Falling Into Us (13 page)

I hesitated at the door, watching him as he took a third drink, by which point the bottle was emptied past the neck, nearly to the top of the label. “Are you sure you should—”

“’Night, Beck.” He repeated it more forcefully, clearly closing the topic of his drinking.
 

I left, my gut heavy with worry. He’d shifted from happy to upset so fast, and he’d downed nearly a quarter of a fifth of whiskey within minutes, acting as if he’d done it frequently. By the time I’d tiptoed to my bedroom, stripped down to T-shirt and panties, and snuggled into my bed, I’d forgotten Ben. I had Jason on the brain, his hands skimming my hips, his lips touching mine, devouring mine.

My last thought was how I’d manage to sneak out to see him as often as I’d want to.

FIVE: Fight Night

Jason

The following Monday

Becca had texted me a few times over the weekend, but we hadn’t managed to see each other. I’d asked, but she’d claimed her dad was acting suspicious so she had to lie low. As for me, weekends were the worst. Dad usually had weekends off unless something big came up, which meant I had to keep busy to stay away from him. Usually I stayed in my room, studying, or in the basement working out. This weekend, I didn’t manage to keep out of his way quite enough. He’d tied on a real bender Sunday, mixing in a case of beer with his two fifths of Jack. I’d worked out, done my homework, and had tried sneaking into the kitchen for some lunch. Bad plan. I was pretty sure he’d bruised a few ribs and loosened a tooth, but I’d fought him off enough that he’d gone back to his booze and
Band of Brothers
marathon.

Why he tortured himself with war movies, I’d never figured out, but he was always meanest when he was in those moods. I’d taken my lunch and eaten it in my room. Dinner hadn’t happened till after one-thirty in the morning after he was passed out.

I wasn’t in the greatest mood by the time school came around Monday morning. I’d had my kisses with Becca running through my mind all weekend, and that was all that had gotten me through those days. But when I saw her between classes, she’d barely given me a smile and hurried on her way. I’d stewed on that the rest of the afternoon, wondering if she was regretting us already.

She found me at my locker again before class. “Sorry I couldn’t get out to see you this weekend,” she said, sliding up next to my side.

I shrugged. “Are you okay?”

She frowned. “Yeah, why?”

“You barely even looked at me when I saw you between classes earlier.”

“I’m just always stressed right then. I’ve got classes on complete opposite sides of the school, and I’ve got to go through A hallway, which is a traffic jam, so I’m always running just to be there on time.”

I felt better. “Oh. That makes sense.”

She tilted her head at me, her frown deepening. “Why? What did you think? That I was ignoring you?” I just shrugged again, knowing it was stupid at that point. “Hey, what’s up? You seem like you’re in a bad mood. Is it me?”

I slammed the locker closed and wrapped my hand around hers. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

I gaped at her. “Becca, it’s fine, really—”

She stopped and pushed me against a locker, heedless of the crowds still exiting the building. “Jason. Talk.”

I felt her body against mine, her breasts crushed between us and her hips against mine, and I knew I couldn’t lie to her. “I just had a hard weekend. Dad was really drunk, and he was watching war movies. He’s…it’s never good when he’s in that kind of mood.” I was barely whispering. I’d rather do a billion down-ups than talk about that shit. “I’m fine.”

Becca’s eyes filled with anger and hurt. “Jason…god. I’m sorry. I—”

I cut her off. “Listen, don’t make this your problem. It’s not. It’s just the shit I got handed. I can deal. I’m fine. Just don’t take it personally if I’m sometimes in a shitty mood, okay? Just…smile for me, and maybe kiss me, and I’ll be fine.”

Becca didn’t hesitate, not even a single heartbeat. She pressed her lips to mine and smiled, and the feel of her mouth curving against mine in a smiling kiss lifted the cloud from my head, the weight from my shoulders, lessened the pain in my ribs and the hurt in my heart. I kissed her back, lost myself in her. She let me slide my hands on her hips, pull her closer, kiss her harder, and the silence extended around us as the building emptied. I kissed her, and I thought of that incredible poem she wrote about ghosts kissing her, and I tried my damnedest to kiss her so she knew I was real, I wasn’t a ghost anymore. It may have been arrogant or self-centered, but I was convinced that poem was about me; she just didn’t know it when she wrote it.

