Page 39 of Fall for Me

“Where you find artists with names beginning with each letter of the alphabet. Adams, Basquiat…”

“…Chagall, Dali…”

“Exactly.” Something soft went over me as I pictured doing the ritual with Chelsea. I’d always been embarrassed about following it so closely, like it was something people might find childish.

But her eyes were lit up. “What else?”

“After the museum,”—I ran my sponge over a fork as if it wasn’t already spotless—“we’d go to Vinelli’s on East 52nd Street for spaghetti. And spumoni, of course.”

“That’s a big day,” she said, grinning.

“That’s only half of it!”

She gaped.

“You can’t go to the Big Apple without catching a baseball game.”

Her expression should have made me embarrassed. But somehow—I don’t know how—just the way she was looking at me made me feel a little less foolish for repeating the same trip every year for the past twenty years.

Chelsea didn’t say anything about how I spent a good five minutes washing a single glass, and I didn’t mention anything when she continued running the towel over a bowl that had long since dried. But eventually, the dishes were done, and Chelsea, standing next to me drying her hands on the towel, yawned wide, like a cat. It was only then that I noticed it was after eleven.

“I’m tired,” she said. “Aren’t you tired?”

Rest, Eli had said. That was what the doctors had ordered. I hated that I knew she should go home. Wildly, I tried to think of some scenario where she could stay.

But she was waiting for my answer.

“I’m used to being tired,” I said.

“Why?”

Something churned inside of me. It was better that she go home. “I’m not a great sleeper.”

I turned away, hoping she wouldn’t ask me more about it. How could I tell her I’d had nightmares ever since I was a kid? Nightmares of water closing in on me. Nightmares of the last time I heard my brother’s voice, knowing my name was the last word he spoke.

Chelsea cleared her throat. “Well, I guess I should probably go.”

That was it then, the decision made. It was for the best.

“Can I take you home?” I asked. “Maybe you shouldn’t be driving—”

She shot me a look, and I remembered she’d told me about her family fussing over her. “I know you can drive. Just—”

“You promised Eli you’d take care of me, I know.” Chelsea hooked the towel over the faucet. “And you did. But I can take care of myself.”

I didn’t say anything. Just looked at her a moment, wishing things were different. Wishing I was the kind of guy who knew how to make people feel better with their words. Wishing she didn’t have that goddamned bandage on her face—not because it looked ugly, but because it meant she’d gotten hurt and I hadn’t been able to protect her.

“Chelsea, I never said it to you,” I said suddenly, surprising myself with the words.

“Said what?”

Behind me, the sink had finished draining, but I could still hear the bubbles popping; the last remnants of the dish soap. A stiff prickling filled my throat, so I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I knew if I waited any longer I’d never be able to say it.

“I’m sorry about the crash.”

For a moment, Chelsea said nothing. Then she sighed and leaned her back against the counter next to me so both of us were facing the same direction, not looking at each other.

“You’re an idiot, Seamus Reilly.”

It wasn’t what I expected to hear.

“What?”

“I said you’re an idiot, if you think that was your fault. It was only a matter of time before I crashed, whether or not you were there.”

I frowned, but she just smiled sadly at me. “Don’t say you’re sorry again, okay? You’re too nice for your own good.”

Then, before I could respond to that, she gripped me on the shoulders and rose up on her toes. Up close, the tips of her breasts brushed my chest, making my whole body ache. Then Chelsea Kelly kissed me softly on the cheek.

It was only after the door clicked shut that I felt it—a hot, bright lightning strike, where I wished I wasn’t the good guy. I wished I’d said fuck it, gripped her hips, bent down and taken those gorgeous pink lips for mine.

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