Headfirst Falling Read online

  Devin high-fives him over my head. “Wow! Close one. Nice catch, man!”

  My dad is watching approvingly from his seat.

  Jackson hands the ball to two little girls seated in front of us. They’re here with their grandfather. They stare up at Jackson in pure adoration, like he’s a god sent from the heavens, then turn to their grandpa, giggling with giddy excitement. He smiles at Jackson in return.

  I can practically feel my heart melt in my chest.

  “Kindhearted,” I say.

  He turns back to face me. “Huh?”

  “Kindheartedness,” I repeat. “That’s another for your book.” The best I’ve seen from him yet.

  * * *

  It’s the bottom of the fifth, just one out away from the next inning. We’re winning, with a comfortable lead. It hasn’t been a nail-biter, but the game has been exciting for me regardless. I’ve just started on my second monstrous frozen drink, courtesy of Jackson. This time I was the only one he bought a drink for, and once again, I have an internal celebration.

  I’ve had a great time so far. But there’s one small thing threatening my high spirits. She’s tall, tan and beautiful, and she’s sitting on the other side of Jackson. The only thing that separates them is the narrow aisle that people climb up and down, to and from their seats. She’s already sent him over a beer.

  Isn’t that the move men usually make? See a pretty girl, buy her a drink. Apparently women do it too. In fairness, this woman looks anything but typical. She’s forthright with her intentions, and I imagine it’s something that usually works for her. What is it about him that makes women flock? Yeah, he’s good-looking, but this seems a little extreme.

  She introduces herself over the hum of the crowd. “I’m Stephanie.”

  He nods politely. “Jackson.”

  Her perfect smile is so freakishly white, it can’t possibly be human. Her eyes flare to life like she’s won some sort of prize. Maybe she has. She’s certainly got his attention.

  He leans back to introduce me. “This is Charlie.”

  What? Is this a good thing? Or more of a this-is-a-buddy-and-not-a-threat-whatsoever kind of thing?

  I lift my hand in an awkward wave. “Hello.”

  She all but snarls at me, narrowing her eyes like a piranha. “Oh. I see. Well...enjoy the game.” She turns in her seat, returning her attention to the players. Um, rude! Whatever. I certainly don’t care.

  “That was weird,” Jackson mutters.

  My heart sinks a little. I recognize the look I was just given, the what’s-a-guy-like-that-doing-with-a-girl-like-her look. The same look I’ve given Mary Jane many times. Am I the new Mary Jane? Pining for something I’m not worthy of? Do I even really care what I am to him? Not really. As long as I’m spending time with him, I’m happy.

  “Kiss Me” by Sixpence None the Richer fills my ears, and my spirits lift. The kiss cam takes over the JumboTron. This is one of my favorite parts. The camera switches from happy couple to happy couple, all kissing for the camera.

  “Oh my God! That camera’s pointed at you.” Taylor extends a hand to point, bouncing in her seat. “You’re about to be on the kiss cam!” I look around in confusion and part panic.

  And she’s right. There’s a cameraman, less than ten feet away, pointing in my direction and giving me the thumbs-up. My head snaps up to the big screen just in time to see my horrified face appear on the screen.

  I look to Jackson in full-on panic. A small, amused smile tugs at his lips. How is he so calm? Seconds seem to turn into minutes, and I feel like the camera is never going to leave us. I hold my breath, wishing that I could somehow just suffocate myself and die. Dramatic, I know, but I’m absolutely mortified. And Jackson just keeps looking at me with that stupid smile.

  “Kiss her, man! Before I do!” Devin shouts, and just for that I would’ve let him.

  Jackson’s face breaks into his megawatt smile, and he grabs my face with his hands, taking me by surprise. Then he covers my mouth with his. His warm, citrusy scent makes my head spin. This kiss is long and sweet—and all for the camera, of course.

  Catcalls and whistles erupt around us. And then Taylor snaps me back to reality, pulling on my shoulder and pulling my lips from his. “Alright, that’s enough! You’ve been off the screen for a good five seconds. Stop now or get a room!”

