Learning to Fall (8 page)

He’d died of a massive heart attack four years later. We never did play kickball, but under his tutelage I became one of the best chess players in the state. I’d stopped playing after his death, and to this day couldn’t glance at a chess set without feeling a sharp twinge of loss.

“The rules are simple,” Daniel said, drawing me back into the present. “We clasp our hands together, like this” - taking my right hand, he gently turned my wrist and tucked his fingers under mine - “and you have to lift your thumb up.”

“Why?” I asked, studying our joined hands. His palm was almost twice the size of mine and slightly calloused on the edges.

“Because those are the rules. Now you wag your thumb back and forth and say, ‘One two three four I declare a thumb war’. The first person to pin the other person’s thumb is the winner.” He looked up at me expectantly. “Ready?”

“I really don’t understand the point-”

“Go!” Brow furrowed in concentration, Daniel had my thumb captured beneath his within a matter of seconds. Canting his head to the side, he frowned as though I’d greatly disappointed him. “You didn’t try very hard.”

I blew a piece of hair out of my eyes. “I don’t understand the point of this.”

“Does there have to a point?”

“Well, yes.” Of course there had to be a point. Didn’t there?

“Then the point is to have fun.” He grinned and squeezed my fingers. “Best two out of three?”

Daniel’s enthusiasm for the thumb game, while baffling to someone like me,
was
rather infectious. Before I could think to stop myself I was smiling back at him. “Okay,” I said before I squared my shoulders and leaned in a little closer. “But now that I understand the rules you’re in trouble.”

“That’s what I like to hear. You have a lovely smile, Imogen. You should use it more often.”

He thought I had a nice smile? Warmed by the compliment, I bit my lip. “Thank you. That is a very nice thing to-”

“
OnetwothreefourIdeclareathumbwar
. Ha! Gotcha.” Grinning in triumph as he pinned my thumb with ease, he threw both arms up in the air as though he’d just won a boxing match. “Thumb Game Champion!”

“You cheated!” I gasped.

“I think you mean I won.” Not looking the least bit ashamed by his distraction tactics, but crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his chair back. “You know what they say. All’s fair in love and war and thumb games.”

Feeling a bit miffed, I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t believe that is the
exact
saying.”

“Don’t be a sore loser, Imogen.” Dropping his chair down, he leaned across the table to take my hand, but I drew it back out of reach.

“I’m not being a sore loser,” I said, even though that’s
exactly
what I was being, if only because I wasn’t accustomed to coming in second place.

“Uh huh,” Daniel said with a knowing grin. “Sure. Don’t worry, we’ll play again.”

“I don’t know if I want to play again.”

“Why not?”

“Because you cheat!”

“I improvised,” he corrected. “That’s not the same thing as cheating.”

I glanced down at the table. “You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean just to win a game.”

“Imogen. Imogen, look at me,” he instructed quietly.

When I did, albeit reluctantly, I found Daniel’s piercing stare waiting for me. He reached for my hand again and this time, mesmerized by the shifting stormclouds in his brooding gaze, I didn’t pull back. His palm encased the top of my hand, long, tapered fingers reaching all the way past my slender wrist. Butterflies swirled to life in my stomach, beating their colorful wings in time to the erratic pounding of my pulse. 

“I meant what I said. You do have a lovely smile. A little shy, maybe, but lovely.” His eyes never left mine. “You’re very pretty, Imogen.”

There were better adjectives he could have used. Pretty, by its very definition, meant attractive in a delicate way without being truly beautiful or handsome. But that’s what made it so sincere. Because I
wasn’t
beautiful or stunning or gorgeous. And Daniel saw that. More importantly, Daniel saw
me
.

Somehow he was able to peer through my awkward shyness and defensive coldness to the woman hidden beneath. The woman yearning to be understood. To be accepted.

To be loved.

Goosebumps lifted the fine hairs on my arms and the nape of my neck. Startled by the depths my thoughts had suddenly taken I pulled back, both physically and emotionally. Slipping my hand free of Daniel’s, I smiled uncertainly at him, at a complete loss of what to say or do. Thankfully our waitress chose that exact moment to come out with our food, effectively concealing my social ineptitude, at least for the time being.

