Page 6 of Break Your Fall

I see the struggle behind his hazel gaze. A little pity, a lot of pain. A hint of anger. Tommy wants all of us to be happy. I wanted that, too. Often at the expense of my own. He knows I’ve fallen short, one time too many. Julian, Camille, and Grumbles are one big happy family again, while I’m not. Where’s my big happy family? Do I not deserve good things, too? Love?

“Yeah,” Tommy whispers as tears pool in my eyes again, and I press my fingers against my lids, wipe away the evidence before it falls.

Camille would be proud,I think bitterly.

“Is she still mad?” A second stupid question from a stupid girl.

“Yeah,” Tommy whispers again and I scoff, because that’s typical. And because everyone can forgive Camille for everything she’s done—we can make a list—but they can’t forgive me for one thing.

I don’t need them, I tell myself next. And it doesn’t matter what Julian says I knew or didn’t know—I’mnota thief. That’s his new girlfriend’s expertise. I can’t even steal a cat right, while she had no problem. Camille left town, and Julian moved on. I was there for him. It wasmewho held his hand. He moved on. He kissed me. He stoked the fire burning for him for years, knowing my heart couldn’t say no.

So last night, I couldn’t say no.

And this morning, I can’t look at myself. I can’t have eyes on me.

“You should go,” I tell Tommy, looking away from his stare, moving away from him.

“I don’t have to. . .” he trails off the sentence as I hurry past him to the bedroom door, hopeful that I’ll want him to stay. Before yesterday, I would’ve wanted him to stay. Tommy stays.

But he also hid the truth.

I spin on him. “Youknew, Tommy. And you didn’t say anything.”

He starts toward me. “Reyna—”

“I told you you can’t fix it.” These words halt his steps and the rest of the words on his tongue, pushed away behind closing lips that press tight at the edges under a soft, slow blinking stare. He’s hurting. But I’m hurting more. I’m losing more. “I need to be alone,” I push, feeling the weight of that statement, the many meanings. I’m not sure if being alone is what I really want or need—if Icanbe alone, but Ican’thave eyes on me right now, and Tommy isn’t moving.

“Please,” I beg, keeping a hold on the tears threatening to keep him here longer.

“Okay,” he says, a reluctant whisper. He starts backing up, his eyes studying me, and I turn around so I don’t have to see the worry there, but stay in this spot to make sure he leaves.

The outside door finally opens behind me, and I feel him stall, my shoulders folding in at the feel of his unwavering stare.

“Iwillfix this.” It’s a promise. One I secretly hope he keeps. “I love you, Reyna.” Cracks come through his voice now, and my closed eyes push the tears down my cheeks as he shuts the door behind him.

Always.

I reset, do what I had rushed in here to do before I saw Tommy—gather a clean dress, fresh panties and bra, and escape through the hall to the shower. I avoid the mirror as I set up my things, start the water, peel off my clothes. When the water is as hot as I can stand it, I step through the glass door and burn, scrub, rinse last night from my body. I try to ignore the ache between my legs, but it throbs, reminding me it’s not going to go away until I force it away.

This has happened with Julian. The last time we had sex, he became so frustrated—thinking aboutherwhile he was insideme—and I didn’t get to finish. He “offered” to give me release, but his mood had changed, and I didn’t want to receive an orgasm he didn’t really want to give. The upside is he didn’t get to finish, either.

He practically threw me off his lap, acted like I was the problem.

And maybe I am. I’m not an easy in and out. I’m a chore.

The throb gets worse.

I yank the showerhead from the wall and shove the spray between my legs. The first hit forces a breath from my lips, but that’s the only sound I make. I don’t shake like I normally do, my hand doesn’t grip the tiles, my head doesn’t fall back. Relief comes quick and I let the orgasm ride through me, my body stiffened against the release, my stare blurred with tears and shower water.

The towel is rough against my skin as I dry off. I dress quickly and blow dry my hair. I avoid the mirror.

It’s too quiet in this house, for this day. It’s too loud in my head. I can hear every pound of my pulse as it speeds up and slows down. I feel my stomach sinking, dropping over and over. I almost wish my mother was having sex behind her bedroom door. She never cares if I’m hearingthat.

I shove open her door and the knob hits the back wall. My nose is assaulted by a scent cocktail of alcohol, perfume, and sweat. Her bed is empty, the sheets ruffled. She spent the night without checking on me. She went to work this morning without checking on me. I should stop expecting my mother to always check on me. To notice when I’m not here and send a fucking search for her teenage daughter who was out all night with no word. I should just cut her out, but how? How am I supposed to do that? She’s my mom. She’ssupposedto be one.Mine. She’s all I have. I can’t help but want mymotherto care about me.

We should be able to choose our parents. I could paint myself a new mom, add a dad, and find a witch to bring them to life.

A witch is already here, I think as I trudge through the hall. But her only powers are spreading her legs and guzzling wine. And she’s passing them down to me.

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