Page 18 of Don't Fall

I lean back to meet him face to face. “Journalism.”

His eyes take me in, study me for a long minute before he speaks again. “You’re taking a really heavy psyche class for someone who isn’t studying psychology,” he muses.

“I am studying psychology. It’s my minor,” I counter, enjoying the air of mystery I’m suddenly shrouded in. Guess he can’t figure me out just by staring holes into me after all.

“You’re going to make me work,” he mumbles, trying to sound frustrated to hide his rising level of amusement. He’s having fun. We both are.

“Nah, I just liked the growing confusion on your face. You’re so...together all the time. And it was bad enough feeling like the hysterical mental case in the room before I learned you were a therapist. Now anytime I think about running in here screaming, swinging an umbrella at you, I thank my lucky stars you didn’t have me committed right then and there.”

He doesn’t laugh out loud, but it still escapes through his eyes, twinkling like the stars above us. “If it helps, I didn’t think it was an issue of sanity. I just assumed you were drunk like the rest of them.”

I close my eyes thinking about the usual alcohol induced shenanigans Drea and her friends must have exposed him to last night and shudder. I love her but we couldn’t be more opposite. Sometimes I don’t mind being fun and carefree by association, other times I cringe with shame at the thought of not being perceived as the responsible, straight laced bore that I am. The burden of being a goodie-two-shoes, I suppose.

“I was actually working last night before I busted in on you. Not partying.”

“You were working at two in the morning?” His eyes narrow and his tone sounds somehow disapproving, like he maybe thinks only prostitutes and drug dealers operate at those hours. “In that outfit?”

My first instinct is to react affronted, and possibly run inside for Aunt Edi’s umbrella. Then I think back to what I was wearing and I’m starting to see why he’s drawing such insulting conclusions. “First of all, what happened to listening while people spell things out for each other? Huh? Have my past assumptions taught you nothing in the last two days?” I shake my head at him, in case he’s not picking up on the scolding in my voice. But, then I carry on, no longer trying to hide the fact I find this funny. I thought he was a psycho stalker this morning. Lack of sleep has been very unkind to both of us. “Second, I bartend at the basement downtown. Tip tops help.”

“Tip tops?”

“Yeah.” I widen my eyes, leaning forward and shimmying as much as can be shimmied with two people in a hammock and my limited cleavage. “You know.”

He averts his gaze. “I do now.” His mouth distorts in a distasteful way. “Really wish I hadn’t seen that.”

“Excuse me?” I get that I’m no Sexpot Barbie, but my breasts aren’t barf worthy either.

Fully aware of how asshole like he’s sounding, he throws his hands up in a helpless surrender. “It’s just...so not you.”

I’m less pissed off and back on intrigued. “You really think you know what is and isn’t me?”

“Am I wrong?”

Well, no. But I’m not saying that out loud! “Nu-uh, my question first.”

He sighs, dropping his head back over the fold of the linen and staring up at the sky. “I think you’re forgetting that I’ve been living in your home for the last two months. Now that I have a person to connect everything to, I just may know you better than you think.”

Damn. I hadn’t thought of that. “Not everything in this place is a representation of me, you know,” I mumble a lame rebuttal.

“I know. Some is your Aunt Edi. But, I think a lot of what I thought was hers, is actually yours. And I think we both know what that means.”

“That I like crocheted blankets, always use coasters and make use of way too many floral patterns in my decorating?” That last part really is Aunt Edi. I just can’t bring myself to change it. I’ll probably leave it even longer now that she’s gone.

“That you’re responsible, all about doing the right thing all the time. You treat everything with care. And you’re exceptionally serious for someone your age. You leave nothing to chance. Depend on no one,” he says like it was just sitting there at the tip of his tongue, waiting for me to ask.

“You got all that from the floral wallpaper?” Jokes. The exceptionally serious girl falls back on jokes to cover up the painful scab he just ripped way open.

Without lifting his head, he turns toward me. “I got all that from the anal way you fold your towels.” He smirks to let me know he’s teasing me. But it’s a brief reprise. His serious tone sets in as soon as he opens his mouth again. “You a have fairly new – and I assume custom made - color-coded mail rack, every slot labeled with the bill and due date designated for it. Your dishes, they’re old china. Family pieces most people only use on special occasions and keep locked in a fancy cabinet most of the year. Not you. You use yours. And it’s no worse for the wear because you take the time to care for it properly. Gently.” He pauses, waiting to see if I object. I wish I could. “You possess a limited amount of current technology but have books lining every free inch of stackable surface in this place. And I’ve scanned the titles. They’re not light reads either. What limited fiction you expose yourself to is a far cry from the light-hearted chick-lit your buddy Drunky Drea is probably reading.”

“I’ll have you know, she’s into the sappy shit. If no one’s gonna die at the end, she won’t even bother with it.” It’s all the argument I’ve got here.

“Forgive me, I haven’t had nearly enough time to study her.” He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “Nor do I intend to.”

“And when exactly was it that you decided to make time to study me?!” I don’t recall the last time I found myself flip flopping between emotions the way I do around Lane. He freaks me out. A lot.

“It was never a conscious decision with you, Tessa. Wasn’t until you were collapsing at the kitchen table, near tears, telling me about your aunt and this condo that it all started sinking in. All the pieces were already there, you just made them fit together.”

I nod, trying to convince myself to accept this revelation of his. “So, because I read non-fiction and know how to pay my bills like a big girl, that makes me someone who’s afraid to take a risk and can’t commit?”

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