“Here you go,” Tanya chirped as she set down two enormous plates piled high with blueberry pancakes. Her wavy brown ponytail bounced as she pinned her hands to her hips and rocked back on her heels. “If you need anything else just holler. Enjoy!”

Eyes going wide, I looked down at my plate. “I can’t eat all of these.”

Having wasted no time digging into his own mountain of pancakes (drizzled liberally in extra maple syrup, as requested), Daniel paused with his fork in midair. “You better. You don’t want to hurt Gracie’s feelings, do you?”

“No, of course not, but-”

“Then dig in.”

I made it through four pancakes - which were just as good, if not better, than Daniel had said they would be - when he chuckled and pulled my plate towards him.

“Wait,” I protested, reaching for my plate. “I’m not finished.”

“You’re starting to turn a little green. I’m impressed, though. You put a serious dent in these bad boys.” Sliding my plate onto his empty one, he nudged our dishes to the edge of the table and patted his stomach. “I don’t think I’m going to eat for a week. Good, right?”

“Amazing,” I agreed even as I bit my lip and glanced anxiously at my two remaining pancakes. “I should finish, though. I don’t want Gracie to be upset. She seems very nice.”

An emotion I couldn’t quite decipher flashed across Daniel’s face. “It was a joke, Imogen.”

“Oh.” Feeling foolish, I picked up the paper napkin I’d placed in my lap and began to refold it into a neat rectangle. Of
course
he’d been joking. Anyone else would have picked up on that. Anyone else except for me. Was the innate need to please, to be perfect, to never fail, so deeply ingrained inside of me I would have made myself sick trying to finish every last pancake if Daniel hadn’t pulled my plate away? Yes. The answer, ridiculous as it seemed, was yes.

Forget being accepted, understood, and loved.

I just wanted to be normal.

The table tipped away from me as Daniel leaned his elbows on it. “You take things very seriously, don’t you?”

I looked up from my napkin origami. “Yes,” I said simply.  

“Why?”

It was a question I’d been asked countless times before. By my friends, peers, teachers, colleagues. Never as bluntly as Daniel, but in their own little way they’d all wondered the same thing and they’d all given me the same advice. Advice I’d never been able to follow, no matter how badly I wanted to. 

Relax.

Loosen up.

Live a little.

What they didn’t understand - what Daniel didn’t understand - was that I’d been raised to be this way. Raised to be serious. To be somber. To be superb. And even though I wanted desperately to change, even though I
wanted
to relax and loosen up and live a little, it wasn’t as easy as flipping a switch. Because if there was one thing I knew to be absolutely true, it was that no matter how far you went or how fast you ran, you couldn’t run away from yourself.

“I don’t know.” Having completed refolding the napkin, I started to take it apart, fingers pulling ruthlessly at the thin white paper. “I always have, I suppose.” Unsettled and anxious, I glanced at my watch. “I should be getting home. My roommate will be wondering where I am. We - we have plans this afternoon.” It was a lie Daniel easily saw through.

“Let’s take a walk,” he said, reaching across the table to take my hand. His thumb brushed across my knuckles, but where his touch had brought heat before now I felt nothing but coldness.

This isn’t me
, I thought as I stared at him.
I’m not
this
girl. The one who flirts and has fun with a man she barely knows. The one who throws caution to the wind. This isn’t part of my plan. This isn’t on my schedule.

As the first painfully familiar licks of panic began to set in, I snatched my hand away and jumped up so quickly my chair went crashing to the ground. Daniel’s eyes registered startled surprise before he shot to his feet.

“Whoa,” he said, quickly coming around the table to pick up my chair. “Where’s the fire?”

“I - I just really need to get home.” It had been exactly one year and three months since my last anxiety attack, but I remembered the symptoms as though one had happened yesterday. A tightness in my chest. Shortness of breath. The horrible sensation of suffocating from the inside out. If I didn’t get out of here - immediately - I ran the risk of dissolving into a sniffling, gasping puddle of overwrought female at Daniel’s feet.

As a teenager my anxiety attacks had been frequent, brought on by the daily stress of trying to live up to my mother’s impossibly high expectations. Over the years as I made the transition from adolescent to adult I’d learned how to control them and had daily measures in place (like reciting my schedule in the shower every morning) to make sure they didn’t happen.

