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

by Courtney Walsh

These are the women I’ve been closest to in my entire life. One I pulled from a fire, and the other is trying to drag me back into one. Either way, I get burned.

“Can I help you?” Emmy asks Lindsay. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t be so formal, Emmy.” Lindsay laughs, like they’re old friends, which they aren’t. Lindsay wasn’t exactly a mean girl, but she never went out of her way to be nice. Emmy’s face doesn’t move except for a quick fake smile...

Emmy’s face doesn’t move except for a quick fake smile. Lindsay won’t be able to tell, but I can. Fu...

“What could you possibly want to talk to me about?” Emmy half-laughs as she says this, and all at once, I see the awkward, shy girl who used to come around the house with Mack. So, she hasn’t completely changed.

“Right. Sorry. You two have been through a lot.” Yeah, we have. And I still have no idea how Emmy is doing, or what the state of her house is, or if she has anything but one bunny slipper to wear on her feet. Without thinking, I lean forward, trying to see over the counter, but the angle is all wrong. “Do you have shoes on?” Emmy frowns. “What?” She laughs. “Shoes,” I say. “Last night, you were wearing one slipper.” “Oh.” She glances down at her feet. “Yeah, I mean. . .I had to wear something else, you know. . .” I feel stupid. “Yeah, I didn’t think. . .you probably couldn’t go barefoot. . .” “Yeah, I borrowed a pair from my mom.” She gives herself a once-over, making a face and half-posing awkwardly. “Everything I’m wearing is my mom’s. Thankfully, she doesn’t dress like a grandma.” “Yeah, you look. . .it looks good. It’s good.” There’s a pause, and we just look at one another. Lindsay clears her throat. I actually forgot she was there for a minute.

Yeah, we have. And I still have no idea how Emmy is doing, or what the state of her house is, or if she has anything but one bunny slipper to wear on her feet. Without thinking, I lean forward, trying to see over the counter, but the angle is all wrong. “Do you have shoes on?” Emmy frowns. “What?” She laughs. “Shoes,” I say. “Last night, you were wearing one slipper.” “Oh.” She glances down at her feet. “Yeah, I mean. . .I had to wear something else, you know. . .” I feel stupid. “Yeah, I didn’t think. . .you probably couldn’t go barefoot. . .” “Yeah, I borrowed a pair from my mom.” She gives herself a once-over, making a face and half-posing awkwardly. “Everything I’m wearing is my mom’s. Thankfully, she doesn’t dress like a grandma.” “Yeah, you look. . .it looks good. It’s good.” There’s a pause, and we just look at one another. Lindsay clears her throat. I actually forgot she was there for a minute.

I’m empathetic, so I often cry on behalf of other people—or from a great scene in a book, or a father-son reunion in a Coke commercial. Today, when I rush away from Lindsay and Owen, I’m fighting tears that are all my own.

Owen might not be the perfect man, but he was perfect for me.

I’m not her. All head-turning make-up and great posture. I’m the weirdo. I’m the girl who is more likely to spend a Friday night on my couch, engrossed up in a romance novel than going out to the bars. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I went out on the weekend.

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.

He barely smiles because Owen isn’t one for smiling. Years ago, I got really good at reading his face, at hearing what he wasn’t saying. Very few people took the time to do that. It’s why everyone underestimated him.

“Okay, you wanna tell Reagan we’re leaving?” I have to smile. He remembered her name. Impressive. He turns to my jacket, hanging on a hook by the door. “This yours?” I nod as he takes it down, then holds it open for me to slip into. I stare at him. When I move toward him to slide my arms into the sleeves, I inhale a deep breath, like a dog locking on to the scent of a lost hiker in the woods.

“My truck’s out front,” he says, and as we walk out into the shop, he puts a hand around my shoulder, guiding me past some people. It almost—almost—feels like we’re together. Like we’re more than friends. I could close my eyes and imagine we’re heading out for a late breakfast, just me and my man.

He points to a very nice pick-up truck parked a few spaces down the street. He pulls the door open and motions for me to get it. When I do, he closes the door behind me and walks around the front of the truck, giving me a few moments to admire him. I’ve always known he’s good-looking. Obnoxiously so. He won the genetic lottery, with Henry Cavill’s chin and Matt Bomer’s blue eyes.

Owen slips in behind the steering wheel and starts the engine. The cab of the truck fills with a scent that is so very Owen, equal parts sandalwood and juniper.

I’m basically high right now. And Owen is the drug.

