Page 44 of Don't Fall

“I don’t know how that means you have nothing in common. Some might argue you two are very similar. You know, minus the relationship status.”

He shakes his head. “Trust me. Not similar enough. Just ask my parents.”

I frown. “Are you about to tell me you’re like the black sheep of your family or something? You? The psychiatrist with his beach front office?”

“In a family of medical doctors who like wielding a scalpel, being the guy who prefers to dissect his patient’s feelings over their insides, doesn’t earn you high points. Believe me.”

I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. Families are complicated. I know that better than most.

“If you have nothing in common, how did she make it through your whole no overlapping the past and present rule?” I ask instead.

“According to her, we’re two halves of the same whole, therefore any attempts to shut her out are futile. If I’m there, she’s there.” He grins. “She’s not wrong.”

“So, you’re close. Even though you’re different.”

He nods. “Yeah. That whole womb thing, it stays with ya.” He turns toward me briefly and winks. Then, his attention is back on the road, or our road, to be more specific. I didn’t realize we were home already.

“I’m glad,” I mumble, unbuckling as the car comes to a stop. “Everyone needs someone like that.”

“Like you have Drea,” he points out.

“Yeah.” We may as well have shared a womb, as close as we are.

Both of us moving especially slow after our long night out, we make our way up the three flights of stairs toward our apartment.

I reach the door first and unlock it, letting us both in. I hear Lane click the deadbolt into place behind me and feel the tension release from my neck and shoulders almost instantly. It’s been a crazy night, scary and crazy. But we’re home. And for the first time since I walked in and found Lane here, I’m grateful I’m not alone.

Stopping short before I reach my bedroom door, I turn around to face him. I take a deep breath. And then ~

“Thanks.” Such a lame word. It’s so puny compared to what I’m feeling. Which reminds me of the other puny lame words I need to say to him. “And...I’m sorry.”

His head shifts sideways just enough to meet my gaze in a sweet sort of manner. “For what?”

“You know, just letting my crazy spill out all over you in full-on bitch mode throughout most of our interactions.”

He grins. It’s adorable and lickable and I close my eyes to keep from acting on my impulses.

“To be fair, I’ve made it extremely easy for you to lash out at me in full-on bitch mode, given you reasons to even.” His hand begins to move toward me, but he stops before making contact with my arm and retracts the motion, placing his hand safely into his pocket instead. I guess I’m not the only one struggling not to touch. Though keeping my tongue to myself should probably be more obvious and more achievable than him refraining from his comparably tame attempt at touching my arm with his fingertips.

I nod, not sure what else to say here. Probably best to simply end the conversation. Agree to move forward on a more balanced, friendly plane.

Keeping my eyes turned away from his, I make another attempt to reach my bedroom door, my fingers stretching, tips nearly gripping the handle. I’m seconds from disappearing inside, safe from any more temptation or confusion, but I’m a glutton for punishment, so I stop myself. I open my mouth. I ask.

“What really happened with Jules?”

I can feel him take a step closer from behind me, his body heat permeating my own personal space bubble. When he answers, his mouth is so close to me, I can feel his soft breath rush over my bare neck, giving me goosebumps all down my body.

“Nothing.”

I absolutely refuse to turn around to face him now. If I do, all sorts of stupid is bound to follow.

“Then why did she have your phone?”

He sighs quietly, and I can feel the motion behind me. His face getting ever nearer to my head, his movements mingling with my hair.

“She said she forgot hers and insisted she needed to take a crapload of selfies with everyone to document the night out and therefore needed to borrow mine.” I can feel him shrug, his body shifting up and down against my back. “I figured worst case scenario, I wind up with some really cute shots of you on my phone and just crop her out of them.”

Then he goes still. No more shrugging. No more leaning or swaying, or amused dancing about of any kind. His hands find my waist and slowly bring me back around toward him. All plans to avoid eye contact are aborted when I see his face. He’s serious. Dead serious. In an emotional, scary sort of way. He’s telling the truth.

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