Page 8 of Fall For You

Back then, I seriously believed that I had my whole life mapped out. I was going to major in agriculture, learn about all the latest techniques, things no one in my family had heard of yet. And then, after four years of partying in the big city, I’d return to Heartwood to settle down and help to grow the family farm—amazing everyone with how smart I’d become in the process.

Instead, I found that the learning disabilities I’d struggled with in high school had not magically gone away, after all. I hated my studies. The classes I’d signed up for were boring and dry and totally beyond me. I got lost in the theory and the science was so far above my pay grade I’d’ve needed a helicopter to have even gotten an eye-level glimpse of it.

The only thing that sparked my interest was a random lecture I’d spontaneously attended on the farm to table movement. That was a revelation. I became so enamored with the subject that, eventually, I switched to a culinary program. Which did not go down well with my father. At all.

The funny part was that, by then, I’d thought I’d grown used to disappointing him. I thought it wouldn’t bother me anymore. Turns out I was wrong.

Whenever he’d been angry with me up until then, it was always because I’d legitimately messed up in some way. He’d been right to be angry, and I’d been wrong to do whatever i’d done. So why would I have held his anger against him?

But now, I’d finally found something that I loved and was passionate about—something I honestly felt like I could excel at for once in my life. So, for him to come along and heap scorn on that? Well. All I can say is, it hit different.

I couldn’t forgive him. Worse: I didn’t want to forgive him. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that it was his fault that I was on the brink of flunking out at the end of my third year, but let’s just say I wasn’t as motivated as I could have been, as I neededto be in order to succeed. I mean, what was the point? It wasn’t like he was going to support me in my goal of opening my own restaurant. In fact, he was probably never going to be proud of me for anything anyway. So why bother trying to do anything?

I returned home at the end of that spring term feeling depressed and defeated. I was twenty-one, a fully-fledged adult. I was free to make my own decisions, blaze my own trail, do whatever the hell I wanted to do. Except I had no idea what that was.

And there was Jo. My best friend. The only person who believed in me, the only one I could talk to. She slipped out of her house one night and I picked her up and we drove out to the country—like we used to do when I was teaching her to drive. Only now we went there to talk, to share a six-pack and gaze at the stars. She was eighteen years old, fresh out of high school, and primed for trouble. The stars in her eyes, when she talked about what she wanted to do with her life were bigger and brighter than the ones that shone overhead.

Listening to her talk that night, it was clear to me what the future would look like. She’d head off to school in the fall and never look back. She’d make new friends, develop new interests. And even when she came back to visit, things would be different between us. I would lose our friendship and the comfort of these moments.

I’m not proud of the fact that I wanted to hold onto her—to hold onto this—for just a little bit longer, to be her knight in shining armor one last time. So, when she asked me if I wouldn’t buy her some booze so that she and her friends could party at the river the following night, I went her one better…

“What would you say if I told you that I knew a way to fix it so that you could drink legally—in public, right here in Heartwood, whenever you wanted to—as long as you were with me?”

She slanted a sidewise gaze in my direction. “I’d say quit holding back, my dude. I don’t know what you’ve been smoking, but whatever it is, I want in.”

“I’m serious, Jo. I’m not making shit up. I heard about this from some friends at school.”

“I’m serious, too,” she replied, making gimme motions with her hand. “Youandyour friends have obviously been spending more time getting baked than taking classes—which explains a lot, by the way. Now, pass it over.”

When I didn’t say anything more—or hand over any of the nonexistent weed she was convinced I’d been smoking—she frowned at me and then said, “Okay, hold up. You’re legit trying to tell me that there’s a way for me to drink legally—right here and now, in Texas, even though I’m not yet twenty-one? How’s that? Did they change the laws when I wasn’t looking?”

“Nope.” I shook my head. “The laws haven’t changed, but there’s a loophole that we can take advantage of now that I’m twenty-one.”

“What kind of loophole? And why does it have anything to do with you? Wait, you’re not talking about some kind of fake ID, are you? ’Cause everyone around here knows who we are. So, you have to know that that’s not gonna work.”

“I’m not talking about fake IDs. I’m talking about a fake marriage.”

“M-marriage?” Jo’s voice rose several octaves. “Jesus fuck.” Her cheeks as she scrambled up onto her knees and gaped at me, open-mouthed, for several seconds. “Y-you’re talking about you and me getting…?”

“Married. Yes. Exactly.”

Abruptly, her eyes narrowed. “Explain. And this better not be a joke.”

What? I frowned at her. “Of course it’s not a joke. How would that even work? There’s nothing funny about it.”

“Carter!”

“Look,” I said, sketching it out for her, “You know that you could drink right now in public—right here in Texas—if your aunt were with you and she gave you her okay. Right?”

“I guess. But she’s never going to do that, so what’s the point?”

“The point is that since I’m twenty-one, if we were married, I’d be considered your legal guardian—not her. So, I’d be the one giving you permission.”

“You?” I lost her then for several minutes while she laughed uproariously. I drank my beer and waited her out. Eventually, she wiped her eyes and said, “Omigod. And you said it wasn’t funny.”

I nod and shrug. “Okay, fine. I guess it’s a little funny, if you think about it like that. But it’s not a joke.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Her eyes were dancing with mirth. “So, you’re saying if you and I drove down to the icehouse right now, and I ordered a beer and they asked to see my ID?—”

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