  I press my palm to my chest to calm my racing heart then turn in my seat to face Jackson. “What took you so long?”

  He grins and leans in to speak against my ear. “I was waiting for you.”

  * * *

  As we drive away from the stadium, Taylor presses her forehead to the window and lets out a content sigh. “That was so fun.”

  Devin raises a brow. “So you would go again?”

  “Of course, babe!” She leans back and reaches for her seat belt with an ear-to-ear grin. “I would so go again. Tomorrow even, and the next day, and the next.” The baseball pants must have really made an impression on her.

  I laugh and click my own seat belt into place, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. “Me too.”

  We ride without speaking for the next few miles, only the sounds of the radio and Taylor’s not-so-great singing in my ears. Jackson drives east on the Tom Landry Freeway, taking us home.

  My mind drifts to the kiss shared with Jackson. It was for the kiss cam, there’s no denying that. But that doesn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t real, right? I mean, how could it not be real? I haven’t had a kiss like that since...well, since the last time I kissed Jackson.

  His lips were touching my lips. It should be simple. Skin against skin, just a touch, really. But there was nothing simple about it. That small amount of contact warmed my entire body, all the way to my toes. It didn’t just spawn butterflies...it was more like mutant pterosaurs. Thinking about it makes me want to sing, and do pirouettes and be happy in a ridiculous way. Honestly, I feel like I’m seven and he just kissed me for the first time again.

  When we pull into the drive, Devin and Taylor have their seat belts off and doors open before I can blink. After a quick goodbye, they scurry toward the front door. Leaving Jackson and me alone.

  I reach for my bag in the floorboard and loop the strap over my shoulder. Then I look at Jackson and grin. “Thanks for coming. I had a blast.”

  He leans forward and drops an arm over the steering wheel. “Thanks for inviting me.”

  I hesitate. Should I invite him in for a drink? Devin and Taylor will be having a few, but I’m tired from the long day and still fairly embarrassed about the kiss at the game. Actually, I’m not really embarrassed about the kiss. I’m more embarrassed by the fact that the replay has been spinning in my head on repeat since, like I’ve been making out with him somewhere in the back of my head ever since it happened.

  I decide against it, opting for another route instead. “We’re hanging out at the pool with Devin tomorrow. He lives at the Gables Villa Rosa, if you wanna come.”

  He drums his fingers on the dashboard, nodding slowly. “Yeah, that could be fun. I’ll see what’s going on and text you. Is that cool?”

  Not the response I was hoping for. I smile despite my disappointment, but it feels forced. “That’s cool.” We sit in awkward silence until I reach for the door handle. “Well. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  He leans back in his seat, away from the lights on the dash, making it impossible for me to read him. “Sounds good.”

  Why is this so weird? It’s as if there’s a wall between us, making him unapproachable. I don’t understand where it came from, or why for that matter. This isn’t my Jackson. This is alternate-universe Jackson. Maybe I should say something. But that will undoubtedly lead to me losing my shit and breaking down in front of him. That’s already happened once. A repeat is the last thing I need.

  I pull on the
handle and push the door open. “Alright. See you later?”

  “See you later,” he confirms.

  I step out of the car and shut the door. I hear the shifting of gears under the hood as he puts the car in Reverse. Then with a simple wave, he backs out of the drive and pulls away.

  As I walk to my front door, I decide I’m going to lose it anyway, because I miss Jackson. I’m spending time with him, and I still miss him. What the hell is that? It doesn’t even make sense.

  I force myself to go inside before I start running down the street, chasing his car like some crazed lunatic. Because let’s face it, it’s a Range Rover. There’s no chance in hell I’d actually catch it. I walk straight to my bedroom and shut the door behind me. Then I cry. I miss Jackson. I miss Adam. I want both of them back, and I kind of feel like I can’t have either.

