Beth Hyland - Fall Into Forever

* * *

Jon

With my arms stretched out on the chest-high cement barrier, I look over the water. Huge black rocks rise from the misty ocean like dark, ghostly figures. Updrafts of salty, damp wind whip through my hair. I’ve driven down this stretch of road countless times and have never stopped. I’m glad Ivy made me, because this view is pretty fucking amazing.

I can’t believe I almost screwed things up with her. What the hell was I thinking, pawing her in the car like that? For the briefest of moments, I felt her freeze up and sensed her reluctance.

“Jon.”

I turn my head and Ivy snaps like a dozen pictures.

“Hey, no fair,” I say, holding up my hands. “I’m not ready.”

She rolls her eyes. “Candid shots are the best ones.” She looks through the viewfinder again and I give her my best Jon Priestly grin. “Stop trying to pose,” she says.

“I’m not.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m just smiling at this really hot girl holding a camera.”

“Give me the smile you normally give me. Not the one you give your groupies. You smile one way when you’re around them, and another way when you’re around your friends. I want the real Jon, not the one you’re putting on for the public.”

I open my mouth to argue, but it occurs to me that she’s right. So I stick my tongue out instead, and she takes a picture.

Although I have no idea what I’m doing with the assignment, I grab my little point-and-shoot and take a few pictures of my own. At the very least, I need to make an effort. I don’t need an A in the class, but a B or B minus would be nice.

Fifteen minutes later, Ivy replaces the lens cap on her camera and looks up at me. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are red from the cold air. Before we got out of the car, she braided her hair and put on a knit beanie. It’s sitting slightly off-kilter now. She’s gorgeous in a totally unintentional way. We walk back to the car and stow our cameras.

Sitting on the hood, I pull her into the V of my legs and we look out at the ocean together. Neither of us says anything for a while. With my arms around her, we just listen to the roar of the waves hitting the beach below us.

“Thanks for being patient,” she says finally.

“With what?”

She shrugs. “With me. In the car.”

“I’m hardly patient.”

“You’re taking things slowly to make sure I’m okay. That means a lot to me.”

I want to ask her why she panics when she feels she’s losing control of a situation, but if I have any hope of keeping this relationship from getting too serious, I need to keep questions like that to myself. I can’t be delving too deeply.

“Any ideas on the virginal theme that you’d care to share with me?”

“You’re really going to use that one?” She turns around in my arms and gives me a little half smile. “I was just kidding, Jon. You can pick whatever words you like.”

“I know.” I playfully touch the end of her nose. “But I figure, it’ll be challenging. I’m always up for a challenge.”

We spend the next few minutes discussing my themes, what each of the words mean and what we find important or interesting about them. I come up with some ideas on how to depict them that she thinks might work.

“This could actually be fun,” I tell her as we’re climbing off the hood of the car.

“Told you.”

My eyes are drawn to the ink work at the back of her neck. When we’re both inside the car, I ask about it.

Her hand goes up to rub it. “It’s the Chinese character for truth. Told you that word means a lot to me.”

A knot forms in my stomach as it hits me just how important that concept is to her. The truth will set you free? In my case, I wish I didn’t know the truth, because it’s too fucking ugly sometimes.

Jon

“She was all over you, bro,” James says, handing me a beer.

I wave it off. “Can’t. I’m in the tutoring center this afternoon.”

“Why didn’t you bring her home? I was expecting to see a pair of shoes by the front door when I got up this morning.”

“That’s standard operating procedure for you and the Rickmeister, not me.”

“Me neither,” Tate says from the kitchen.

“That’s because you like a girl to keep her fuck-me shoes on when you’re doing the deed,” James yells back.

“How would you know, Brettner? Do you like to watch?” I cover my crotch in case he throws something.

“You’d like an audience, wouldn’t you, Priestly?” He plops down next to me on the couch, grabs the remote, and changes the channel.

“What the hell, dude,” I yell at my best friend. “I’m watching Sports Center.”

“Relax. I’m checking to see what time the fights are on tonight. Hey, bring me some chips or something,” he yells to Tate. “I’m starving.”

