Five Ways to Fall Read online

  “But Warner doesn’t have a sports law department, Ben,” I say slowly, not wanting to dampen the sudden excitement in his voice with the obvious.

  He grins. “I know it doesn’t, Reese. Not yet, anyway. I was actually offered a job at a sports law firm on the West Coast, but I need to stay in Miami because of my mama for now. And, Jack’s willing to let me try to build one here, after I’ve put my dues in.”

  Ben turns his attention once again to his work as I feel the small smile curl over my lips. Jack is always looking for ways to help people out. I wonder if he’s taking a chance on Ben because he’s a good friend of his son’s and Mason doesn’t have a lot of friends. Jack’s the kind of guy who would do just that.

  “What else did Mason tell you about me?”

  I see the dimples appear, even at this angle. “That you’re certifiable.”

  “And?”

  Ben’s gaze lifts to me. “And I like certifiable.”

  “Well, sorry to disappoint,” I offer with a heavy sigh as I bite into an apple that Jack dropped off earlier, before heading out. “I’m completely sane. He’s just had it out for me since I jumped out of his closet and made him piss his pants.” Of course I leave out the part where I was wearing a clown costume and had a very realistic-looking cleaver in my hand. And I was eight. Because those details actually might make me sound a tad unstable.

  Ben bursts out in a roar of laughter; a genuine, chest-warming sound. “Okay, are you going to help me with this work or just sit there and look tempting all day?”

  I roll my eyes—though I secretly bask in his words.

  I don’t believe it.

  Eight hours after that ridiculous public display at the café, I’m straddling my bike outside a Chick-fil-A and inhaling a sandwich, while staring at a private message on my Facebook account from my ex-husband.

  Was great seeing you today. You’re more beautiful than ever.

  I reread the message at least twenty times as bitter nostalgia consumes my insides. Jared always greeted me with a groggy, “Hey, beautiful,” as soon as my alarm went off. The first time he said it was especially jarring because I hadn’t heard it since I was five years old, when my father was still around. Growing up with a mother that looks like Annabelle—and me looking nothing like her and everything like my father—I know what beautiful is and I know that I am not it. Sure, there’s something about me. Something that sometimes grabs someone’s attention.

  But, Jared always made me feel beautiful.

  My appetite has suddenly vanished. Wrapping up the rest of my dinner and sticking it back in the bag for later, I type out with shaky hands:

  Great seeing you, too.

  Simple.

  And highly untruthful. Was it “great” to see Jared today? Was it even remotely pleasant? No, it wasn’t. Yet I feel a spark of something inside me that convinces me otherwise. And as much as I want to be a bitch, as much as I want to lay into him with my litany of “whys”—Why did you leave me? Why did you lie to me? Why did you break my heart?—I find myself staring at my screen, waiting for the little “read” indicator to pop up, hoping for a response.

  I’m still staring at it when I hear a woman’s heels clicking behind me. “Do you have a light?”

  I turn to find espresso brown eyes drifting over my frame, probably in the same way I’m now assessing her. She’s beautiful in a very seductive way, her long black hair poker-straight and sleek, her lips full and pouty. Her breasts way too swollen and round to be real.

  “Sorry, don’t smoke.”

  She lets out a loud sigh of exasperation as her hands drop to her sides, a cigarette perched between two fingers. “Why does no one fucking smoke anymore?”

  “Because it’s highly uncool. Plus I already have a black heart. Black lungs would just be overkill.”

  “You and me both,” she mutters under her breath, studying my bike. “Yours?”

  “What gave it away?”

  She dissects me through narrowed eyes for a long moment before jutting her chin toward the Harley next to mine, the one with the red and yellow flames on the body that I was admiring earlier. “My boyfriend’s. He’s on his way out soon. Hey!” She waves down a guy walking by on his way in, holding up her unlit cigarette. He seems only too happy to dig into his pocket for a lighter, his eyes trained on this woman’s cleavage as she pulls a flame from it. “Thanks, babe,” she says in a low, husky voice, giving him a wink as she blows a puff of smoke directly in his face. “Now keep moving before my man comes out here.”

  What a bitch. I kind of like her.

  My phone chirps again and, unable to stop myself, I check the message.

  Seeing you with that guy today was hard. Is it serious?

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I mutter, my eyes widening with shock. Really? Him seeing me with someone else was hard on him? And why is he asking about Ben, anyway? Is he . . .

  Holy shit. Maybe Ben was right.

  “Bad news?” the woman asks between inhales.

  I feel the scowl creep over my face. “No. I don’t think so.” I pause to process this turn of events, as a strange, giddy urge rises up. “I think I made my ex-husband jealous today.”

  If it was hard on him, then . . . he still cares.

  And I had worked so hard to convince myself that he didn’t.