“Okay.” Daniel’s voice was quiet and soothing, as though he were speaking to a frightened animal. He started to reach for my arm only to stop and spread his hands apart, palms facing out, when I visibly flinched. “Okay, that’s fine. That’s fine, Imogen. We can go for a walk another time. It’s not a big deal.”

I glanced at the table and what remained of my pancakes, cheeks flushing dull red with mortification as I realized I didn’t have my wallet. As a safety precaution I never went jogging with it, and when Daniel invited me to have breakfast with him I’d been so caught up I hadn’t stopped to think about how I would pay. “I’m sorry,” I said, patting my hip, “but I don’t… I didn’t bring…”

“That’s fine, Imogen,” Daniel said, quickly interpreting the reason behind my sudden distress. “It’s
fine
,” he repeated when my eyes filled with tears. “They were pancakes, not caviar. I’m pretty sure I can cover the check without having to take out a loan. It’s Poppy’s, not a five star restaurant. Although if you ever tell Gracie I said that I’ll have no choice but to call you a liar.” 

“Thank you,” I whispered, managing a watery smile at his attempt to lighten the situation. “I…Thank you. And I’m sorry. I’m really… I’m sorry.” Beyond humiliated, I did the only thing I could think of.

I ran. 

CHAPTER SIX

Sexy

“No you didn’t.” Staring at me with equal parts amusement and horror, Whitney shook her head. “Mo, you did
not
run away.”

“I did.” My hand trembled as I lifted the first of two glasses of wine I allowed myself every Saturday after dinner. A pink blush, it complimented the popcorn I was devouring by the handful. “I had an anxiety attack. Well,” I amended as I carefully set my wine back down on the coffee table after taking a sip, “the beginning of one. I knocked over my chair.” Remembering the crash and the resulting look on Daniel’s face, I pinched the bridge of my nose and groaned. “It was so loud.”

Whitney snorted.

“I’m sorry!” she said, waving her hand in the air when I frowned at her. “I know I shouldn’t laugh. I know it’s not funny. But imagining you jumping to your feet, throwing your chair on the ground, and sprinting home like a crazy person is too much. It’s too much, Mo.” As she dissolved into a fit of giggles that threatened to tip her off the edge of the sofa, a reluctant smile tugged at one side of my mouth.

“It didn’t happen
exactly
like that.”

“What I wouldn’t have given to see it. Oh my God.” Whitney wiped her eyes before finishing off her glass of wine. “Another?” she asked, waving her empty glass in the air. “Another,” she decided before I could answer. “You deserve it.” Plucking my glass out of my hand, she raised her voice as she went into the kitchen. “At least you got free pancakes. I can’t remember the last time a guy took me out for breakfast.”

“You go out all the time,” I protested. It was true. Between the men she met at bars and the dates she scored online, Whitney certainly wasn’t lacking for male suitors. The only reason she was home tonight was because her date had cancelled on her last minute.  

Sauntering back into the living room, Whitney set my wine on the coffee table within arm’s reach before sitting down beside me and pulling a knee up to her chest. She’d changed out of her date outfit (skinny jeans and a sequined red top with a plunging neckline) and now matched my typical Saturday evening attire: leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. “Not for breakfast. Drinks, sure. Dinner if he knows what’s good for him. The movies. Even lunch once in a while. But breakfast? Nope.” Staring at me over the brim of her wine glass, she slowly shook her head from side to side. “That’s straight up girlfriend territory.”

“No it’s not,” I said even as I fought the urge to smile.
Girlfriend territory
. Was that how Daniel saw me? As a potential girlfriend? Was
that
why he’d asked me to have breakfast with him? Why he’d kept touching my hand? Why he’d called me pretty? I couldn’t deny the idea was appealing, albeit completely infeasible. As I’d adequately displayed with my mini-anxiety attack, I had more than enough going on - both personally
and
professionally - without adding the complication of a possible boyfriend into the mix. Especially a boyfriend who made my blood heat just by looking at him.

Not that you have to worry about that anymore,
I told myself dryly. If Daniel had liked me before (at least in the way Whitney was suggesting) I had little doubt as to his feelings now. He probably thought I was a nutcase and I couldn’t exactly blame him, not after the way I’d acted.

