Headfirst Falling Page 3

  * * *

  In a lifetime full of moments, a person only experiences a few defining moments. In the manner we use these moments, we are set apart from others and categorized in ways we may not understand. The trouble with this is that as these moments occur they’re not easily recognized, and just as difficult to decipher. It’s easy to miss them. Underestimate them. Too easy, really...to misjudge their true value.

  Many people would argue that it’s not the moments themselves that define us, but the way we choose to live in them. I’ve never understood that, and maybe I never will. I have never consciously chosen to live in a moment a certain way; I have only chosen to live.

  I remember the last time I saw my brother alive. Adam was seven months past turning twenty-one, vivid with life. Tall, charming and intelligent—nothing like me. Over his shoulder he carried a small bag of his most personal possessions. My father cried, because he was proud. I cried, because I was afraid. Afraid for my dear older brother, who had always been much too brave and grown up. He promised me that he’d be okay, and like a fool, I believed him. I trusted his confidence and ignored the hollow feeling in my chest.

  I should have screamed and yelled, thrown an absolute fit. I should have done anything to make him stay. But I didn’t. That was one of my few defining moments, but I didn’t recognize its importance then. It was a defining moment in both of our lives, really. I should have made him stay, but I didn’t. I let my much-too-brave, twenty-one-years-young brother board a rusty old bus and depart for Camp Blanding, Florida.

  The day I learned of his death was another of my defining moments. A moment that would rattle my world and send my life spiraling down a new path. On that day I returned home at noon, surprised to find my father there. He never came home early from work. Instantly, I knew something wasn’t right.

  He was in the backyard, sorting through the tools in his shed...another red flag; he hadn’t touched his tools in years. He wasn’t smiling. His face was pale and tear-stained. His eyes were bloodshot and haunted, and they told an awful story on their own.

  “Dad?” He turned, startled by my voice. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Adam,” he said. “There’s been an accident.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, my voice cracking.

  “An accident,” he repeated. “A bad one.”

  No, no, no. I started shaking my head, backing away, refusing to let myself believe the words I knew he was about to say. “No, Dad. No.”

  “He’s not coming home, Charlie—” he broke off in a sob. That was the first time I’d ever seen my father cry.

  This isn’t real, this isn’t real, I kept telling myself. But it was, and it was awful, and cruel, and— “What about Jackson?” I asked, a new wave of panic washing over me. Please, please, please just be alive.

  “He’s okay,” he said. “Jackson is okay.”

  Jackson is coming home. Adam isn’t. My heart shattered in my chest, like glass against a wall, cutting my insides, making me bleed. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I sank to the ground, and earth-shattering sobs quaked through my entire body.

  These moments have defined me and stolen the beauty from my world. They’ve taken me to a dark place. They’ve made me cold and made me question both God and myself. I’ve questioned what life is, what happiness is.

  I’ve taken these moments with me to rock bottom. They never leave me; they float above me, looming and ominous. Anytime something threatens to shine a light, these memories are there to remind me that nothing beautiful can exist in such a cold, harsh world.

  Chapter Three

  The Monday after Jackson’s welcome-home party, I’m walking down the street in pursuit of Starbucks, thinking that I seriously need to invest in a sensible pair of shoes. I’ve been trying to force myself into eating healthier, but it doesn’t work. In fact, I’m really just making things worse for myself. Because now I’m skipping lunch to get caffeine, since I don’t want the salad I packed. I’m probably also doing permanent damage to my feet in these high heels.

  I decide I could spend the rest of my life in a coffee shop as I push my way through the door. The smell of coffee beans and vanilla...what’s not to love? I even love the sound coffee makes when it’s brewing, the hard crush of beans as they’re ground and the rhythm of droplets falling from the filter. But me spending prolonged amounts of time in a coffee shop is an awful idea. Especially when taking my borderline caffeine addiction into consideration. And by borderline, I mean full-blown.

  I order an iced latte, and the barista scribbles my name across a plastic cup. I plop down in an oversize purple chair in the corner and root around my bag until I find my iPad. I skim through my emails, sending most of them straight to the cyber-dump. Spam, spam and more spam...nothing like a bunch of junk mail to make a girl feel special.

  The bell above the door pings as someone enters. The sound prompts an absentminded glance from me before I return my attention to my iPad. But when what I’ve seen registers, my head snaps up so quickly, I may have whiplash in the morning. It’s Jackson...Jackson and Mary Jane Johnson. Yuck. She is a tramp.

  A scowl slips over my features as I watch her prance along behind him. Her white shorts leave nothing to the imagination, and I have to blink my eyes a few times to ensure that the highlighter-pink tank top she’s wearing has spared my sight. No bra, of course. But why would she wear one with a boob job like that?

  I’ve never been a fan of Mary Jane, not since high school. I’m still not. Like a moth to a flame, she swarmed every male in sight as soon as Jackson was shipped off for basic training. I don’t understand how he can even look at her, much less be friendly with her over a cup of coffee. Maybe because he’s been unfaithful as well. With me, my subconscious adds, gloating. I feel my face flush and quickly push the thought from my head.