He hasn’t changed. He’s always been this kind. People just don’t bother to look long enough to see it. And take me or leave me Owen doesn’t bother trying to prove himself.

My hands start inadvertently shaking, and my breath starts to fog the mask. I instinctively reach out and grab his arm. He turns and reaches up to place his hand on mine—and I’m instantly comforted.

“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.

Owen pulls open the door to the basement, and I see a coating from the smoke left behind on the walls. That coating is everywhere, it seems, and I have no idea how anyone is ever going to get that off. Something tells me a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser isn’t going to cut it.

I push past the studio and into the laundry room, thankful I was behind on housework this week. I find two full baskets of clean clothes and another one waiting to be washed. I never thought three baskets of laundry would mean so much to me, but they feel like such a gift, even if they will smell like they were hanging on a clothesline near a bonfire.

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.

I remember the first time I talked to Emmy. I’d wandered down to the dock at the lake behind the house, looking for silence and solitude. She walked up about ten minutes later. I didn’t know she’d already claimed this spot as her own. The first time was awkward—but nice. She gave me a candy bar. We both just sat there, neither of us saying a word. It was like she didn’t expect me to, and I didn’t have to.

In all the years she and Mack had been hanging out, I’d never really had a conversation with her. But she let me sit there, in silence. She read while I wrote. I poured things into that journal that helped me sort things out in my head. Long, run-on sentences, rife with misspelled words and scratched out phrases. Haphazard thoughts that would never be judged, or graded, or seen, but somehow calmed my racing mind.

Unlike me, Emmy was smart. Really smart. She’d probably graduate at sixteen. I’d be ...

After three nights of consistent sitting in silence, Emmy finally spoke. She reached into her bag and pulled out a little lunchbox. She unzipped it and pulled out a small container of brownies. “Do you want one?” She smiled, and it caught me off-guard. I’d never looked at Emmy as anything other than my sister’s friend. And I didn’t make a habit of hanging out with Mack’s friends. She held the glass container out to me. “I baked them. I took them out a minute early so they’re warm and gooey. Nobody wants an overbaked brownie.” I reached in and took out one of the corner pieces. She smiled again. “The corners are my favorite too.” My first word to her: “Thanks.”

Then, she nodded at my journal. “What are you writing?” I instinctively pulled it a little closer to me. “Oh, is it private?” I shrugged. “It’s. . .uh. . .nothing important.” “Gotcha.” She didn’t press me for more information, something I wasn’t used to. Most people are always trying to get me to share my thoughts or my feelings or some other garbage that I have no interest in talking about. I nodded at her book. “What are you reading?” And then, with a smirk, “Or is it private?” She scrunched up her face, pressing a hand to the book. “It’s a re-read. Sense and Sensibility.”

It went on like this for weeks. Not every night, but often. Every time I needed space, I headed down to the dock. And she was there. And somehow, she didn’t intrude on my need to think.

When fall hit and it started to get a little colder, we bundled up and brought blankets. There was an unspoken agreement to share this space, because for some reason, it was safe. And while neither of us said so, it seems we both need a safe space.

She talked a lot more than I originally thought she would, which was fine with me because I liked to listen way more than I liked to talk. Emmy wasn’t some quiet little wallflower, like I thought. At least, not with me. She was spunky and witty and kind of hilario...

At school, we were separate. At the dock, we were equals.

In the spring of my junior year, after months of covert meetings, I showed up at the pond on a regular Thursday, feeling like I just got run over by a bulldozer. By then, Emmy could read my expressions, and vice versa. She took one look at me, frowned, and opened the small container that was on her lap and without saying a word, offered what was inside. I nodded at it, asking a silent question. “Banana bread with crumble on top,” she said. “I’ll give you a piece if you tell me why you look like that.” I made my way down the dock and sat. It was cool outside, cooler than normal, and I noticed the extra blanket she brought folded up to the side. I leaned to grab that one, but she lifted her blanket as if to say, “Here, share with me.” I scooted over, and she dropped the blanket over my legs and looked at me. “I know you’re not one to talk about your feelings or anything.” I looked away. She tilted the container of banana bread at me, and I sheepishly took three pieces. “Oof. Three pieces. This must be a doozy.” I smiled through my sullen expression, in spite of myself.

It was the lack of pressure from her that made me want to share. She wasn’t trying to figure me out, or worse, fix me.

I heard what they weren’t saying. I couldn’t grasp the lessons in school. I didn’t read well. My spelling was bad. I wasn’t smart.