“Tell me more about this mysterious stranger,” Whitney demanded. Leaning sideways, she grabbed a handful of popcorn and chased it with wine. “I need details. I still can’t believe I missed him at the bar the other night. Total fail. How tall is he?”

I didn’t want to keep talking about Daniel, but I knew Whitney wouldn’t let up until I’d answered every single one of her nosy questions. “Umm…About six foot three, I think.”  

“What color eyes does he have?”

“Grey.”
Except in the sunlight, when they turn the color of the sky after a long, hard rain.

“Hair?”

“Dark blond.”

“Physique? You said he didn’t have a shirt on, right?” At my nod, Whitney’s brow shot up. “
Interesting
.”

“Interesting? Why is that interesting?”

She waved a hand in the air. “Nevermind. Just tell me about his body. Six pack?”

Recalling Daniel’s chiseled abdomen, I couldn’t help but sigh. Just a little. “Yes.”

“And he paid for breakfast?”

“Well, yes, but only because I didn’t have my wallet with-”

“He loves you,” my roommate said matter-of-factly.

I spit out my mouthful of wine back into my glass. “
Whitney
.”

“What?” She blinked innocently. “What did I say? Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m just giving you shit. It’s my official duty as your roommate and best friend. But I definitely think he likes you. Well, at least he
liked
you,” she amended with a snicker. “Now he probably thinks you’re batshit crazy.”

Setting my glass of wine aside, I threw my head back and stared up at the ceiling. A long, zig-zagging crack ran diagonally across the white plaster, drawing my gaze to the far corner. “I
am
batshit crazy,” I said glumly. “I ran away from him, Whit. I literally
ran away
. Who does that? Crazy people,” I decided with a sigh.

“And drug dealers. Which, hello, look on the brightside. At least you’re not one of those. Unless there’s something you need to tell me.”

Tearing my eyes away from the ceiling, I dropped my chin to glare at her. “I am not a
drug
dealer.”

“Listen” - grabbing another handful of popcorn, Whitney popped two pieces in her mouth and chewed loudly - “it’s not your fault you are the way you are. If I had the type of mother you did, I would be crazy too. You put too much pressure on yourself to be perfect all the time. If you just relaxed a little bit more, things would happen naturally.” Her eyebrows wiggled up and down. “And by naturally I mean you should be having freaky sex with Hottie McHot right now instead of drinking wine with me.”

“Easier to say than do,” I muttered, picking at a stray thread on the blanket I had thrown over my lap. I didn’t
want
to be the way I was. I didn’t want to have to repeat my schedule every single morning in the shower. I didn’t want to plan out my entire day down to the minute. I didn’t want to feel as though if I wasn’t absolutely perfect - perfect daughter, perfect roommate, perfect professor - I was failing. That’s why I had come to Maine. Why I had run away from everyone and everything I knew. Because I
wanted
to change. In my heart I knew the pressure I put on myself wasn’t healthy, but in my mind…well, that was a different story altogether. One that had begun twenty years ago when my mother signed me up for my very first ballet class.

As I’d gotten out of the car, my stomach filled with butterflies and excitement at the thought of meeting new friends and learning how to dance like the beautiful ballerinas I’d seen in
The Nutcracker
, my mother had laid a restraining hand on my arm. When I looked back at her, she’d coolly informed me I would get the lead in the end of the year recital.

I will accept nothing less
, she said before letting me out of the car.

Most parents probably would have been happy if their daughter managed to get through an entire hour-long class without losing interest or having a temper tantrum, but not my mother. My mother had wanted - she’d
demanded
- perfection.

And that was exactly what she’d gotten.

For three months straight she dropped me off early and picked me up late. After class I wasn’t allowed to go on playdates with the other children. Instead I went home and practiced what I had learned for another hour. When all was said and done I didn’t make any friends, but I did get the lead.

I was four-years-old.

“Come on,” Whitney said as she bounded off the sofa. Still holding her wine glass in one hand, she grabbed my arm with the other and gave it a tug. “We’re getting up and we’re going out. Enough of this melancholy shit.”

