Page 72 of Don't Fall

“You’re not?”

He smirks. “Should have come to class last week. You would have heard me tell everyone that Dr. Cremer is ending her maternity leave early.”

“Then why stay? If your job is done don’t you need to move on? Find something new to do?” I ask, incapable of grasping hold of this new possibility when there’s still such a huge chance it might not last.

“Already doing it. And it’s local, so I’m not looking to move.”

He’s being vague. I can’t decide if this bothers me or not. Maybe I’d rather not know.

“So, you’re not moving, you’re not my teacher, and you want me to move back in because you miss having a roommate,” I summarize, just in case I missed anything.

“Yep.” He nods, eyes moving to the box I’m still holding in my hands. “How about you set that down and we can start by making coffee. We’re always good over a solid cup of joe.”

“A trial coffee,” I concede, gingerly walking toward the kitchen as if I’m worried my legs my break off underneath me.

“I can accept that,” he says, an all too familiar grin returning to his mouth. Part of me knows I should bolt right here and now. I’ll never be able to do this. Be roommates. But then I realize the thing I’ll never be able to do even more is walk away from him a second time. I’ll take a roommate over nothing at all. And those are the only two options we have left. After everything that’s happened, all that running and doubt and flat-out insane he’s witnessed from in me, how could he ever want to be more? Maybe in the long run being friends will turn out to be the best choice for both of us. We’re good as friends. Maybe even great. It’s worth finding out.

“Want to know something weird?” I ask, holding the box out and away from me. “I have no idea what’s in here, but there’s something sticky leaking out of the bottom and now all I keep thinking is someone sent me a head or something.”

“That’s not really that weird.” He takes the box and places it on the kitchen table. “I mean, it would be weird if that were true. Not all that weird that it’s what you’re thinking. As a trained psychologist who’s been studying you very closely for some time now, I can tell you that your mental wiring? All fucked up.”

“Gee, thanks for that, doc.”

“Anytime.” He places both hands on top of the carton. “Alright, you ready to face the non-decapitation hiding in here?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” The goo on my hands is dark brown, making a strong case for my blood and head in a box theory, but I don’t say that out loud.

“Here goes.” He flips the top open.

I see it. My hand moves to my mouth, covering the inaudible gasp.

“Dirt cake,” I whisper. “With gummy worms.” I choke up somewhere between gummy and worms. I can’t believe she did this. It even says Happy Birthday on it in big swirly pink lettering, same as she did it every year from the time I was thirteen.

Understanding surfaces in Lane’s face. “It’s your birthday.”

I nod. Still covering my mouth with my fingers, trying to hold in the chaos of emotions barreling their way through me.

“There’s a card,” Lane says, reaching inside the box and lifting out a small pink envelope.

My hands shaking, I accept it and carefully open it up.

It’s a birthday card from Aunt Edi. Tears are blurring my vision, making it difficult to read and I have to keep wiping my eyes every few words. Even after I’ve read the whole card, I just keep reading it over and over again. Her words. Her love. Just for me.

“It’s Drea!” my best friend’s voice suddenly bursts through the internal fog I’ve been caught up in. “I’m coming in!” she calls out from the other side of the door. Then we hear her start to count back from ten.

I blink at Lane. “What is she doing?”

He chuckles and starts for the door. “Trying to spare herself the sight of my naked ass.”

Drea’s standing in the open doorway, glancing back and forth between us two. A second later she’s glaring at the both of us in disappointment. “Why aren’t you guys doing it? You’ve made up. You should have her naked and bent over the kitchen table by now,” she scoffs. “Now that would be a happy birthday.” Then she takes a closer look at me. “Wait. Why are you crying.” She turns on Lane faster than he can keep up with her. “What did you do?!”

“He didn’t do anything, you nutcase.,” I blubber rushing over to hug her. “Aunt Edi sent Dirt Cake.”

Drea’s lips press together in a thin line the way they always do when she’s trying not to cry. “Only Aunt Edi would figure out how to send Dirt Cake from the great beyond,” she says, her voice hushed and strained. “She’s the best aunt ever.”

I nod. “I know.”

Then, because Lane is Lane and knows no boundaries, he’s wrapping both of us up in his arms swaying us back and forth in the coziest (and not at all suffocating) group hug I’ve ever been forced into.

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