  Those first two weeks after I found them together in the shower, I was delusional. At first I thought there must be some sort of misunderstanding, that I didn’t see what I thought I saw, that I didn’t hear what I thought I heard. And then one morning I woke up from the haze—puffy-eyed and emotionally exhausted—and accepted that it was real. From that point, my thoughts morphed into a desperate hope that Jared would quickly realize his mistake, that he was simply confused, that it was just the one time, that maybe he had been drinking. Heavily. At eleven a.m. on a Tuesday. I wanted so badly to believe anything that resulted in him crawling back to me, begging me to forgive him.

  And I knew that, if he did, I would take him back. As strong and independent and stubborn as I am, I would have caved in a second. Because that was the only way to stem the agony coursing through my heart all conscious hours of the day.

  When Lina found a note from him tucked in her mail slot asking for a divorce, denying my delusions, proving to me what a fool I was, a toxic bitterness took over to stanch the vacuous hole left. That was it. It was over.

  I’ve clung on to that bitterness for months, allowing it to morph into indifference. It has been a motivation of sorts, to prove that while Jared doesn’t want or need me, I don’t want or need him either. That I wasn’t humiliated by him, too blind to see what was going on under my nose.

  But now he’s given me this new feeling to hold onto—a sick sort of satisfaction, knowing that there may still be a shred of something left in his heart for me. Like hope rekindled. Or maybe it’s just my battered ego getting a steroid shot. Whatever it is, it’s altogether intoxicating.

  “You’re trying to win him back?” she purrs through an exhale, watching me carefully.

  “No . . . he’s married. To the woman he cheated on me with.” Win him back? Could that even happen?

  “Why are you even talking to him then?” she asks, putting her cigarette out with her heel, having finished it in record time.

  “I don’t know.” I don’t know this woman and don’t care if she judges me. Maybe that’s why I admit out loud, without giving it too much thought, “Maybe I still do want him back.” I pause and then add, “After I hurt him.” After I make his heart ache, let him feel lost, make him regret his choices. And then, when he has cried and groveled and suffered . . . maybe I’d take him back.

  Get back what we once had.

  “And then you could live happily ever after.” I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. But then her sour mask slips for just a moment, revealing a kind of sympathy behind it that tells me she knows something of my pain. “I spent years waiting around for someone, hoping he just
needed time. It was stupid.”

  “I haven’t been waiting around for him,” I argue.

  She shrugs as a tall guy wearing a leather jacket, torn jeans, and heavy black boots exits the restaurant, heading our way.

  “Yours?” I ask, nodding toward him.

  A soft smile flitters across her hard face and I can tell it’s rare to come by. “Me and Fin have been friends for years. He’s always been there for me. I just finally noticed how much he means to me.”

  When he reaches us, he wastes no time swooping in for a quick kiss, which she grants, tugging on his beard playfully. To be honest, he’s not at all what I’d expect a girl that looks like this—who could be stripper or an escort—to be attracted to. But, to each her own.

  “How do you like it?” He eyes my bike with a reverence unique to fellow riders.

  “I could use a bit more power, but I love it.” When Jack surprised me with the offer to co-sign, he had already done his research. Apparently I’m less likely to kill myself on this “starter” model.

  “I was thinking of getting China one of these,” he admits, following up with a grin and, “But I like having her on my back.”

  “Wow. Bike talk. Thrilling,” the woman mutters dryly. “Ready to go, babe?” She pulls her helmet on and gives him a playful smack on the ass as if telling him to go. He complies, throwing a long leg over the seat of his bike. She uses his shoulders to balance herself as she follows suit, straddling the bike behind him. Then she settles those sharp eyes on me. “Word to the wise: if you have to fight over a guy, he’s not worth it. Go for the one who’s waiting for you.” She coils her arms around her boyfriend’s waist as he starts the engine.

  I watch them swiftly pull away together.

  Lying on my bed with one arm nestled beneath my head, still fully dressed, I stare at my phone, deciding on how to best answer Jared’s question about Ben. I finally settle on:

  I haven’t married him yet.

  Humor. When in doubt, always use humor.

  And yet, it’s still cutting.

  As I wait for his response—which I may not get tonight; Jared was always terrible with responding to texts—I roll onto my side to reach beneath my bed. My fingers latch onto the smooth wood of my little treasure chest—the box that holds my past.

  The scent of cedar tickles my nostrils as I open the box up and study the wedding picture hidden inside. The crisp white costume of the Elvis impersonator who married us can’t eclipse the wide beam on my face as I stand tucked into Jared’s side, my flirty violet dress complementing the color of my hair. The way the camera is angled, the diamond in my nose ring sparkles against the flash. Jared is looking as casual and sexy as usual in faded jeans and a fitted Kings of Leon T-shirt that hugs his beautifully sculpted body as if it were designed for him and him alone.

  I used to think that Jared was designed for me and me alone.

  We understood each other. More importantly, he said he loved me for me. All of me. My bitchy self in the morning, my sarcastic self at most other times, except for when I melted into something soft and approachable—almost vulnerable—in his arms. He loved that I ride a motorcycle and that I know how to play a guitar and can belt out Joni Mitchell and Eddie Vedder while making scrambled eggs, one of only a few things I can actually cook. He loved that my hair was purple and my body was pierced and that I didn’t balk at the idea of matching tattoos. Not even for a second.

