Can't Help Falling (Sweater Weather, #3)

by Courtney Walsh

Who am I kidding? I don’t go to parties. I wish someone would invite me to one so I could politely decline. I stay home and read. A lot. Pajamas > Party.

Fictional men are always better than the real ones.

Probably because they’re written by women.

want Mr. Darcy clenching his hand after helping Elizabeth into the carriage. Or Ryan Reynolds bursting into my workplace to profess his love for me after faking our engagement. Or Harry telling Sally that he wants the rest of their lives to start as soon as possible.

The man who saved my life is a grown-up version of the boy who broke my heart.

Does he remember the day I was the one saving him?

Per usual, though, the whole relationship was decidedly one-sided. My friendship with Owen was never for public consumption.

Yeah, glad to be alive, but helplessly and hopelessly angry at everything else.

I tell myself not to confuse his attention with anything other than what it is— professional duty. He has a job to do, and he’s seeing it through.

Owen Larrabee saved me. Now all I have to do is not fall in love with him. Again.

She was kind of a wallflower.” Not around me she wasn’t. Emmy Smart. Not the kind of girl who should get under my skin, but for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about her house and. . .her.

wave of protectiveness rises inside me. I glare at him. “Don’t.” He lifts his hands. “Whoa. Got it. Message received.” Why the heck did I do that?

She’s like a walking reminder of the day my life fell apart.

Let me repeat that in hopes my heart hears me.

We sat and let each other exist in the quiet of the summer evening, in a safe place with no judgment, no rules, and no one to impress.

I don’t prescribe to a lot of those broad-brush strokes when it comes to generation bashing,

now without his business to focus on, he focuses on everyone else’s business.

Out there, in the space where the yards of our childhood homes met, we weren’t “rotten apple” and “bookworm.” We were just two people with big feelings, trying to figure out who we were going to be.

I attempt to mentally summon the version of myself that is unmoved by a man’s kindness, or general good-looking-ness, but she must be off for the day.

This is not a reunion I want. Or deserve.

It didn’t matter to her that a 9-5 office job would suck the life right out of me.

One I pulled from a fire, and the other is trying to drag me back into one. Either way, I get burned.

My can-do attitude is a damp paper towel holding up a bowling ball.

I like who I am. I like spending my time the way I want to spend my time. I like my pajamas and my books. And I like helping people via my podcast. I’m comfortable with who I am, and I’m not going to let this trip down memory lane change that.

“You okay?” “Yeah,” I say. “You’re a bad liar.”

Some of them are black, with billowed shapes like permanent shadows.

There are good things happening here, too. I mentally tell myself this over and over because right now, I have to hold on to the good things.

“It is hard,” I say, honestly. “I feel homeless.” He stands there, watching me, and I feel like I’ve just cracked myself open and offered him a peek inside. I backtrack with, “But it’s okay. I know I’ll be okay.” “You don’t have to do that, you know.” I frown inside the mask. “Do what?” “Downplay this. It’s a huge thing.”

Emmy turns around and looks at me. There’s a tension between us (I think?). Not unlike this house, there’s air that needs to be cleared.

she’d pull little snippets from our pond chats as proof that I was a good guy and wield those snippets like a warrior in battle.

My favorite is, “Oh my gosh, it could’ve been so much worse!” As if it wasn’t bad enough. As if I want to think about all the things that could’ve been worse.

My customers mean well, but by the time the interview rolls around and Lindsay shows up, I want to crawl into a hole and stay hidden until hell freezes over or Leonardo DiCaprio dates someone his own age, whichever comes first. Probably the hell thing.

Just nice, undemanding silence devoid of expectation.

There was an unspoken agreement to share this space, because for some reason, it was safe.

I didn’t want her to get in trouble for being my friend. At school, we were separate. At the dock, we were equals. Almost. She was still way smarter than I was.

But that was Emmy. Quietly funny.

She smiled. It’s a kind smile. No judgment. No opinion. Just a plan of action and a belief that I’m not a lost cause.

I’ve capitalized both in my head.

Something inside me aches at the familiarity of the scene, the way they can sit here in silence and be perfectly in sync. My parents have the kind of relationship nobody would write about. Because it’s comfortable and kind—and boring. They hardly ever fight, and over the years, they’ve settled into this quiet, wonderful rhythm.

She’s been a sounding board, a shoulder to cry on, and the voice of wisdom over the years. But I’m not a kid anymore. And there are some things about Owen and me that even she doesn’t know.

was thoughtful. Again. What in the world am I supposed to do with that?

“I’m making goulash,” she says. “Everyone loves goulash.” “Maybe if everyone were British orphans in the 1830’s,” I mutter.

It’s weirdly familiar, but everything is smaller. It echoes coziness.

Am I missing out on “great” waiting for “perfect”? How would I know if this is the wrong guy who just happened to come along at the right time?

That’s what I’m holding out for, and I won’t apologize for it.

My mom’s always had an open kitchen policy, meaning, her dining table always has room for one more chair.

Doesn’t he know we don’t rehash our most embarrassing moments? We slowly back away and never speak of them again.

How am I supposed to keep my feelings in check if he’s going to do things like that?

doing that mom thing where she thinks she’s helping and meaning well but it just comes off as embarrassing and condescending.

Our friendship was hard to navigate back then, and while neither of us ever said so, somehow it felt best to keep it a secret.