“All right, you two, knock it off. Don’t you have practice, Mr. Dorsey?” Mr. Hansen, the biology teacher, barked out as he passed, a handful of goggles hanging from his fingers. He didn’t slow down or wait to make sure we split apart, which we didn’t.
 

Becca giggled and rested her forehead on my chest. “We just got busted for PDA. We’re
that
couple now, huh?”

“Which couple?” I asked, thrilled that she thought of us as a couple.

“The kind that makes out in the hallways and gets yelled at for it.” She had her arms around my neck, and she brushed a finger along my lip where a faint cut was still visible.
 

I bit her finger gently, and she laughed outright, then burrowed closer and kissed me again. “You’d better go,” she said when we pulled away once more. “I wouldn’t want to be a bad influence on you.”

I laughed, and marveled that she was able to lift my mood within minutes, with just a few words and couple kisses. “Yeah, I should go. Coach’ll be pissed if I’m late again.”

She pushed away from me, hiked the straps of her backpack higher up her shoulders. “I’ll call you. I’ll try to get out to see you tonight, if I can.”

Practice was a blur. I went hard, that much I knew. My body was on fire, it felt, lit by Becca’s kiss. I barely felt the tackles, barely felt the burn in my legs as I strained for the yards.
 
I got home, made dinner, and ate mine as fast as I could, leaving some covered for Dad. Mom sat opposite me, eating with me, quiet as always. She was stick-thin, with lank, long blonde hair usually pulled back in a messy ponytail. I got my eyes from her, I realized, bright green, startling in their vividness. Hers were tired and vacant and somehow sad, though. I sat scarfing the chicken cacciatore I’d made, idly running through things I could do with Becca if she was able to see me, and then I remembered Becca’s questions about my mom, and it made me realize I knew nothing about her.
 

I stopped eating and stared at my mom, wondering.
 

“What?” Her voice was quiet, scratchy with disuse. “I got something on my face?” She wiped at her mouth.

I shook my head. “I just…how’d you end up with Dad?”

Mom’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. “How’d I what?” She peered at me as if I’d sprouted horns. “Why?”

I shrugged. “Just curious. Realized I never really knew.”

“What brought this on?” I shrugged again. Mom finished her bite, washed it down with iced tea. She leaned back in her chair and stared out the window. “He was a patient. He’d just come back from his first tour in Iraq. Even in civvies, he was every inch a soldier. Wore a ball cap, you know the one, the old white Tigers hat? He had that one on, and when he saw me, he took it off and held it in front of himself, standing at attention like I was a general or something.”

 
Her face changed in the grip of that memory, softening, livening. I realized then, for the first time, that she must have been pretty at some point. Odd.
 

“He was handsome then. Tall, big muscles. Seemed nice. I didn’t know anything about war or what it’d be like when he came back. We dated for the two months he had between tours, and it got serious, I guess. I told him I’d write, told him I’d wait. I did.” She shifted her glance down to her left hand, to the small diamond on a thin gold band. The softness and liveliness faded, and suddenly she was more the Mom I knew, tired, reserved. “Didn’t realize he’d turn into…what he is now. It was gradual, not all at once. Started with a burnt dinner here, a stupid question or a bad day or a bad dream. PTSD, only he never did anything about it, never got help. Just got mean.”
 

I wasn’t sure what to say. “Did you love him?”

“Did I love him?” She twisted the diamond around her finger, not looking at me. “Maybe. I don’t know. Hard to say, I guess. I mean, it wasn’t like in those romance movies.”
 
She glanced up at me then, a sly look on her face, the most direct emotion I’d seen in years. “You in love with a girl, Jason?”

I pushed the bits of chicken around on my plate. “There’s a girl. Not sure if it’s love, but I like her a lot.” I wasn’t sure why I was telling her this, where this was coming from.
 

She was quiet for a while. “Well, just be careful, I guess. It can be tricky.” She met my eyes. “Wish I could meet her, but I’d understand why you wouldn’t want to bring her around here.”

I looked away. “Yeah. That’s not a great idea. Dad wouldn’t understand.”

“She know? About your dad?”
 

I shifted uncomfortably, wishing I was in my truck, away from all this, wishing I’d never opened this up. “Yeah.”

“She gonna tell?” Mom’s voice was soft, but sharp.

