Page 19 of Can't Help Falling

CHAPTER FIVE

TYLER, FEELINGLIKE he now knew very little about anything, had just been grateful to get off the plane at JFK that night.

He felt like an uneasy sailor who’d finally been allowed to get his feet back on dry land. He still might face-plant from disorientation, but at least he wasn’t going to drown in the ocean.

He hadn’t accounted for the fact, however, that Kylie’s second day in Brooklyn was Thanksgiving. That morning he’d blinked into the judgmental cavern of his freezer and had never felt more like a sad bachelor. He was actually quite good at feeding himself normally, and though Via had stocked their fridge when she’d come over to decorate Kylie’s new bedroom, he stared at all the food in hopelessness.

When he made dinner for himself, he did it with a beer in his hand and sports on the TV. He ate whatever he felt like eating, did it quickly, washed up and then usually went out for the night.

But with Kylie, he should probably at least attempt to make Thanksgiving meaningful for her.

God. Why did it have to be tonight?

Why did their very first dinner together in Brooklyn have to be the most symbolic meal of the year?

He picked up his phone to call Sebastian and was surprised to see a text from Via already waiting there.

Why don’t you two come over around two p.m. for Thanksgiving dinner? We’ll eat around four.

He closed the fridge door and sagged against the countertop. Right now, with a sullen, distant, unhappy little sister locked away in her bedroom, Seb and Via’s house seemed like Valhalla.

Yes. God yes. Have I ever told you that you’re a brilliant, generous, incredible woman?

Too much? Maybe.

Did he care? No.

She sent him the emoji of an eye roll next to a laughing emoji and a thumbs-up. Fair warning, the Sullivans are going to be here as well. And Fin.

The Sullivans, Seb’s late wife’s parents, were old hat to Tyler. He knew how to rub elbows with Art and flirt with Muriel; they both liked him. Fin, however, was another story.

It was almost like her cruel words to him at the game had been the surgeon’s scalpel that had slit him clean open. Everything he’d ever felt for her, every heart-racing, warm, hot, slippery smooth feeling he’d ever had had leaked right out of him. The wound had healed adequately, if not perfectly, leaving a tough scar where she’d cut him.

He didn’t like seeing her even on the few occasions he had; it prodded at the scar. But honestly, when faced with a sad little Thanksgiving alone with Kylie, Tyler would have stripped himself nude in front of Fin if Via had asked him to.

Great. What should I bring?

*

WHICHWASHOW Tyler found himself standing on Seb’s front porch with flowers in one hand and paper towels in the other, because he’d felt like a tool showing up with just the paper products Via had requested.

Behind him, Kylie scowled as she looked cynically around at Seb’s quaint little street with its postage-stamp-sized front yards and copious Christmas lights already looped around every front window.

There was a crisp fifty folded in her pocket, which was exactly what it had taken to get her onto the train with him.

The door swung open and Tyler braced himself, knowing exactly what was about to come barreling out the door. With the dexterity of a man with quite a bit of practice, Tyler set down the flowers and paper towel, dived for Crabby’s collar and swung Matty up under his arm, like the kid was a rolled-up sleeping bag.

“Long time, no see, Mickey Rooney.” Tyler leaned down and kissed Matty’s hair. He set him down and shooed Crabby into the house. Matty gave Kylie a shy look and then scampered down the hall.

“Dad! Tyler and Kylie are here!”

“That kid’s name is Mickey Rooney?” Kylie asked as she followed Tyler’s lead and kicked her shoes into the shoe closet.

Taken off guard, Tyler laughed, something he just now realized he’d done very little of with Kylie. “Ah, no. It’s Matty. But let’s see. I started off calling him Punky Brewster when he was going through a particularly, well, punky phase. And then Punky Brewster became Brew-Brew. Which eventually became Roo-Roo, which turned into Rooney-Dooney. And then Mickey Rooney-Dooney. And now just—”

“Mickey Rooney. Got it.”

He studied his little sister for a second, and though he could have sworn there was the hint of humor at the corners of her serious eyes, it was gone in a flash and her sullen expression returned.

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