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

by Courtney Walsh

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

I point at the both of them, double pointer fingers. “I should—” but my brain shuts off before finishing that sentence. I point at them again, and then walk over behind the Book Smart book wagon and force myself to inhale the longest, deepest breath I’ve ever taken. I wonder if there’s a paper bag around here because I might hyperventilate, and nearly dying twice in the same week is just a little bit too much excitement for one girl. I close my eyes and hold my arms over my head, shaking out my hands. I inhale again—this time even more deeply. “Is this some new sort of meditation?” Owen’s voice from behind me stuns my mouth shut, arms up, mid-breath. I spin around to face him without putting my arms down, like some lunatic sloth. His eyes jump to my raised arms, and I quickly drop them to my sides.

He gives me a smile. A real one. Those are hard to come by with Owen. This is also doing things to me. But then the smile fades, leaving us swimming in that same tense awkwardness as before. If Reagan were describing our tension, I dare say it would also not have the word “sexual” attached to it.

“Your mom’s inviting Mack and my parents. I think it’s turning into a whole thing.” “She’s really proud of her goulash. Be ready to gain fifteen pounds.” He smiles at that. “Okay,” he says. “Then, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” More of a question than a statement.

Reagan comes up beside me and follows my gaze. “You hate to see him go, but you love to watch him walk away.” I slowly turn toward her. “Are you finished?” “I’ve never seen you so flustered, Emmy.” She grins. “I’m just getting started.”

“Friends, you all know I love romance. I mean, look at the name of this podcast. I want to find adventure and romance, like Outlander Claire finds with Jamie on the Scottish hillsides. Like Julia Roberts, I want the fairy tale—okay, maybe not her profession, but the fire escape scene? Flowers and a public profession of love in the streets? Absolutely! “We all want to be swept off our feet. It’s why romance novels, rom-coms, all of them, are so popular. Is it unrealistic? Maybe. But that doesn’t necessarily mean we can’t hope for it. We want the romantic hero to walk out of our dreams and straight into our lives. And I, for one, don’t think we should apologize for wanting that. We yearn for the guy who shows up with chicken soup to take care of us when we’re sick, like Tom Hanks in You’ve Got Mail. We want our guy to write us love letters and kiss us in the rain or ask us to slow dance in the middle of the street. That’s what I’m holding out for, and I won’t apologize for it.

Don’t you deserve someone who occasionally cooks you dinner and brings you flowers—or better yet, coffee—just because? “The answer, of course, is yes. I know it’s a high expectation. I hear that a lot from subscribers, it’s like every third email is about that very thing. “But you have to believe you’re worth it. Because I don’t want to see you, or anyone for that matter, stuck in a relationship without romance.

If there’s no room for boomboxes held over your head or the delivery of a thousand of yellow daisies, maybe it’s time to move on.”

It’s a high standard. I know this. Ninety-five percent of guys aren’t going to chase down an airplane already taking off on the tarmac just to return the dried flower that you gave him when he was eight. But the last five percent? That’s what I’m holding out for. If he’s a unicorn, well, then, I’m going unicorn hunting. If the novels I’ve devoured over the years have taught me anything, it’s that a good man will, every once in a while, slow dance in the street.

Oddly, all I can think about is Owen. The least romantic person ever. He’s a main factor in why I’m so adamant about my Five Percent Guy in the first place. I literally want the exact opposite in every way. I want someone communicative and open with his feelings. Someone who loves romantic gestures. Someone who isn’t afraid to make a fool of himself for me. Tonight’s letter reminded me of that. Owen might be handsome, stupidly so, and he might make a gooey mess of my insides. But that’s just attraction. Never mind that it’s a strong motivator and a little too demanding. Owen is not my perfect match, my soulmate, or my future. Which is why he should stay in the past. Where he belongs.

I go through the motions of baking the pie I promised. As I chop up apples and sprinkle cinnamon, I am constantly shoving the words “baked with love” out of my mind. There is no love here. Only pie. And duty. Duty pie. But in spite of my many reminders, I feel myself getting nervous. Because yesterday, Owen brought up The Day That Shall Not Be Named. Right out there. In broad daylight. As if it’s a topic to be discussed on the street.

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

“You could’ve stayed with me,” she says, grabbing a corn chip and dunking it in my mom’s homemade queso. “Now you tell me,” I groan. But the truth is, I don’t mind staying with my parents. There’s something instantly cozy about being here, and it’s nice to not be alone.