  Flip goes Mary Jane’s hair as she giggles and thanks him for buying her coffee. My stomach knots as she raises to her tiptoes and kisses his cheek. This is the last thing I want to witness right now, an awkward encounter I’d rather not subject myself to.

  I tear through my purse until I locate my earbuds, tangled with the clutter at the bottom of my bag. I give them one hard tug, freeing them, and stuff them into my ears. I stare down at my iPad with fascination, like I’m reading an amazing book, or something scandalous is going down on the newsfeed of my social network. Maybe they won’t even notice me. Maybe they’ll just get their coffee and leave. Maybe—

  “Charlie!”

  Crap. So much for that. The woman behind the counter calls out my name again, smiling cheerfully. I stare at her with wide, crazy eyes that say, Would you just shut up!

  Obviously she doesn’t understand, because she calls my name for a third time. I make no move. I can’t hear you, I sing in my head.

  “Charlie!” Is she kidding me? What is this lady’s deal? I must ignore her. This is me, ignoring her—and Jackson and Mary Jane for that matter—la, la, la. Not listening, just ignoring.

  A scuffed pair of boots come into my line of vision just next to my feet. My stomach sinks. Jackson’s boots. It gets worse, because he reaches into my lap and lifts the other end of my headphone cable. It isn’t plugged in...not to my iPad, not to anything. I snatch the cord from his hand and slam it into my iPad.

  I stare down at the worn microsuede fabric of the chair, praying it morphs into a human-eating monster and swallows me whole. I couldn’t get that lucky though, so I take a deep breath and look up. “Oh, hey, Jackson.”

  He peers down at me with an amused smile. “Hi, Charlie.”

  Mary Jane clears her throat behind him.

  He takes a quick step to the side. “I’m sorry—MJ, you remember Charlie, right?”

  She smiles at me, her bright red lipstick screaming for attention. “Yes, of course. Little Charlie Day.”

 
I laugh, the same fakeness she greeted me with seeping through my voice. “Oh yes, little Charlie and the very, very friendly Mary Jane.” True, if you’ve got a Y chromosome.

  Her eyes narrow with my comment. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” With that she turns on her heel and sashays across the room, disappearing behind the ladies’ room door. Even when she’s gone, the smell of her overpowering perfume hangs in the air.

  “You are an idiot,” I say once she’s out of sight. The barista calls my name again. I stomp across the room to snatch my latte from the counter and shoot her my best thanks-for-nothing look, letting her know I’m not happy with her. She shrugs and goes back to work. I continue the stomping and head for the door.

  Jackson chuckles, following closely behind. “I can be pretty stupid, but I’m not that stupid... I mean, she owes me a fifty-thousand-dollar engagement ring, and she insisted on returning it in person,” he says in all seriousness. “I have a meeting downtown, and she works close by...”

  I’ve got a bad taste in my mouth. Why would anyone spend that kind of money on a sleaze like Mary Jane? Jackson comes from a prestigious family, but really? Really? He couldn’t have that much money to throw around, could he? And she doesn’t work around here—there’s no way. No respectable business would let her into the building wearing that.

  “I’m sure she did.” I roll my eyes. “You didn’t have to buy her coffee.”

  He grins. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re jealous.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not jealous. Not at all.”

  “You’re jealous.”

  “I am not,” I snap, stepping away from him. “Listen, I have to go. Tell Mary Jane it was lovely running into her. You should also tell her I hope she finds the rest of the material for her outfit soon.”

  He laughs and rocks back on his heels. “Will do. I’ll let you know how well that comment sits with her when I see you in a little bit.”

  I freeze, hand poised on the door handle. “When you see me in a little bit?”

  “Yes, you...and your dad.”

  “Wait. What?”

  He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve got a meeting with your dad in an hour.”

  I sigh, exasperated and embarrassed by this entire encounter. “I guess I’ll see you later, then.”

  * * *

  I fume as the elevator doors close, pinging as it crawls up. My dad never tells me anything. You’d think that running into Jackson would be something he’d mention, but I guess not. He probably wanted to spring it on me, because that’s what my dad does. He likes to evade conversations until the absolute last minute, and then—surprise! Meeting with Jackson is something he should have warned me about. Jackson would’ve strolled right into the office, and I would’ve been an unsuspecting guppy, thus leading to another Jackson-related breakdown, which is the last thing I need.

  Jessica, the receptionist, smiles when I enter. “Afternoon, Charlie!”

  “Hey,” I say, stopping in front of her desk. “Have you seen my dad?”

  “He’s in his office. With Oliver.”

  I shake my head and laugh a little despite myself. “Thanks.” Oliver is his dog, a smart, little, sometimes yappy terrier. Of course he’s got him with him in the office, because he takes his dog everywhere, no matter how inappropriate. My dad has two friends, and Oliver is number one on the list.

  “Dad,” I say as I walk through his open door.

  He beams at me from his computer chair, green eyes shaded by an old baseball cap. “Well, hello, pretty lady! What’s goin’ on?” His voice drawls with his Southern tongue.

  “Oh, not much. But the weirdest thing just happened—I ran into Jackson getting coffee down the street, and he said he has a meeting with you? So weird, right?”