  Chapter Six

  I bolt up in bed and pull in a huge gasp of air. I let it out in one big whoosh and rake in another one, breathing in short pants as I try to catch my breath. My body is covered in a cold sweat, and my heart is racing. I squint to bring the glowing numbers of the alarm clock into focus. Four a.m. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m awake again. Bringing my knees to my chest, I cover my face with my hands. Even though my head is hazed with sleep, I know what woke me. A nightmare. One I often have after drinking—one about Adam. It’s always the same, and I’ve had it many times before.

  In the dream Adam is in a partially collapsed building, ducked down behind a crumbling brick wall. I hold my breath as I watch him. The hissing sound of bullets come from all directions and random explosions rip through the air—it’s hectic. Despite it all, he’s so brave. He knows how to respond, no matter what’s thrown at him, and all his movements are executed with an eerie type of precision. For every action, he has a calculated response. The well-trained solider before me isn’t the annoying older brother I know. As he moves toward me, his pace is steady. Calm and in control—nothing like me. I stumble and fall over and over again as I try to reach him. I panic and scream and cover no ground.

  Despite all the chaos around us, I watch him in awe. His movements are heavy with confidence, and every step has a purpose. I try to will myself to be like him so we can reach each other. But I could never be like Adam, and part of me knows that. Maybe that’s why I can’t reach him.

  The dream has no ending. No matter how much ground Adam covers, he can’t get any closer to me. Eventually, I run out of air. When I take the first big breath in, I’m always back at home, in my bedroom and shaking. Awake and without Adam.

  Waking up never gets easier. I feel the way I always do: empty. Alone in my bed, wondering where he is and if there’s anything left of him. When we were children I believed in an afterlife. But since Adam died it’s been hard to believe in much of anything. I don’t feel his presence the way I imagined I would, or even the way I did when he was alive and at war. He’s not above the clouds watching over me. He’s not in the wind or in the sky. He isn’t here anymore, period. The biggest, deepest part of me believes that he’s just gone.

  I would give anything to have a piece of him back. As much as I hate having the dream, I don’t want it to go away, because I don’t want to lose another part of my brother. Maybe I build a wall to keep the nightmare away, and maybe alcohol breaks that wall down—I’m not sure. I’ve never questioned the reason for its reoccurrence, because it doesn’t matter to me. If drinking cracks my exterior shell enough to let the dream in, then I’m going to keep doing it. That’s all I need to know.

  I’m taking steps back...going in the wrong direction—I know that. And I know Adam would be disappointed in me, but I don’t care anymore. Something inside me wants to heal—it does. But the biggest part of me doesn’t want to put the pieces back together, and that’s the part that always wins.

  * * *

  I lie in bed for another hour, unable to go back to sleep. It’s not too early for a run, which I need, hungover or not. My stomach does uneasy flips, and my head feels like the inside of a well-used drum—ugh. I need water and Tylenol. And I probably need a good meal, but there’s no way food’s going to sit well with the wave of nausea I’m experiencing.

  My body rebels the entire time I get ready. When you feel like shit, you’re supposed to sleep. Not exercise. It’s an unwritten law. But I need the physical exertion today. I brush my teeth and twist my hair into a messy bun without brushing it. I rummage through my closet and put on the first pair of workout shorts I can find, pairing them with an old T-shirt. After I slip on my shoes, I head for the kitchen and force down a bottle of water and a granola bar. Then I’m out the door.

  The morning air is chilly for June and smells like rain. Small puddles cover the ground, and a glance at the dark, cloudless sky tells me I missed the downfall. Good. I stretch on the sidewalk before setting off.

  If my body was pissed off about getting out of bed before, it’s livid now. I like it this way though, so I start with a quick pace. There’s no easing into the workout. Just the ungraceful crash of my legs as I force them into a steady tempo. I focus on the pounding of my shoes as they fly over the pavement. I’m not thinking about Adam and how much I miss him, and I’m not thinking about Jackson and the fact that I miss him too, either. I’m only thinking about the ground beneath the soles of my feet and putting one foot in front of the other as I move across it.