“Except in woodshop. I get A’s in that class.” Her eyes drifted over to the birdhouse I made last semester. She hung it in one of the trees down here by the pond. She’d actually been impressed by it; so much so that she named it, and I got to use the wood burner kit at school to etch it on the front. Home Tweet Home. Hilarious. But that was Emmy. Quietly funny. Nobody had ever been impressed by something I’d done before. I wasn’t used to it. Usually, all I did was let people down.

She angled her body toward me and waited for me to look at her. When I did, I saw her expression was serious. “So, you learn differently than other people. That doesn’t make you dumb.” I shook my head and looked away. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to have to repeat eleventh grade. I’ll be lucky if I graduate.” Her brow knit together, and she chewed on her lower lip. “Do you trust me?” I felt my forehead pull in confusion. “Why?” “Maybe I can help,” she said. “What, like tutor the dumb kid?” She smacked me across the arm. “Ow! Hey!”

She looked determined. “Owen, I get that most of your life you didn’t know about this, but now that you do, you can work with it. I’m not an expert, but I do work in the tutoring center at school. I’ve picked up a few things that will help.” “You really don’t want to take this on,” I told her. “You kidding? I’m just doing this so I’m not stuck with you for an extra year.” 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.

Sitting here in Book Smart, I’m realizing how important her belief in me was all those years ago. And how much I miss it now.

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. Even though I’m addicted to romance novels, and a part of me yearns to be swept off my feet, the truth is another part of me wants what they have.

“So. . .” she says once we’re on our way to town. “You’re going to grill me, aren’t you?” She folds her hands on her lap. “Yes.” “There’s no escape?” “No, there is not.” “As you wish,” I quip. I mentally gird my loins for this battle. Not exactly a land war in Asia, and there’s no iocane powder to speak of, but it’s going to be a back-and-forth worthy of Vizzini and the Dread Pirate Roberts.

“And Owen?” I chew the inside of my lip and keep my eyes on the road. A good twenty seconds of silence pass. “You ignoring me?” Mom watches me, waiting for an answer to her simple two-word question.

Mom is the only person in the world who knew the truth about my former feelings for Owen. She’s been a sounding board, a shoulder to cry on, and the voice of wisdom over the years.

“It’s okay to have feelings about all of this, Emmy. It’s a lot to process.” “I really don’t have any feelings, Mom,” I lie. “Well, we all know that’s not true.”

“I’m sure. Invite him. Throw him a party. Let’s make tomorrow Owen Larrabee Day! I’ll show up with a big cutout sign of his face on a stick.” “You are impossible.” I shake my head. “Honestly, Mom. I’m fine. Invite him. Really.” “Okay. I just wanted to make sure.”

I spot Reagan over in front of the Book Smart book wagon. The wagon, which is actually a refurbished VW van, is parked behind our booth. I had a local auto body place retrofit the side so it lifts up, like an awning, with fun rustic shelves and a woodsy interior. Just like at the shop, people can peruse books, order coffee, or purchase a pastry.

“Talk about tense.” Tense? There was tension? Between who? I pause and look at her, then lean on the table, a little closer to her, and say, “Like . . .sexually tense?” She laughs. “Why did you whisper that? No one’s around. You can say the word ‘sexually.’ You are an adult.”

“Speak of the devil.” I follow Regan’s gaze across the pavilion and see Owen, wearing jeans and a navy blue T-shirt with an open flannel button-down over it. He’s wearing a backwards baseball cap, and I’m pretty sure he should be named “Sexiest Man Alive” by every single magazine in the world. Even Popular Mechanics and Bird Watchers Monthly.

My way too friendly mother starts shouting his name and waving at him. At the sound of the crazy woman, Owen stops and turns around. I know this because I have a perfect view of his boots, and I see them change direction. I’m still squatting, and my quads are not strong enough for this. If this takes too long, I’m going to fall over.

My thighs are already burning. I really need to get myself to a gym. You never know when you’re going to need to stay still in a deep squat.

I pick up a bag of coffee beans and stand, blowing a strand of hair off my forehead. Mom, who is applying for the title of Captain Obvious, makes a production of this. “What were you doing on the ground?” Owen watches me, the slightest trace of amusement behind his eyes. I hold up the bag of coffee. “Dropped this.” Mom looks at me like I’m one step away from being hauled off in a straitjacket, and I force myself to smile. I shove the bag of coffee in Reagan’s hand and lean toward her. “Traitor,” I whisper.