson... He’s perfect, and by perfect, I actually mean perfect. Perfect nose. Perfect jawline. Perfect teeth. Perfect eyes. Perfect body. He’s gorgeous in all the ways that make girls do stupid things. In fact, his only visible flaw is the small scar above his right eyebrow that he got during his first tour in Iraq. But it’s sort of rugged and sexy. So if an
ything, it adds to his perfectness. Anyway, what I’m getting at is that Jackson is intimidating, extremely intimidating.

  “Jackson,” I say. “It’s good to see you.” Okay. So it’s kind of a lame thing to say, but I’m going with the whole less-is-more thing here.

  He sits and gestures to the seat beside him. “What are you drinking?”

  “Whiskey on the rocks.” I take a seat. While he waves the bartender down to order the drinks, I focus on calming my out-of-control heart. It doesn’t work.

  The bartender gets busy behind the bar, pouring our drinks quickly before he’s off to tend the rest of the patrons. We take the first few sips in silence, and all the while I silently implore him to say something. Anything, really. God knows if it’s me, senseless babble will ensue.

  He opens his mouth. Then he closes it abruptly, gaze lost in thought. He’s searching for something to say, and I’m intrigued.

  Finally, he gives me a sidelong glance. “You’ve grown up since I last saw you.”

  I shrug and try to sound cool. “You’ve...grown since the last time I saw you.”

  He raises a brow, amused, I assume. “Grown? Like in height?”

  I take a big swig from my glass. “Just in general.”

  I turn to face him, which was a mistake, because his eyes are right there. And once my gaze locks with his, I’m unable to look away. It may be a little rude, staring like this, but I don’t care. His eyes shine, not empty or cold in the least bit. Deep pools of blue with green flecks that sparkle in a dangerous way. His eyes are beautiful. But I’m more curious to know what’s going on behind them—in his mind.

  “Jackson!” Taylor interrupts my thoughts as she steps between the two of us and throws her arms around his neck in a friendly hug.

  “Hello, Taylor,” he says, grinning.

  “This is my boyfriend, Devin.” She steps back, and they briefly shake hands, giving each other the once-over. “Devin, this is Jackson.”

  Within a matter of minutes, they’re talking comfortably, so I take the time to help Jackson’s mother, Grace, put away things from the party. She’s always been very nice to me. Sympathy for a motherless girl, I’m sure, but very nice nonetheless.

  She takes the final box of streamers from me and smiles sweetly. “You’re an angel. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I smooth my hands down the front of my dress and clear my throat. “I’m really happy to see Jackson home safe.”

  Her pretty features fall, and her stare intensifies. I know that look. God, do I know that look. Full of such pity, such sorrow that I almost can’t stand it. “Listen, Charlie, I know I’ve told you before, but I’m truly sorry for Adam’s death.”

  I force my lips into a thin smile and nod my head, but it feels robotic and stiff. “I know.”

  I’ve discovered that during conversations like this one I automatically convert to autopilot. Nodding when I have to, forcing smiles when necessary...anything to get through the conversation. It’s almost like a defense mechanism.

  “If there is anything I can ever do for you, don’t hesitate to ask me. Please.”

  She pulls me into a hug, and I return it with a touch of hesitation. “Thank you, Mrs. Stiles.”

  She smiles warmly. “Please, call me Grace.” She thanks me once more and sashays across the room to kiss Jackson on the cheek. “I’ll see you at the house, Beetle!”

  “You’re staying in town?” I ask when she’s gone.

  He laughs a little, the slightest shade of red coloring his cheeks. “With my parents.”

  I grin. For the first time tonight, he looks vulnerable; maybe he is human after all.

  He’s quick to change the subject. “Where are you at these days?”

  “Taylor and I have a place uptown.” He doesn’t say anything, and my nerves cause me to hurry on. Unprocessed words come tumbling out of my mouth. “For now, anyway. I’m sure she’ll be getting her own place soon, because she and Devin are pretty serious. Then maybe I’ll leave Dallas. For Houston? Or Oklahoma.” So much for the whole less-is-more thing. “But yeah. We have a place uptown. Sixty-nine twelve Canton Street.” Oh. My. God. Did I—did I just give him my address?

  Where is Taylor? I need to be saved. She’s across the room with Devin, giggling and oblivious to the fact that I’m a sinking ship over here. Great. She needs to be here. Right next to me, so she can splash a glass of water in my face. I look around the room. At the carpet, the bar, the crown molding framing the walls. Everywhere except Jackson’s face.

  When my eyes finally return to him, his eyes are gleaming. It’s painfully apparent that he enjoys seeing me so unnerved, which is irritating. “I miss you,” he says quietly, leaning in.