“Out?” I repeated, startled. I glanced down at my watch. “But it’s… it’s after nine o’clock.”

My roommate rolled her eyes. “Mo, it’s a
Sat-ur-day
. And I refuse to let you sit here and mope for one more second.”

“I wasn’t moping,” I lied. 

“Seriously?” She cocked her head to the side. “Don’t pull that bullshit on me. I know a full blown mope when I see one. Come on.” Finally setting her wine glass down (a sure sign she meant business), Whitney grabbed my arm with both hands and, putting her full weight into it, managed to drag me reluctantly to my feet. “Repeat after me: we are getting dressed up and we are going out and we are going to have an
awesome
time.”

“I really don’t think that is necessary-”

“Repeat,” she ordered sternly.

“We are getting dressed up and we are going out and we are going to - what was the rest?”

“Have an
awesome
time!”

“Have an awesome time.”

“Don’t sound too excited. Come on.” Still holding my arm, she pulled me behind her up the stairs and into her bedroom.“For once, you’re going to let me style you. Uh uh!” she said when I started to protest. “No if, ands, or buts.”

Resigned to my fate - trying to change Whitney’s mind when it was already made up was the equivalent of trying to kick down a brick wall - I nudged a black heel out of the way and sat gingerly on the edge of her unmade bed. While our rooms were roughly the same size with hardwood floors, white walls, and two windows with deep, old-fashioned sills, that was where the similarities ended. If my bedroom was a study in organization, then Whitney’s was pure and utter chaos. Clothes were flung far and wide. Shoes - none of them matching - were scattered across the floor. Makeup covered her bureau. Feeling something poking my right thigh, I shifted to the side and discovered a gold hoop earring.

“Missing something?” I asked, holding it up.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for that!” Snatching the earring out of my hand, Whitney tossed it carelessly on top of a chair before practically skipping across the room and flinging open her closet.

“You’re shorter than me,” I reminded her as she began to rummage through her clothes. “Nothing is going to fit.”

“Maybe not the pants, but the shirts will.” Popping back out with a black halter top in one hand and a silvery mesh…thing in the other (was it a shirt? It couldn’t be a shirt), she waved them in front of my face. “What do you think?”

I shook my head vigorously from side to side. “No way.”    

“What? You don’t like this one?” Following the direction of my stare, Whitney gave the silver shirt an appraising glance. “I think it’s nice.”

“For a stripper, maybe.”

Her lips pursed. “Since I know for a fact you’ve never stepped foot in a gentleman’s club, how would you know what a stripper wears? Don’t be such a judge ho, Mo.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“It doesn’t matter.” Tossing the black halter top at me, she threw the silver shirt back in the closet and nudged the door closed with her hip. “The color would totally wash you out anyways. Try this one on.”

I held up the halter top and eyed it dubiously. Although it had a drop waist that would at least cover my navel - something not to be taken for granted when wearing one of the Whitney’s shirts - the fabric was sheer and slinky and the back all but nonexistent. “What kind of bra am I supposed to wear with this?”

“Bra?” Whitney looked at me as though I’d just spoken Greek. “You don’t wear a bra with a shirt like that, Mo.” Flitting over to a chair piled high with an assortment of clothes, she yanked a dress out from the bottom and held it up to her chest in front of the full length mirror I’d helped her attach to the back of her door when we first moved in. “What do you think?”

“I think I need a shirt that I can wear a bra with.”

“Why? Your tits are small, Mo. It’s not as if you need the support. Come on,” she coaxed. “Just try it on. If you really don’t like it I can find something else but trust me, you’re going to
love
it.”

To my surprise - and Whitney’s smug delight - I actually
did
like the shirt.

Under her close supervision I paired it with a dark pair of skinny jeans, red heels, and simple pendant earrings. Whitney applied my makeup - a bit heavier than I usually did it with a sleek cateye - and styled my hair in a topknot that left the nape of my neck exposed.

Finally settling on a skintight blue dress for herself (after half a dozen wardrobe changes and two dramatic declarations of
I have nothing to wear
) Whitney curled her hair into long, slinky waves and finished her makeup with a bold red lip.

Standing side by side when all was said and done, we studied our reflections in the bathroom mirror.

“We look badass,” Whitney decided.