Page 45 of Fall for Me

Seamus was dealing with Lola, who was running circles around him, tangling her leash in his legs. “Jesus,” he said. Even with him moving around, I could tell his jaw was set hard. He was upset.

I’d made him upset. Of course—I’d been an idiot—I’d just stood there in the road, having lost the dog, watching, frozen, as the car came at me.

Resigning myself to it.

I needed to apologize to Seamus for disturbing him at work, I thought inanely. That would be the polite thing to do. But before I could make my mouth connect to the words running through my brain, a man filled the doorway behind him.

When I looked at him, I was so surprised that my mouth fell open. He was Seamus’s doppelgänger. Just as tall or maybe a hair shorter, well-built. But this older Seamus had lined skin and a neat, gray beard.

“Hello, Chelsea,” he said. His voice was like Seamus’s too, only even deeper. “Think this belongs to you?” he held out the bag with Lola’s stuff.

“Oh,” I said. I’d forgotten all about the bag. “Thank you,” I said gratefully, feeling even dumber.

If he was shocked at my appearance, the way everyone else seemed to be—or at how I was staring at him and Seamus with confusion—he didn’t show it. In fact, he didn’t say anything else as he assessed the situation—my confusion and Seamus’s tenseness—just came forward and took the leash from Seamus, unthreading it from his legs.

“Thanks, Dad,” Seamus mumbled.

Lola barked, the sound loud in the enclosed space, and the man—Mr. Reilly—made a tutting sound, eyeing the dog sternly. Lola tipped her head, but didn’t bark again.

Then I realized he’d called me by my name.

As if reading my mind, or the confusion on my face, Mr. Reilly said, “We’ve met. A long time ago.”

It hit me then. Of course I’d met him before—Seamus’s dad used to pick Seamus up at our place when we were kids. He’d been at the holiday parties Mom used to throw back in the day—the parties that had inspired me to become an event planner after I marveled at the way the planners made the spaces so familiar to me magical with what felt like only a few balloons, streamers, tablecloths and strategic lighting. Mr. Reilly had been younger then, with brown hair and a brown beard.

He’d looked more like Seamus did now.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Mr. Reilly gave a quick shake of his head. “It’s been a long time.”

He tugged on the leash the same way Seamus had done—quick and firm, like he knew what he was doing. The dog yapped loudly.

“I’ll take her out, so you can see to her,” he said to Seamus, and then, just like that, he was gone, closing the door behind him with a click. Lola’s muted barks sounded down the hall, followed by an electronic chime, and then there was only silence.

God, I’d just barged in here with my mess, disturbing perfectly normal people at their perfectly normal jobs. “I’m sorry to disturb your workday. She’s just… she’s not mine, and I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Seamus knelt down in front of me, inspecting my knees. “It’s fine, Chelsea.” His anger, I realized suddenly, wasn’t at me. I don’t know who it was directed to. The world? Himself? The thought that this good, decent man would blame himself for not being there sooner when he’d been there in time to save me made my chest twist with pain.

He was still punishing himself for not being able to stop the drunk driver that first night.

My throat burned, my eyes going wet with sudden tears. I let in a shuddering breath and Seamus looked up sharply.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, because I didn’t know what else to say, and before I knew what was happening, Seamus’s arms were around me.

“Hush, now,” he said, into my hair.

They were big, firm arms, and they wrapped me up entirely. I tucked my head into the space under his chin and tried for one fruitless moment not to cry. But there was something about Seamus, something about the way he felt against me—soft and hard and strong and measured—that once again I was powerless to do anything but let myself go against him.

I let out a wracking sob, and then another, the emotional pain ripping through me like ocean waves. It wasn’t about what had happened just now. It was about what happened before; how this was a repeat of that crash—how I’d nearly died and how now I had a slash across my face, so I’d never forget it. I let myself unravel the terror I’d been holding onto, soaking Seamus’s shirt with my tears, and all the while, he didn’t let go. Seamus Reilly, my brother’s best friend, a man who’d always been there but had suddenly just now come into stark, clear, hard focus, as someone for me, didn’t let go. He just held me tighter, whispering against my hair that I was okay. I was safe. That he had me.

Finally, I reached a hand up as I let out a last, shuddering sob, touching the damp fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin radiating from beneath. The warmth seemed to turn to heat as I brought awareness to it. I was curled up against him. Pressed into him.

I pulled away, suddenly mortified at how I’d just let myself go.

Of how very close we’d been.

I pressed myself back against the couch, retreating. I didn’t let go like that, ever. I didn’t know how. And yet, with Seamus, it had felt like the most natural thing in the world.

As if reading my mind, Seamus said, “It’s normal to be scared by what happened, Chelsea.”

Something electric jagged through me. How could he know that? Then it turned, ironically, to fear. Fear that he’d seen right through me. I felt laid bare. “I just… I didn’t mean to blubber all over you.”

“Chelsea. It’s okay to be scared.”

I tried to cling to that anger. But it slipped from my grasp like sand. Because it wasn’t true, was it? I’d been terrified. A lump returned to my throat. How did he know? Goddamn him, how could he read me so well?

“Let me see your hands.” I wanted to hide them, just like I wanted to hide myself. I was mixing up too many feelings here, and with a person I really should only know as an acquaintance. I should have stood up, told him I could deal with a couple of scrapes on my own, but the way he was looking at me, like there would be no room for argument, made the words hit a wall before they even came out.

So I held out my hands, palms up, to show him my scraped-up skin.

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