I spot Owen and quickly look away, busying myself with the chopping of the vegetables, a task I loathe but begged for in hopes of calming my nerves and occupying my hands. Turns out using a knife when you’re nervous isn’t the best idea. I set it down and open the refrigerator. I pretend I need something out of it, but really, I just want to cool down. My face is on fire.

Something inside me settles. This is my place. These are my people. I glance at Owen. Except for him.

There’s a basket of bread on the counter, and I go to pick it up at the same time Owen grabs the basket from the other side. I have a scene flash in my mind from Lady and the Tramp, only it’s Owen and me eating the opposite ends of a dinner roll. I think something might actually be wrong with me.

I freeze in place like a giant block of cement, and Owen steps forward and pulls out the chair next to Mack, motioning for me to sit down. It’s a simple, old-fashioned gesture that catches me off-guard. How am I supposed to keep my feelings in check if he’s going to do things like that? Mack grabs my arm. “Here, sit.” As I do, Owen slips the chair in closer to the table, and then takes the seat directly across from me. Which means every time I look up, I’m going to get an eyeful of Owen. Great.

“So, Owen. . .” He pauses, as if waiting for the attention of the room, which I hate to say, he has. “Back in Harvest Hollow.” “Yes, sir.” “We’re awfully glad you are. Especially Emmy—am I right, kiddo?”

Emmy’s eyes widen, then drop to her lap. I see her mom catch her dad’s eye. She fires a sort of nonverbal warning shot, and her dad turns back to look at me. “I just meant because you pulled her out of that fire,” Rob says. “You basically saved her life.” “Technically, he didn’t,” Emmy mumbles without looking up. “She’s right,” I say. “Technically, I only carried her because she was too stubborn to come with me when I told her to.”

“We saw your interview,” Jeannie says. “You did a very good job.” “Can’t believe you sat down and talked to Lindsay,” Mack says, emphasizing her name so it sounds like it tastes bad coming out of her mouth. “You should’ve told her viewers what a narcissistic snake she is.”

I smile back at her. She tosses me a dish towel. “I think it’s a little late for this,” I say. “The damage is done. There’s water dripping down my—” “Hey, Whoa! I don’t need to know that,” she cuts in, and then, her eyes find the tile floor. “And I’m sorry for what I said in there.” “What did you say in there?” She shakes her head. “No. About what I didn’t say.” I stare. I’m not sure what she means. She looks up. “I didn’t say out loud that we were friends.” Ah. I shrug. “No big deal.” But then, she gets quiet. “We were friends, weren’t we?” I hold her gaze for several seconds, but before I can answer, Mack walks into the kitchen. “I came to save you, Emmy,” she says. “From Three-Date Owen.” Emmy laughs, softly, and looks away.

“I think you’re being a little melodramatic.” She files a plate into the dishwasher and looks at me. “Unless your feelings for Owen are back. . .?” I glare at her. “Mom.” “I don’t know,” she says, a bit sing-songy. “Sexy firefighter pulling you to safety,” Mom says with a sigh. “Nobody would blame you if your romantic imagination was working overtime about that one.”

My dad sets the dishes on the counter, then steps into the space behind my mom and wraps his arms around her. “And. . .that’s my cue,” I say, walking away before I see anything I can’t unsee. My parents have gotten used to living alone, and I definitely don’t want to witness any of their newfound frisky freedom.

I step off the porch and inhale. The air in the mountains is crisp and cool, and it instantly calms my nerves. The leaves have started to turn, and I’m struck by how the earth beautifully lets go of the things that need to be reborn.

I walk out behind the house and stand, looking out through the stretch of yard. How long has it been since I’ve visited the pond? In college, I always took time down there when I visited home. But after Owen left, I stopped going. Soon after, I bought my own house, and my spot became a thing of the past. Now though, I’m curious. Pulled, almost. I take a step, then another, and begin to make my way across the yard. As I walk through the familiar stretch of trees, and a deep, peaceful calm washes over me, I realize I missed this too. There really is something about being home.

My calm is shattered the second I step out of the trees and see Owen, sitting on my dock, just like he did all those years ago. He must’ve heard my footfalls, the cracking twigs underneath my feet, because when I spot him, he’s already looking at me. I freeze, like a psychotic deer, one foot kind of up in the air. He tilts his head slightly, and I slowly put my foot down. I instantly want to turn and run the other way, but then he stands up, almost like he expects me to take my spot on the opposite side of the dock. Just like we used to.