  He loved that I was independent and emotional and that I was “different” from all the other girls.

  I, in turn, loved that he didn’t care about his parents’ money and chose welding because he loves to work with metal. I loved the way he didn’t look twice at other girls while I was sitting around with him. I loved the way he’d tell me to invite my friends out with us. I loved the way he couldn’t go a whole night apart from me. He even tried, once. He came down to Miami for a friend’s stag and ended up driving all the way home that same night to curl up in bed with me at five a.m.

  I loved the way he chose me in an instant. How he wanted me in his life. He was the only man who seemed willing to commit to forever with me.

  I loved the way he loved me.

  With a sigh, I tuck the picture in and pull out the creased sheet of paper beneath it, the note that Jared delivered to Lina’s door.

  Reese—

  I’m sorry you had to find out this way. Caroline and I ran into each other and . . . I still love her. What you and I had will always be special to me. I’ll pay all the fees. Please, just sign the documents so we can all move on.

  I’m sorry.

  Jared

  I never thought that a flimsy sheet of paper could have the power to impale a human being. It came with one of those “do it yourself” online applications for a divorce from the State of Florida and colorful little Post-it tags indicating where I needed to sign.

  I knew that Jared didn’t put those there.

  I’ve kept this note to remind me of how badly Jared hurt me and how I want nothing more to do with him. And yet, now that he’s here in Miami, now that I’ve had a taste of what it feels like to have his attention again . . . I don’t know that I can just walk away. I certainly can’t stop thinking about it.

  I heave a sigh as I check my phone once again. Is it really worth it, though? That Chick-fil-A woman is probably right. Or, at least, she may be right.

  It’s been a while since I opened up this box. Digging deeper, I find even older memories. Even more painful ones.

  A picture of a little girl with pigtails, her hands stretched as far as they could to reach the handlebars of her daddy’s Harley while she pretended to ride it. I pull that one out and study it intently, just as I’ve done for years, until a light knock on the door startles me. Jack pokes his head in, ducking it slightly as if tentative about my reaction. “How was working with Ben today?”

  I can’t help but smile. He’s worried that I’m mad at him for pulling the boss card. And making me work on a Saturday, no less. “Fine. We got through a lot. I told him I’d meet him at the office tomorrow.”

  “And he’s been . . . professional?”

  I stifle a snort. I know exactly what Jack’s asking. “You don’t have to worry, Jack.” I think that’s all Jack does regarding me.

  Worry.

  Worry that this new-and-improved Reese he has helped create is only temporary. That it’s only a matter of time before I fall off the law-abiding wagon, so to speak, or he has to bail me out of some jam, or I run off and get married again.

  I notice Jack’s shoulders drop as if relieved of a weight. Walking into my room, he reaches for the picture in my hand. “You used to fall asleep with this. I always put it away before your mother found you with it. She would have burned it.”

  “Good thing Annabelle was never one to tuck me in, then,” I mumble dryly, though I feel the warmth spreading in my chest over Jack’s admission. I actually never realized that I hadn’t secreted the picture away, myself. Or that Jack had come to check on me at night.

  He harrumphs, studying the picture for a minute before handing it back.

  “Hey, are you really never going to get remarried, Jack?” I ask, tucking it away and pushing the box under the bed.

  “Oh . . .” A deep frown furrows his brow. “I figure twice is enough for me.”

  “Is it because of Annabelle? Did she screw you up that bad?”

  “It’s because of a lot of things, Reese’s Pieces.” He smiles sadly. “I let go of that hurt a long time ago. Holding on to people who don’t want your love is never healthy.” He heaves a big sigh. “Maybe if I meet the right woman, things will change.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly caught Ms. Sexton’s attention,” I tease with a smile, knowing I can get away with it. Jack’s a real easygoing, tolerant guy.

  He cringes. “I prefer someone a little more . . . refined.” Despite what her last name may suggest, with a chronic case of black roots and a cigarette always hanging out of her mouth, Ms. Se
xton is about as far from the sexy single neighbor as you can get. Divorced twice, the Boston native’s nasally voice makes her accent decidedly unattractive. You can usually find her watering her lawn. She’s the one wearing lime-green spandex leggings, a sports bra, and Crocs. The fact that she has birthed four kids and has an old-school caesarian scar running vertically down her stomach doesn’t dissuade the fifty-year-old from flaunting what she may have had at some point, twenty-five years ago. I’m surprised there haven’t been official complaints from the community. It’s an upper-middle-class neighborhood of sizeable detached homes and landscaped properties.

  Jack leans down to place a soft kiss on top of my head. “Good night.”

  “’Night, Jack,” I mumble, but then call out, “Jack?”

  He stops and turns, a questioning look on his face.

  “Do you believe in fighting for something you want?”