  My body is numb by the time I make it to Stanton Road, but instead of turning around I push on. I keep going until the alcohol lingering in my system is gone and the unpleasant physical effects follow. My breathing has transitioned from controlled inhaling and exhaling to uncontrolled gasps and spurts. This is the part of running I love most. When every single ounce of my energy is poured into propelling me forward. Nothing else.

  I focus on my next step.

  I run until I forget.

  When I return to our driveway, my body is in a familiar despair. And the dream is forgotten. For now.

  * * *

  I try not to acknowledge the amount of time it takes me to blow-dry my hair. I like the end product but hate the process of getting there. Today I don’t mind the primping so much. If there’s a chance I’ll see Jackson, I want to look presentable.

  Once my hair is dry, I run the flatiron over the unruly curls that hide beneath my hair at the nape of my neck. Then I step back and study my reflection in the mirror. My hair is straight and long, and today it’s rather boring-looking. I opt for a loose fishtail braid instead, crimping some of the pieces that fall into waves. Much better. Next I apply mascara and lipstick and then toss the tubs into my purse for later. And that’s as far as my expertise goes in the beauty department.

  I rummage through my swimsuits, deciding on a strapless bikini with a bandeau top. It’s a bright shade of purple and suits my olive skin well. I’m pulling on a pair of denim shorts when Taylor pokes her head through my bedroom door. She frowns. “You’re not ready yet?”

  I yank a thin white tank top from its hanger and slip it over my head as I exit my closet. “Almost.”

  She pushes my door open farther and steps into the room. “The sun’s gonna go down before we get there.”

  I slide my feet into a pair of flip-flops and check the clock hanging on the far wall. “It’s only two o’clock.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest and smirks. “And after that it’ll be three. And then five. And then seven. And then the sun—”

  “Will be going down,” I finish. “I know, I know. I’m ready.” I sweep my cell phone off the bed and drop it into my bag. She heads through the door, and I follow.

  * * *

  Taylor’s eyes are full of sympathy as she watches me check my phone for what’s probably the seventeenth time this hour. “He hasn’t texted back?”

  I sigh and toss it to the ground. “No. He hasn’t.”

  She coils a
strand of her blond hair around her finger and tugs. “Maybe he will.”

  I flip over on the sun lounge and slide my sunglasses over my eyes to shade them from the glaring sun directly above. “It’s been two hours, T.”

  Devin crushes his empty beer can and tosses it into a nearby trash bin. “You should just stop worrying about it.”

  As if—he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Girls can’t not worry about things like this. This is going to build and build until it makes me crazy.

  I look down at my phone on the ground. I should destroy it. Throw it into the pool or off a really tall building. If I destroyed it, I wouldn’t have to worry about Jackson texting me back, and I wouldn’t have to worry about the growing desire to text him again. Technology is the devil.

  “I wish I could stop worrying about it,” I admit as a knot forms in my stomach. Worrying about not worrying about it is only making me worry more. Complete fail. I stare up at the sky and clouds, finding it all rather uninteresting. Why doesn’t my brain have an on/off switch? If I can’t get the switch, I should at least have a brain that listens. Instead, I’ve got some stupid, defiant part that refuses to process in conjunction with the rest of my head. Every single part of me doesn’t want to think about Jackson, but one annoying little fragment keeps bringing him up.

  Without warning, Taylor hops up to her feet. “I know exactly what you need!”

  Before I can tell her to sit back down, she takes off. “Oh God. What’s she doing?” I ask Devin.

  His copper eyes light up as he watches her. “She’s making a beeline for the bar. Run-walking, I would say.”

  “Wonderful.” The run-walk is never a good sign with her. She’s on a mission, determined to accomplish something. And I’ll tell you right now, it’s something crazy.

  “She’s bossing the bartender around,” he broadcasts.

  “Of course she is.”

  He twists his cap around backward and squints his eyes. “She’s asking him to hand over the bottle he’s holding.”