Just Don't Fall (Sweater Weather, #1; Appies, #1)

by Emma St. Clair

Though I fear it’s already too late. The crush has risen. More like … it never died and just sat quietly like a troll under the bridge, biding its time.

And me? I’m the black sheep who went to a liberal arts college, majored in communication, and gave up living with my parents’ financial favors and support in order to take a job I love while existing on a diet of ramen. Zero regrets.

I don’t quite remember what gout is, but it suddenly popped into my mind. Wasn’t it the thing Benjamin Franklin had from drinking too much Printer’s Punch? I had no idea this random piece of trivia from my seventh grade history class was still floating around in my brain.

I’m sort of blown away by her honesty. But then, Parker was always braver than me. She spills secrets like they’re pennies cast into a fountain to make wishes on.

I mean, eating and using the bathroom would be tricky if I refuse to let go of his hand. But as Jeff Goldblum’s character said in Jurassic Park, “Life finds a way.”

Mia’s grin could rival that of the Grinch, looking down over Whoville on Christmas Eve.

Men and their stupid battles of the handshakes. Can’t we all just get along? Can’t we???

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” “I would, actually,” Logan says, and then his voice changes. It’s sincere and impassioned. “We’ve lost years, and that’s my fault. But I want to know what I missed. To know who you are now, Parker, and who you want to be. Not to start over but to start fresh.” The words make my eyes prick with tears. They sound like a confession, and not the close friends kind. But am I delusional to think Logan could want more? With me?

“I would make sure you felt safe,” he says then. “Safe and wanted.” The words safe and wanted seem to float through the air before wrapping around me like a warm cloak. I want to tell Logan that he’s always made me feel safe. But my brain snags on wanted.

I would respond, but it’s taking all my brain function not to melt into a puddle of Parker right here outside my apartment door.

“We agreed to end the night with an amicable breakup and a handshake. Remember? I made a sticky note.” I say this as though writing something down on a pink sticky note carries all the seriousness of the Geneva Convention.

My thesis statement would read something like: When fake dating someone, the more real feelings you have, the worse the fallout will be. In the opening paragraphs, I would put forth the idea that fake dating a person you’ve actually had—or currently have—feelings for is a bad idea. Choose a person you’ll never be attracted to. Ever. For supportive evidence, I’d discuss the impact of things like dancing together, having conversations about real things, and laughing. All of which can impact one’s feelings. I would conclude with a warning not to ever, ever ask your fake date to describe how he would kiss you. And that the worst thing you can do is try to revert back to the established rules, pretending like nothing at all happened. Which is, of course, exactly what I tried to do.

I am such a baby, I think, scrubbing my face maybe a little too hard. The cowardly lion looks like a dashing hero compared to me. Because when faced with how to end what was a really great night, I just ran. Metaphorically and literally.

People can live perfectly fulfilled single lives. And those who choose to have cats are of superior intelligence, in my opinion. Cats are independent and brilliant and can display very human emotions. Except for mine, who displays demon emotions.

Because a cat whose name is a shortening of Evil Demon Spawn is currently parked on my chest.

I prefer this pleasant version of Mr. Eds to the evil demon spawn version.

“You can’t have forgotten how obsessed Harvest Hollow is with its apples. Also, do you think it’s an accident that the name Appies is so close to apples?” I snort. “I thought the name was short for Appalachian, like the mountains.” “It is. But I don’t think it’s a coincidence.

Plus the promise of even more food—the mere thought of pumpkin ravioli has me excited.

Because there is no one I’ve ever wanted to kiss more, and no one who has ever made me feel so respected for my choices. Or made me want to choose him.