Page 5 of The Fall
Everything inside me flips for exits.
I throw back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed, away from this man.
At least I’m wearing shorts, an old pair of athletics from my junior days. Finally, something familiar.
The floor beneath my feet is tile, cool and smooth. Beyond the patio doors, the moon hangs full and heavy. Palm trees stagger across the horizon beyond the glass, and the pool reflects the sky in one still sheet.
This is nowhere close to Vancouver. This is not my apartment, not any version of my life I recognize.
Sheets—wrong.
Bed—wrong.
Man in the bed—profoundly, catastrophically wrong.
I have no idea where I am. Nothing feels familiar.
There’s a phone on the nightstand next to me, plugged in and charging. It’s not mine, but it will do. I grab it, struggle to my feet. Everything feels wrong, my body shaky, my muscles quivering. I’m out of place inside myself, everything fitting wrong.
Have I been drugged? Kidnapped? And what, put in my old shorts and tucked into a luxurious bed in a tropical paradise?
Three doors present themselves, and I lurch toward the closest one, stolen phone clutched in my fist.
Good choice. I find the bathroom. It’s huge, spacious serenity done out in marble, with a walk-in shower and a soaking tub.Double vanities opposite each other, with toothbrushes and razors and shaving cream at both sinks.
The lights are automated, and they dim softly toward candlelight-warm, a soft glow that lifts the corners and reveals no monsters. The light doesn’t clarify anything else for me, and I stumble to the nearest vanity, grasping the edge of the sink.
I have no fucking idea who stares back at me in the mirror.
The man in the mirror is me—same brown hair, same brown eyes—but he’s also not. He’s stronger, healthier, tanner. He’s not the failure everyone is waiting to see fall for the last time. Confidence and purpose ooze from every golden, honed, and hewn muscle. The person in the mirror looks capable of things I never managed.
I’ve traded the kid I was for a man’s steadiness.
I lift a hand to my cheek and watch as he mimics me, slow and careful, and trace my own collarbone.
I don’t know how I became whoever this is. The man in the glass has no doubts. I have nothing but. His eyes, rimmed dark, regard me with an animal suspicion.
The pain in my head is near-blinding, enough to bring me to my knees. I double over and cling to the vanity, forehead pressed against the cold stone while my body breathes in a steady rhythm.
Somewhere, at some time, I’ve done this before, learned to pull myself back together. Where did I learn this?
“Torey?”
The man from the bed calls my name. I hear the sound of footsteps?—
Then he’s there. The doorway frames his silhouette, backlit in bedroom shadow, hair tousled, eyes not yet open fully, branded with sleep.
He’s not a stranger. I don’t understand any of this, but I know him. He’s Blair Callahan. Everything I know about him is waron ice: power forward, drive you through the glass, bury you in the corners. Captain of the Mutineers. He’s played me to a pulp more times than I can count.
The concern on his face, though? The tenderness in his eyes? The gentle way he’s looking at me? I don’t understand any of that.
He takes a step toward me. His face opens, soft, all trouble for me. “You okay, babe?”
“Blair…” A black wave crests through my skull, and I lurch for the toilet. Gatorade, a handful of pills, and remnants of chicken dinner—everything comes out in a rush. It’s horrible, and it goes on and on and on.
Blair’s hands are on me, rubbing up and down my back. He says something soothing that I can’t quite catch, his breath a gentle shush. I feel the warmth of his hands, the firm solidity of his body.
“Blair,” I croak.