“Do we even have any?” Tate calls from the kitchen.

“I don’t know. Look.”

I can hear the refrigerator opening, then silence. Chips in the fridge? Right. I’ll bet you anything he’s eyeing my orange juice right now. “Dude, the Tropicana’s mine. Back the fuck off.”

There’s a pause before he answers. “I don’t see your name on it.”

I knew it. Every time I buy a carton, it doesn’t last very long. “Goddamn it, Tate. Buy your own orange juice.” He’s such a mooch. Someone got into my Oreos the other day, too. I’ll bet you anything it was him.

I can hear cupboards and drawers opening. A minute later, he comes into the family room holding an open jar of peanut butter with a knife sticking out of the top, a sleeve of Saltine crackers, and a bag of Doritos. Dumping the munchies in the middle of the coffee table, he sits cross-legged on the floor and starts eating. Guess who’s high?

James flips back to Sports Center, grabs a handful of chips, and turns to me. “So why didn’t you bring her home? God, she was sooo into you down at the Hardware. I figured it was a sure thing.”

I really don’t want to get into it with him. I shrug. “Didn’t feel like it, I guess. We did meet for breakfast yesterday and I took her to Stella’s.”

“You took her to Stella’s? What the fuck is the matter with you? She’s going to think you’re a decent guy if you don’t knock that shit off.” He sinks back into the couch. “You’re not getting serious, are you?”

“Hell no.” I take a long drink from my bottled water, wishing it were a beer. “Ivy and I are just friends. We have a class together, so we’re working on a project. That’s it.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to explain myself to him.

James laughs. “School was definitely in session the other night.”

“The girl you were with is named Ivy?” Tate spreads a thick layer of peanut butter on a Saltine, taking care that it reaches all the corners¸ and covers it with another cracker. “My cousin Cassidy has a roommate named Ivy.”

“Ivy’s roommate is Cassidy. So you know her?” I ask, suddenly curious.

“I’ve met her a few times,” he says, not looking over. With his eyes glued to the TV, he shoves the cracker sandwich into his mouth.

I can’t believe the whole time I was looking for information about her at the party, all I had to do was ask Tate. “And…?”

He’s chewing as if he’s in a race and needs to finish first, reminding me of dinnertime at Forest Glen. You learned to eat the good stuff fast or someone might swipe it off your plate. Not that I’m going to steal one of his peanut-butter crackers. Although I should, considering all the orange juice he’s stolen from me.

Tate drains half the milk in his glass and belches. “She’s hot. I’d do her.”

I swear under my breath. “Thanks for that thoughtful assessment. It really helps.”

“But she’s got issues.”

I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean, issues?”

“I stopped in to talk to my cousin about something, but she wouldn’t let me in. I had to meet her downstairs in the lobby. Her roommate was in bed, depressed.”

“About what?”

He shrugs. “A guy, I think. Cass asked me all sorts of questions about some dude at the party.”

“Who?” I recall the conversation I had with Ivy after I helped her off the roof. She said she wasn’t up there because of a guy. Had she been lying to me?

“He was part of the group that Marshall brought.”

“One of the baseball recruits?” James asked.

“Yeah.”

“From high school? Ivy’s going out with a dude in high school?” That didn’t make sense.

“Not him,” Tate said, spreading peanut butter on another cracker. “His brother.”

My stomach clenches involuntarily. I run a hand through my hair. “He broke up with her?” So Ivy was up on that roof because she was heartbroken and didn’t want to face the brother of her ex-boyfriend?

“No. He didn’t break up with her. The dude died.”

I sit there for a moment, feeling as if someone is hollowing out my insides with a razor-sharp ice cream scoop.

“In love with a dead boyfriend.” James shakes his head. “Dude, you don’t want to be competing with that. You’ll lose every time.”

Numbly, I pick at a frayed hole in my jeans. Suddenly, her tentativeness around me makes sense. Maybe she hasn’t been with anyone since it happened, so she feels guilty. Unsure of herself. Even sad.

I recall the streaked tears on her face when I helped her off the roof. I assumed it was because a guy had hurt her. It didn’t occur to me she was crying because she was grieving.