Page 5 of Break Your Fall

Last night’s walk doesn’t count.

Last night, my clothes were clean and my hair wasn’t filled with sand.

Last night, I didn’t have an ache between my legs.

Last night, I wasn’t my mother.

Until I was.

It’s daylight now, the morning after a storm, and I don’t feel hopeful, rejuvenated, or forgiving. I don’t feel freshened or quenched or shiny-new like the grass near my feet. I feel exposed, knowing I should’ve listened to myself and walked back at night instead of crashing in a cave. I would’ve had the shade to hide under and the rain to rinse me clean instead of a bright bulb spotlighting the mistakes I’m still wearing.

And I’m still tired. An exhaustion deep in my bones. A fog in my brain. My mouth is drier than the small sliver of paint still clinging to my palm.

No wonder my mother sleeps a lot.

And the guy that helped me take that last step to becoming Valerie Stokes didn’t even have the decency to make sure I enjoyed it. I’m sick of guys who expect their dick to be the only thing needed to get a girl off. I normally would’ve said something. I would’ve told him there’s only one way I can get off, but I was high, a few joints too deep with no energy to waste more words on more deaf ears.

Besides, last night wasn’t about getting off. It was about giving in. Just being. Living in the moment. Forgetting. Erasing. Except my erasers are defective, the kind that leave a smudge behind.

The pain in my chest still beats, a heavy weight against my sternum, as I walk through puddles, let the water soak my sandals, cleanse the stain from my footprints.

I hurry around the side of my house as soon as I see there are no cars in the driveway—maybe someonedoeshave my back this morning—and I spot a shape taking up my beanbag chair as I rush into my bedroom. The shape and I jump at the same time, my hand flying to my chest in a fist, and I fall back against the door when I realize it’s Tommy. He leans back into the chair when he realizes it’s me, settling his breath as I calm mine. For that second, my heart was jolted back to one, whole piece. For that second, the pain was gone, and I almost thank him for the fright.

Tommy sits up, rubs his eyes. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on last night. Like me. His hair is messy, like mine. His hoodie is missing. He yawns. Did he sleep here? He’s slept here before, but after last night, after I pushed him away, after I ran off. . .

He came to my room and waited for me.

“How’d you know I’d come back here?” My voice is as quiet as a mouse as I take him in, realizing the question is stupid.

He looks up, studies me through sleepy eyes that seem as tired as I feel. “You always come home.”

The shame is back, prickling my skin at that last word, and I drop my fist. “Why are you here?”

“Because so do I.”

His eyes are more awake now as they hold mine, and I tilt forward, wanting to go to him, to fall against his chest. I could use one of his hugs. He gives the best ones. But I recoil just as fast, unable to lean into the words, to trust them, to trust him. Tommy still feels far away even as he’s close enough to touch.

And I feel like I’m living someone else’s life. Because this isn’t mine. Nothing really is. Even my own friends—ex-friends see me as the girl who tried to steal another girl’s boy. I’m a thief who doesn’t belong. I’m peripheral trying to be central.

I lose everything I try to hold on to. My grip is clingy, slick with desperation, and it all slips through my fingers. And now, when I’ve never been more desperate, there’s nothing to grip.

I want to be gripped. Held on to by someone or something just as desperate that won’t bail on me.

My skin is flushed, and I press the skirt of my dress to my legs like I can hide them. Tommy eyes the movement, then slowly looks back up at me with questions in his stare, concern in his bent brows. My hand skates through my hair and he follows that movement, too, as my fingers push the smell of beach and boy away from my face, away from him. How can he not see? The night is all over me.

Tommy lowers his gaze again and drags it along the floor toward my mini studio. I follow his stare to my painting and seize up.Don’t compliment me. Please. I’m not good enough.

Like he hears my pleas, he keeps his thoughts to himself and stands, stretching his back out with exaggerated noises he only started exaggerating once I started teasing him about them. I can’t muster a smile or a tease as he tries for both, pointing to the beanbag chair. “That’s not the best place to sleep. You should’ve warned me.”

Tears pool in my eyes as his joking dies, his face paling as he processes his wording.Yeah,youshould’ve warnedme.

But didn’t I know? Somewhere deep inside?

I blink the tears away—I willnotbe a crybaby. “Where’s your hoodie?”

Tommy’s thrown at my attempt to divert, and looks down at his shirt, pulls at the cotton. “At Julian’s.” He lets out a slight laugh as he meets my eyes again. “The rain got us before we got to them, and Grumbles needed. . .” he trails off when he sees I’m not smiling with him, gives up on the story. “Well … you know.”

“Was she happy?” Cracks come through my voice, and now I sound like a scratched up old record.

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