“I can go,” I say. He shoves his hands in his pockets, and I see a flash of the high school version of him. Moody. Hurting. Broken. Misunderstood. A tingle rushes down my spine at the memory, and I’m struck by how easy it is for me to conjure those same feelings I had all those years ago. They’re right there on the surface, and if I give them even an ounce of attention, they’ll grow like dandelions in ...

I walk over, slowly, and when I reach the dock, I finally glance up and meet his eyes. “You can stay too.” “You sure?” I nod. “You’re not going to push me in or anything, are you? Finish off what you started at dinner?” “Ha ha.” I sit down, begging my nerves to stop bouncing around like they’re playing a game of table tennis inside my rib cage. One simple nig...

Now, sitting here next to him again, I’m filled with that same teenage angst. I’m just shy of thirty-years-old! How about taking a mature approach to all of this?! What would The Hopeful Romantic tell me to do? Probably to wake up and see Owen for who he really is. He’s not hiding it from me. He’s Three-Date Owen. He’s the guy who left without a word. He’s moody and brooding and hardly ever talks. And not at all what I’m looking for in a relationship. So, why can’t I stop looking for the rest of the story where he’s concerned? The silence isn’t as exciting as it was when we were kids. Now, it’s just awkward.

I search his face for forgiveness, and it’s right there. Like it always has been. No judgment. No prejudice.

Time to be an adult and have an adult conversation. Running away from him isn’t going to work. Harvest Hollow isn’t that big.

I want to tell him he’s right. I want to tell him I meant every word I said to him that day. I want to say a lot of things, but I can’t. It’s too hard. Especially because I see his point. My timing was terrible.

My heart fluttered at the sight of him in his tux, looking more handsome than anyone had a right to look. I knew from Mack that he was working on becoming a firefighter, and though we didn’t visit the pond as much anymore, I’d found him there once or twice over the last few years. Each time, I left with a renewed crush. He made it darn near impossible for me to seriously date anyone else. The ridiculous, imaginary pedestal I’d put him on made everyone else pale in comparison.

“I’m happy for you, Owen,” I said, and I meant it. “Thanks.” I didn’t ask him questions about Lindsay, because I didn’t want to hear how in love with her he was, which made me a terrible friend. It didn’t matter anyway, because his friend Jace called him inside. The ceremony was about to start. “I’ll see you in there?” he asked. I nodded. He looked happy. I couldn’t deny it, and I didn’t begrudge him a full, joy-filled life. I was just surprised that Lindsay was “the one.”

I knew in that moment I’d never forget the look on his face. Eleven minutes later, the pastor stepped forward and announced that there’s been a complication, and things would have to unfortunately be postponed. Because five minutes before that. . .Lindsay left. She left. She left Owen standing there, in front of all their friends and family, looking lost and embarrassed and hurt.

He met my eyes, his on fire with hurt, jaw steeling against the rage of emotions washing up, and I stood, motioning with my head in the direction of the exit. His nod was so slight, I almost missed it, but he slipped out the side door and met me in the parking lot. Without a word, he got in my car, and I drove off, leaving the church in the rearview mirror. I sped down the highway in the direction of the only place I could think to go. The dock.

He let out a breath. “Emmy, you know I’m a first-class screw-up, right?” I squeezed his hands. “No. You aren’t. Yeah, you’ve made some mistakes, but haven’t we all?” “You haven’t.” “Yeah,” I said. “I have. They’re just. . .different kinds of mistakes.”

“No,” I said, suddenly feeling like it was my duty to make him feel better, to get him to see that if Lindsay didn’t realize what she had then she didn’t deserve him. “I’m not. I’m being honest. You’re the kindest, most thoughtful person I know. The way you’ve helped me over the years—” “Uh, switch that around, I think you were the one who helped me.” “I helped you pass classes. You helped me in other ways. We’re even.” I looked up at him. There was hurt in his eyes, and I wanted to go hunt Lindsay down and tell her she was the worst person in the world for making him feel like this. And then drive over her with my car.

He left. Panic washed over me. What have I done? My dock. His altar. I turned and faced the water. Alone. I’m such a fool. I stood, and as the tears fell, I wished I could take it all back.

“My only friend, at times. Is that bad?” “I should get back before it gets dark.” I stand and start down the dock because somehow my cheeks are flaming again, and my humiliation has only gotten worse. I am proud of being a “nerd,” but it does sting sometimes knowing it cements my place in people’s lives. “Emmy,” he says. I stop and look at him. “Are we still?” “Still what?” He takes a step closer. “Friends.” He looks so earnest when he says it, I almost think he missed talking to me as much as I missed talking to him, though likely for entirely different reasons. “Yeah,” I say. “Of course.” He breathes out, almost like a sigh of relief. Was he worried I wouldn’t be his friend anymore? “And you’ll stop being a weirdo?” I press my lips together. “No promises.” He smirks, that full smile always just out of reach. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry I left that day. Without saying anything.” I go still. I believe him. “And I’m sorry I told you—” I can’t even say it. It’s so embarrassing. “You know.” “Yeah, I know.” He nods. “Can I walk you home?” I scrunch up my face at him. “Friends again, huh?” He shrugs and doesn’t say anything. Classic Owen. Friends.