  My dad cocks his head to the side, watching me with an odd smile. “Well, yeah, cookie. We got a meeting here in about an hour or so.”

  “A meeting for...”

  “A job.”

  I scoff. “Jackson doesn’t need a job! His family is filthy rich.” I’m not even exaggerating. Jackson’s family is wealthy...ridiculously, ridiculously wealthy. Drop fifty grand on a girl who’s got the attention span of a butterfly and the wandering eye of a teenage boy rich.

  “I don’t know the specifics.” He shrugs his shoulders lazily, and I resist the urge to reach over his desk and shake them. He’s lost his mind. That’s all there is to it. If he’s considering giving Jackson a job then he’s crazy. “Just ran into him the other day. He asked, and I told him we could work somethin’ out.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” I ask with a hint of desperation, hoping to reach the sane part of his brain. Jackson can’t work here. He just can’t. He’s too much like Adam, and being reminded of Adam on a daily basis is the last thing I need. And it’s not something my dad needs either. We need to forget, and move on, and be happy. Not be reminded.

  “I think he’s one hell of a man,” Dad says, scratching his chin.

  I purse my lips. “That’s not what I asked.”

  “I heard what ya asked, cook. I just don’t have an answer for ya.”

  “Well, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

  His chair squeaks as he leans forward and winks. “It’s a good thing I didn’t ask you then, ain’t it?”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes. He’s overly cheerful, and I’m irritated, and it’s not a good combination. This is what Jackson does to me. He irritates me. Probably because I’ve spent the past forty-eight hours obsessing over kissing him, but whatever. I didn’t even technically kiss him. Technically, it was him who kissed me...I think. “I’ve got work to do, Dad.”

  I navigate the winding hallway that trails along the office spaces to the left. To the right, large picture windows overlook the Dallas skyline.

  When I get to my office, I plop down in my chair and begin sorting through the pile of work stacked on my desk, which was clear before I left for lunch. Most days, a desk full of work would really piss me off. But right now, I don’t mind. If I’m working I won’t be thinking about Jackson. And I shouldn’t be thinking about Jackson, so work is a good thing.

  I’m cracking open the first report when my computer pings, and a message pops onto the screen. Without looking, I know who it is. The interoffice instant messaging system was the worst idea ever.

  Pat Day: Are you mad at me, cookie? :-( :-( :-(

  Sometimes he is an absolute child.

  Charlie Day: I’m not mad, but I am very busy. I won’t name any names, but someone (probably you) snuck a pile of work into my office while I was out.

  Pat Day: Could’ve been Oliver...I actually saw him go into your office earlier.

  I laugh and shake my head.

  Charlie Day: I’ve got work to do. And you’ve got a meeting to prepare for. Just make sure you put Jackson’s office by yours, away from mine.

  Far, far away from mine. I’ll never get any work done if he’s in close proximity to me. I have a feeling I won’t be able to get anything done if we’re located within a one-mile radius of one another. It should be interesting having him seven, or fewer, office spaces away.

  Pat Day: ;-) :-P :-)

  I scowl at the screen. What’s that even supposed to mean? And who in the world taught him how to use emoticons? I could kill the person. I exit the chat screen and do my best to busy myself with work. I refuse to let myself speculate on my dad’s meeting with Jackson. I must work.

  I hear Dad’s loud, cheerful voice when Jackson arrives. I’m sure the entire floors above and below hear him as well. Both my head and heart start to get a little crazy, knowing that Jackson is here...in the same building as me, on the same floor, just outside my door.

  Maybe I could just open my door, and if Jackson comes in, so be it. Or I could g
o to the break room for a water bottle. Or... No! I will not leave this office. Who am I kidding? I want to leave this office. Or rather, I’d like to lure him into my office. I stand and take two steps toward the door and then stop, frustrated with myself. Where has all my self-restraint gone?

  I sit back down and focus on the report centered on my desk. I read it, and then I have to reread it. It’s a survey on our newest safety product...sensors meant to detect the presence of hydrogen sulfide gas in the air, which can be deadly and is often a problem when drilling for oil. It might as well be a foreign language right now, considering my sudden attention deficit regarding the subject. I stare down at the page of meaningless words, reading them for a third time. This isn’t getting me anywhere.

  You will not leave this office. You will not leave this office. You will not leave this office. I recite the mantra over and over again in my head. You will not leave this office. You will not leave this office. You. Will. Not. Leave. This. Office.

  I close my eyes and let my head fall against the back of my chair. I knew I wouldn’t be getting any work done.

  Chapter Four

  I remember the first time I ever kissed Jackson Stiles. My first kiss...a moment that every girl dreams of, right? The fairy tales we watch on television and read about in books fuel our fires and breathe life into our imaginations. As little girls we all want to be kissed. On the cheek, on the lips...it doesn’t matter.

  When I was seven I got my first kiss. I tried when I was six, at recess on the playground, with a boy named Sam. He pushed me down, and I scraped my knee. So Taylor beat him up, and it all ended up being very dramatic. But that doesn’t matter, because when I was seven I got my kiss and it was with Jackson. He was nine years old, six inches taller than me and way out of my league.