I shook my head. “Probably not.”

Mom didn’t respond to that. She got up and cleared her plate, finished her tea and set the glass in the sink, then spoke while staring out the window over the sink. “I’m sorry you were born into this, Jason. You’re a good kid.”

I had no idea what to say.
 

“Did you ever think about leaving?” The question popped out unbidden.

Mom shook her head. “Wouldn’t do any good. You know how he is. Nowhere to go, anyway. I’ve never lived anywhere but here, wouldn’t know where to go, especially with a little boy to take care of.” She flipped her ponytail back over her shoulder with a hand, glanced at me. “Now you’re almost grown. You’ll be gone soon, and all this will be a bad memory.”

“You’ll stay when I’m gone?”

“Of course,” she said, as if it were obvious. “Don’t worry about me. Just…focus on your grades and your ball game.”

A secret dared its way up and out. “What if I didn’t want to play ball anymore?”

She spun in place and stared at me in fear. “Don’t say that. Go to college. Play ball on a scholarship. Decide later. Don’t cross him now, Jason. Less than two years left now.” The fear faded, replaced by curiosity. “What would you do instead?”

I shrugged. “I like photography.”

“Really?” She nodded. “Well, I wouldn’t tell your dad that. You know how he is.”

A phrase to explain away everything:
You know how your dad is.

Neither of us had heard him come in from the garage. “Don’t tell me what?” His voice was low and hard and slightly slurred. He’d stopped at the bar, then. I could hear the alcohol in his words, see it in the narrow glare of his eyes.

I stood up as calmly as I could, hit the reheat button for the plate I’d set in the microwave, then cleared my place. I glanced at Mom, but she was gone, the door to her craft room closing with a
snick
that was loud in the silence. I hunted for something to say.

“Oh, nothing. Just…I…a quiz, in biology. I got C. But it wasn’t worth much, so it won’t matter.” It was a lie; I’d gotten an A on that quiz, but it was better than the alternative.

He took a few steps toward me, and I forced myself to stay in place, lift my chin, and meet his gaze. I tried to convince myself that what I’d said was the truth so he’d see the belief in my eyes. I had my mother’s eyes, but I was all Dad physically, broad in the shoulder, close-cropped blond hair, deep-set eyes, brown where mine were green, but our builds were identical. I was shorter, stockier than Dad, broader through the chest, and my cheekbones were higher and sharper than his, courtesy of Mom’s quarter-Cherokee heritage.

He stared down at me, standing several inches taller than me, six-two to my five-eleven. “Don’t you know any better than to lie to a cop, son?” Another step, this one for pure threat value. “And how am I?”

I knew better than to answer. I kept mouth shut and stared up at him, scared shitless but unable to show it. I never failed to be afraid, at least at first, even after a lifetime of this. The microwave beeped in the background, three beeps in the tense silence.
 

He struck hard and fast, knocked the breath from me with two lightning jabs to the kidneys. I took them, waited till he drew back for another, and struck back. I’d aimed for his jaw, but he dodged the wrong way and took it on the nose, which broke in a spray of blood. I’d never done that before, made him bleed. He stumbled back, wiping his nose in disbelief. I didn’t let him get his balance, though. I hit him again, getting his jaw this time, and then he was upright and I didn’t have a chance. He didn’t hold back this time.
 

He cracked me on the jaw, hooked a right to my cheek, splitting it open, and then another right to my face, releasing a sluice of blood from my nose. I stumbled back against the counter, swiping at my face with my forearm. He came at me with a straight left, and I ducked under it, slugging him in the gut hard enough to double him over.
   

I darted past him, snatched my keys off the counter, and ran out the back door. The screen slammed closed behind me, only to creak back open as Dad lurched after me. I made it to my truck, scrambled in, gunned the engine. Gravel sprayed as the back tires skidded sideways, pointing my hood at the road. I glanced in the rearview mirror, watching Dad’s figure diminish, one arm across his stomach, the other wiping at his nose.

I caught myself in the process of the exact same action, right wrist bent down, back of my forearm sliding under my nose. Just like him. I swore under my breath, then cranked the radio and screamed, slamming my palms on the steering wheel. My chest grew sticky, my chin warm and thick with blood. I didn’t care. I wasn’t sure where I was going. I just drove. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find myself at the entrance to Becca’s sub.