Page 43 of Can't Help Falling

Wouldn’t be the first time, he texted her.

Wouldn’t be the first time he’d confused her with Cleopatra?

And then he texted her a picture of Cleopatra from an old movie. She quirked her head to one side and observed the long black hair, the golden crown and unsmiling, regal features. He thought she looked like that?

Come on,he texted, you don’t see the resemblance?

She’d like to think that she smiled more than that, but then, looking back on her time with Tyler, she supposed she could see why he’d think of her like this. Untouchable, ruthless, unforgiving.

Blind spot.

Would it kill her to loosen up around him a little bit? Maybe she could hold him at, like, ten paces. She’d still be safe and maybe he wouldn’t be quite so kicked-puppy.

She sighed, rolling her eyes at herself and decided to play around a little bit. She pulled up a picture and texted it to him. Better Cleopatra than this:

It was a photo of James Spader from Pretty in Pink. Tyler really didn’t look anything like him, but at first glance they had the same preppy douchebag vibe.

You wound me, he texted back.

She laughed, reading the vibe off the text and knowing, in her heart, that he’d laughed when he’d seen what she’d sent him. It was then, and only then, that she felt some of the weight of her guilt over her behavior lift off of her. She hadn’t ruined everything; she hadn’t injured him unnecessarily.

She laughed again as she looked back at their texts and tried to picture having this conversation in person.

A static shock zapped her when she moved her leg against a velvet cushion and she jolted. She felt almost like she’d been jump-scared by the violins in a scary movie.

The fact was, having this jokey conversation was making her nervous system flare.

Hey, I was thinking. You need to give Kylie her own space.

The second she even typed Kylie’s name, Serafine felt her blood calm. Kylie was a safe subject between them.

What are you talking about? She has her own bedroom.

No. I mean in the rest of your house. You need to let her leave a footprint on your space.

I repeat: what are you talking about.

She rolled her eyes. It was silly of her to have forgotten what a skeptic he was. Serafine brought up his home in her mind’s eye. She brought a hand to her cheek when she realized that she was blushing just a little bit. Well, that sort of made sense, considering that every inch of Tyler’s home was so unusually, palpably him that just stepping in the front door felt like stepping into his bedroom.

How to explain that to him?

Let’s just say that your place is very YOU. Your energy is slathered all over every surface.

I don’t know what that means, but somehow I’m positive I’ve been insulted.

Serafine found herself laughing again. Had she just inadvertently insulted him? She looked back at her use of the word slathered. She tried again.

She needs to be able to make the place her own. Otherwise she’s not going to be comfortable there.

There was a long pause before he texted again in which Serafine considered getting up for another Popsicle. If Tyler were another person, she might have pushed at the energetic space between them, tried to ascertain whether he was pausing because he was searching for words, or distracted, or unhappy. But not wanting to upset the delicate ceasefire they seemed to have come to, she merely waited, attempting to be patient.

You act like I’m the one locking her in her bedroom every night. Trust me, that’s all her.

Maybe make some design changes. Ask her opinion. Or change around the living room so that she can study out there.

She paused, her fingers hovering over her phone. She typed the next part in a jumble. And definitely move that leather chair out of her room. Give her something that’s completely her own.

What’s wrong with my chair?

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