Page 8 of Fall for Me

Seamus

The kitchen scraps—celery ends, carrot tops, and kale stems that had been festering in the bottom of my kitchen compost for the past few days—landed on the dirt in my backyard with an unappetizing splatter. That’s what happens when you spend five hours of the past four days at home. Or something like that.

Still, the girls didn’t mind. They came running. Hips sashaying, bare feet darting through the loose dirt.

Feathers flew as Princess Clucketta wing-jabbed Muffin to beat her to the pile.

“Easy, there’s enough for all of you,” I laughed.

But the laugh soured fast on my tongue. It felt empty and unused, like an ugly shirt stuffed in the bottom of a drawer. Undeserved, somehow, like it belonged on someone else.

I checked the girls’ feed bucket and water, then went over toward the side of the coop to collect the girls’ eggs, wincing at my elbow knocking the bruise on my side. I hadn’t really laughed in what felt like a year. Definitely not since that night almost a week ago. I tried, every waking moment of every day, not to think about that night. And yet it was the only thing my mind gravitated toward.

How could it not be, when it was all my fault?

For the hundredth time in the past twenty-four hours, I took out my phone, pulling up the text Cassandra sent me yesterday. I had to brace myself against the side of the coop to read it again.

CASS:Thank you for staying with her. Will let you know when/if she wants to see you.

Then the next one, the one I hated most of all:

CASS: It’s not your fault.

My stomach drew into a hard, angry knot. I shoved my phone back in my pocket and unhooked the lid on the side of the coop. Of course it was my fault! Chelsea Kelly was laid up in that hospital bed while I was walking around almost entirely unscathed, save a couple of nasty bruises. Like it was any other day.

It was what always happened. The other person was harmed. I got away free and clear.

I was spared for no good reason at all.

I took the eggs from the coop, grasping all five of them with one hand. Normally, this was easy. But right now, I couldn’t think fast enough as images flew at me. My fingers opened, the eggs slipping from my shaking hand. I watched them fall, all five splattering onto the ground at oncelike little oozing grenades.

Goddammit.

I slammed my hand against the rough-hewn wood of the coop, jostling the whole structure. The chickens were all out in the yard; still they squawked in protest.

But nothing could stop the onslaught I felt each time I thought about the crash. Not the splinters in my hand, not the ache in my side. The memory was so painful I crouched down, putting my palms to my forehead.

The worst part wasn’t the crash. It was Chelsea.

Chelsea in the passenger seat; her smile a little sloppy with drink. Her brown hair waving around her face, curling softly against her collarbone. She had a freckle on her neck, right where her pulse flashed.

“Fuck!” I shouted. More squawks from the birds.

At least there was no one else nearby to hear me losing my shit. I lived at the end of a dirt road high up in the hills on the south side of the Quince Valley; my nearest neighbor was a full mile from here.

Did this feel worse than Kevin? Right now it felt just as bad. Kevin was years ago. This was days ago.

I scooped the mess of eggs into my palm and tossed them into the trees. I should have gone around the side of my little cabin to grab the hose and rinse out the compost bucket. Or I should have gone back inside to check my email about the mega-mansion job, despite Dad handing the job off to one of our best sub-contractors. He insisted I take the week off from Reilly and Sons contracting. He wanted me to take next week off too, but I refused. I couldn’t get so behind, not when I was so close to snagging one of the biggest jobs our company had ever won. The goal I’d been working at for years—ever since I came back from college and started working at the family business—was to grow Reilly and Sons into the biggest, most in-demand contractor this side of Vermont. I wanted us to be the go-to not only for the house builds we were known for, but also for bigger commercial builds and restorations. I wanted Dad to retire proud, knowing the business could succeed beyond his wildest dreams.

Even when I removed the S on the end of Sons.

Though I may have blown my chances at getting the Rolling Hills renovation—that job would be the pillar of this new expansion—but I’d nearly killed the sister of the CEO. And the CFO, my best friend.

How could I care about what happened to our business after that?

Without work, I needed a project. Something to compress the long hours of the day into something I could swallow. I undid the top few buttons of the dress shirt I’d put on this morning, as if I could convince myself I was at work by wearing the clothes. It was stupid of me to wear it. I rolled up my sleeves, desperate to do something with my hands. But I’d done all the odd jobs I’d put off around the house over the past couple of days. I still needed to replace some tiles on the roof, but I didn’t have the material and couldn’t stomach the thought of going into town right now.

What I really needed to do, that I was putting off, was talk to Eli.

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