  That’s when I catch a good whiff of him. He smells the same, like body wash and citrus fabric softener. The same body wash and fabric softener, actually. The way he smelled in high school when he was sort of mine.

  All of a sudden, my mind slams into overdrive and Jackson starts tumbling through it...a kaleidoscope of memories, flashing and burning bright. Jackson kissing me, me kissing Jackson, Jackson and his smile, Jackson laughing... Jackson, Jackson, Jackson. All the feelings come rushing back, and for a moment, I feel like everything is the same, like he’s the same.

  Except for the scar. So he’s not the same, not really. He’s been to war...he’s changed, and he isn’t my Jackson anymore. The thought sends my stomach plummeting to my feet. My gaze trails across his familiar face. Up the tanned skin of his neck, over his scruffy jawline, to his lips and then his eyes. I take a deep breath and look at the scar again. Then I burst into tears.

  Chapter Two

  Jackson looks alarmed by the reaction. As I slip past him, a sob works its way free. I walk straight to the emergency exit and push my way through it.

  Cold air washes over my face as I take my first step into the night. I start walking, still crying, not really sure where I’m going. Actually, I’m bawling now. Every last molecule of air is sucked from my chest like a deflating balloon. It’s possible I’m having a mini heart attack.

  The door bangs shut behind me, and the telling sound of footsteps to gravel lets me know I’m being followed. Please be Taylor. Please be Taylor. Please— “Charlie!”

  Of course it isn’t her. It’s Jackson, because I live in a cruel universe in which the gods would rather him see me a blubbering, snotty mess than my best friend.

  He reaches out to grab my arm as he catches up to me. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I choke. “I’ve got something in my eye...something big. Like a piece of gravel or something.”

  “Charlie.” His voice is soft and low. Cautious, like I’m a bomb beneath his bed. “You’re upset.”

  Apparently, I’m an insane person. A very upset insane person. This is embarrassing, and awful, and I hate myself for losing it like this in front of him. I should’ve known I wouldn’t be able to see him without falling apart.

  “Talk to me,” he says, taking a step forward. I take one back.

  Apparently, I can’t be close to him. If I smell him again I’ll be propelled into a further stage of psychosis. “I’m just freaked out. You’re you, and I’m me, and I just—missed you. Like, a lot. I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. And all these thoughts and feelings just came rushing back, and—”

  “I’m here now,” he says, cutting off my tirade.

  “I know. But you’re not you,” I continue. “You’re the new you. The war you. I don’t know you anymore. You’re like some weird version of yourself. Some alternate-universe version. It’s like you went to summer camp and came back as someone else.”

  I’m fully aware that I’m not making any sense, but I’m unable to stop myself. This is like a car crash. One that I could prevent but would rather stand and watch unfold. My emotio
ns have taken over, and sane Charlie is settling in for the show.

  “I’m still me.”

  “I know. I’m just drunk,” I say, trying to dismiss the entire awful situation. I turn my back to him and make a halfhearted attempt to hide my sniffles.

  “Come here,” he coaxes. I shake my head. Before I can protest, his hands are on my waist, spinning me and pulling me to his strong chest.

  “I’m still me. I promise. Nothing has changed,” he mumbles, lips against my forehead.

  But he’s wrong. Everything has changed. I open my mouth and look up to start rambling on, but then I realize that he’s staring down at me, and his face is close to mine. More specifically, his lips are close to mine, really close to mine. Dangerously close.

  I don’t know if it’s him who kisses me, or me who kisses him, or if gravity just becomes too much and it just happens...but our lips brush together, and an electrical current starts pulsing between us.

  His hands intertwine in my hair, and he starts to pull me close. But at that same moment, Taylor comes exploding through the emergency exit. Jackson and I fly apart like we’ve just been caught doing something bad, which I guess we sort of were. Doing something bad, I mean.

  I shouldn’t be kissing Jackson Stiles. It’s probably the last thing in the world I should be doing. But whatever. I was. And I want to do it again.

  “Charlie, are you okay?” she asks, walking toward us. Her long, blond hair is whipping around in the wind, and her icy blue eyes are skeptical.

  I nod and step away from Jackson. “I’m fine,” I manage to say.

  He reaches for me. “We should talk.”

  I shake my head. “I need to go.”

  Actually, I have to go. I can’t be this close to him. My heart feels like it’s been ripped open in my chest. Just looking at him hurts. Everything is new and fresh, and I’m losing him for the first time all over again. “I have to go,” I repeat.

  I turn and walk toward my car with stiff limbs. Taylor follows without saying a word. Jackson doesn’t. He watches me as I go.