Page 26 of The Fall
“You were there for us through the whole thing. And she’s great now. I swear, they’re going to be naming a treatmentcenter for her.” A laugh rips out of him. It breaks on the end, but he turns the laugh into something closer to a smile. “She’s...” Hayes pauses and swallows, shaking his head. “Erin’s incredible. God, she’s incredible.” Hayes’s eyes are fixed on the horizon, a million miles away.
What did I do? There’s nothing there, no picture in my mind, only an absence of memory. All that I don’t remember, the conversations missed and the struggles they carried, weighs heavily on me. I don’t remember the hard parts of this past year. I have no answers, and no memories to offer, no shared history to draw on. I can only sit here, Blair’s warmth a lifeline in the deepening shadows, trying to breathe.
It’s such a strange thing to be happy and devastated all at once. And, God, the fear. I am afraid to touch this life I have, to hold it, to breathe on it, to walk too close in case it shatters or twists away or slips through my fingers.
Blair rolls over until he’s facing me. There’s a patience in him I don’t fully understand. What did I do to deserve this love?
I wish I couldremember.
We stay there, sinking into the night. This love is a language my soul understands, even if my mind is struggling to catch up. I squeeze his hand. The fear is lurking, but so is this. I don’t know how to hold on without breaking, but I’m here. Right now, I’m here.
Six
The air isvelvet-soft as we step into Florida’s night, the sky dazzlingly full of stars as the cicadas thrum their low nocturne in the trees.
Blair settles his hand on the small of my back as we walk to his truck. It’s a beast of a vehicle. Even with my fragmented memories, an image forms—remembered? Imagined?—of Blair behind the wheel, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on my thigh, his gaze fixed on the road. What did we talk about? What music did we listen to?
He opens the passenger door for me and waits for me to climb inside. Again, it’s unexpected: Blair Callahan, destroyer of the rink, terror of the ice, a true gentleman.
The truck shuts out the world, narrowing it to him and me. I brush my fingers against his hand, and he curls his through mine, linking us. I have no memories of the first time Blair took my hand, but the fit is right. I’m desperate for these tiny moments of familiarity, for the times when my body knows what my mind can’t.
“Thank you.” My voice is soft in the hush of the truck. “For tonight. For everything.”
He squeezes my hand. “Always,” he says. “I’m always here for you.”
He means it. I feel it deep in my marrow.
I can’t look away from him. The way the streetlights curve around his shoulders, the moonlight drifting on the edge of his jaw. Everything carries meaning; there are layers to him, to us, that I don’t see yet. He traces the pad of his thumb over my knuckles and the creases of my skin, leaving sparks in its wake.
We drift to a stop at a red light, and his lips whisper against my knuckles. He locks his gaze on mine, and in this brief, weightless fraction of forever, there is only him. There is only this.
I don’t trust myself to speak. He kisses my knuckles again, longer this time, before he turns my hand over and drops his lips to my palm.
The light changes, and the truck moves forward. The line between where I end and Blair begins dissolves.
The ride home is not long enough. I’m not ready to give up this quiet and our pocket of stillness. But, the journey slips away, second by imperceptible second, until we’re pulling into the driveway, headlights casting shadows across the front of our home.
Blair kills the engine. He turns to me. His face is soft in the moonlight, his eyes dark and deep.
I lean across the center console and kiss him, slow at first, then rougher when his tongue sweeps against mine and he pushes into me. I lose myself in the kiss, in the way Blair’s lips slide against mine, the way he cradles the back of my head. I close my eyes as he works his fingers through my hair. This careful tending, this quiet care: this is love in its purest form.
He moves his mouth to my neck, and I tip my head back, giving him access. His lips are warm, his stubble a gentle scrape against my skin. Everywhere he touches leaves me shaking.
He pulls back and brushes our noses together. My lips catch his, kiss him again. I cannot get enough.
Finally we make it inside.
The house is dark, and a soft glow drips out of our bedroom from the lava lamp glowing on the corner of our dresser. How did I not see it before? It’s heinously gaudy: neon-blue blobs and plastic hockey players floating up and down.
This lamp is a memory. I remember the way the wax glows when it heats up, the way it breaks apart and forms new, impossible shapes. I remember the soft, imperceptible hum of the bulb as it warms the liquid inside. I don’t chase the feeling, though; I don’t try to force the memory. I let it wash over me, another piece of the puzzle that is my life now.
Yesterday—to me—I was a loser, a has-been washout, and everyone saw me flaming out fast. Everything between then and now is a blur, and I might as well be an alien for all I know about myself and my life or about why seeing a lava lamp can turn me upside down.
And yet, and yet.
I’m bone-tired. The day, the emotional roller coaster of half-remembered moments, has left me raw. Routine takes over, and I slip into the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind me.
I’m alone with my thoughts.