“Listen, there are a few traditions we have here that I want to make sure you know about.” I frown because the captain sounds serious, and traditions don’t seem like serious business. “Okay.” “One of them is the annual fireman’s calendar.” I stare in disbelief. “That can’t be a thing.” “Unfortunately, it is,” he says. “You’d think it would’ve gone out of style, but it’s still a big moneymaker for the department.” I can see where this is going, and I don’t want any part of it. “It’s all done in good taste,” he says, preempting my refusal. “So, what, they take pictures with our shirts off or something?” “No,” he says, laughing. “Have you seen Rigsby’s midsection? I think the only letters of the alphabet that guy knows are K, F, and C.” I stifle a laugh. It’s true. “No, son, no half-naked firemen on my watch.” A pause. “They want to take your picture with the girl.”

“I don’t want to be in this calendar,” I stew. “Even if Emmy agrees.” “Sorry, but there’s no way around it,” he says. “It’s for the good of the whole department.” I lean back in my chair. “There have to be rules against this.” “Nobody’s trying to turn you into Magic Mike over here,” he says. “And it was my wife’s idea, so I don’t really have a choice.”

“Thanks, Captain.” He nods, and I walk out into the hallway, feeling like someone just gave me back my life. The first person I want to tell is Emmy. I mean, we’re friends now. . .again. . .right? I realize I’d like to have Emmy back in my life.

“They’re obsessed.” “With what?” I say, as the sound of a woman’s voice fills the space. “Welcome to The Hopeful Romantic, where we analyze, digest and discuss all things romance,” the older woman’s voice says. I stand there, dumbfounded. “Are they serious?” “As a heart attack,” Jace says.

“Is she serious?” I scoff. “Shhhh!” She goes on with a whole list of things her perfect man will do. Stargazing in the back of a pick-up truck? Playing a song underneath her window? A grand gesture? I’m starting to understand why this woman is still single. Her perfect man doesn’t exist. I glance over at the others. Turner is actually taking notes. “Are you guys for real?” “Listen. I know it sounds crazy. But this stuff works, Larrabee,” Pearson says. “It saved my marriage.” “Come on,” I prod. “There are more important things in a relationship than making out in the rain.”

“Have you ever made out in the rain?” Jace pointedly asks. I get defensive. “Well, no, but. . .” “Don’t knock it until you try it.” He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at me. “She could probably help you get out of your little funk.” “I’m not in a funk.” “Have you dated anyone seriously since Lindsay?” “Who’s Lindsay?” Pearson asks. “Nobody.” I shoot Jace a look. “And no, I haven’t. By choice. Women are nothing but trouble.” “You’re crazy,” Levi says. “I love women!” There’s a collective “we know” on a groan. “Oh!” Pearson picks up his phone and starts scrolling around. “You should listen to Episode 115. Lonely in Larkspur.” Turner says, “Ooh, yeah, that’s a good one.” “You have them memorized?” What is wrong with these guys? “It’ll help. I swear,” Jace sounds convinced. I frown. “I didn’t ask for help. And I’m not lonely.” Pearson looks up and stops scrolling. “Well, you will be with that attitude.”

My phone buzzes, and there, in the firehouse group chat, is a link to Episode 115. I’m not going to listen to that.

Still, there is something about it. Something addictive. Something I can’t quite pinpoint. So, I listen. While I’m washing the trucks. While I’m out for my morning run. While I’m lifting weights. Throughout my entire shift, I’ve got this woman chattering on through my AirPods about what women really want, about how to be a good partner, about holding out for a certain kind of guy—all based on the supposed wisdom of classic (and modern) romance novels.

And, after an assumption and a quick search on Amazon, I’m not surprised to find out that 95% of romance novels are written by women. Women writing about ideal men for women without asking the men. Shocker that they’re getting it all wrong.

Mack laughs, then her face turns serious. “Wait, this isn’t going to be like a photo of shirtless Owen, just suspenders and fireman’s pants, leaf-blower aimed at him off camera, carrying you to safety, is it?”