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BREAK MY FALL CHAPTER 3
Josh
I suppose there are worse ways to die. My head feels like the inside of a tunnel with a fifty cal going off. The reverberations are echoing inside my skull with every beat of my pulse, and I’m reasonably certain I’m going to die if I don’t get some coffee and a hell of a lot more Motrin than I’ve currently got in my system. Which, at the moment, is zero.
And as much as I feel like the inside of a bucket of shit, I’ve definitely had worse hangovers in my life.
If I’m honest with myself, I’m really stalling.
I don’t want to go back on campus. I don’t want to risk another episode like the other day.
And I don’t want to go to the particular class I’ve got today. Not at fucking all. I’m not really sure why I need this specific class and I’m half tempted to bring a flask just in case things get a little froggy.
Because I don’t need an academic discussion of violence. Not when I’ve been up close and personal with the real thing.
I tried to argue with my advisor about it, but Professor Blake wasn’t really interested in all the perfectly valid reasons why I did not need to take this class.
I manage to make it to the campus coffee shop, appropriately named The Grind, at that magical thirty-second interlude where the line isn’t wrapped around the library. A double shot of espresso ought to get me through the morning. At least I hope it will. It’s not as potent as Green Bean from back in Kuwait, but it’ll do. I suppose I can always chew some espresso beans if I get really antsy. Caffeine calms me down the way it amps other people up.
Guess I’m kind of strange like that.
I almost grab a donut but decide against it. Everything is too sweet for me. You’d think after being home for as long as I have, I’d be back to normal by now.
Some things are just damn hard to get used to.
I walk through campus toward the anthropology building. I don’t say hi to the people I pass. I’m only a few years older than most of them but there is no common ground between us. No way to meet in the middle.
It’s like that guy from the bar last week. He thinks violence is never the answer.
Our understanding of how the world works is one hundred percent mutually exclusive.
I manage to find my class and spoiler alert, I’m early. And by early I mean on time.
It’s a character flaw. I can’t not be early to any appointment. Guess it was driven into my DNA during basic training and I’ve never really bothered to change the habit since I left the Army. Not only did you have to be ten minutes prior to anything, but you also had to be ten minutes prior to the first sergeant’s ten minutes prior. I remember being actively shocked when people strolled into my class ten minutes late. It was like a physical reaction.
I imagined my first sergeant going up one side of them and down the other.
And then I remember I’m not in Kansas anymore. There are no first sergeants here. I’m slowly coming to the conclusion that this is their reality. It’s not mine and it never will be. I’ll never be the guy who rides the bus across campus and flirts with the cute chick in Chemistry.
But my classmates? They never give it another thought and that’s not a bad thing. Man, one dude with an AR-15 and a superiority complex could wreck this place.
But it’ll never happen here. This isn’t the kind of place those things happen. Those things only happen at “other places” where the students aren’t all rich kids.
And I try, I really try not to stare in disbelief at the First World problems I’m not used to hearing.
Wouldn’t it be a perfect introduction to the class for me to lose my shit on some pretentious asshole for bitching about his parking spot or how Whole Foods was out of his favorite quinoa?
I take another sip of coffee, trying to keep myself amused as I step into the classroom.
It’s a super human effort not to stop, stunned and rooted to the spot. Holy shit, it’s her.
I cannot look away. Across the distance and the noise, she is a beacon. A center of calm in the frenetic motion of the classroom.
The girl from the bar. Alone, off to one side. Like the rest of the class doesn’t know what to do with her because her skin is darker than theirs. Or maybe Daddy doesn’t have the right pedigree.
If she notices the way her classmates move around her like she’s not there, she’s playing it cool. Texting someone.
I imagine it’s very alienating.
I know all about that.
I swallow and summon up the courage I need to approach her. ’Cause it’s a whole new ball game talking to a girl when I haven’t been drinking.
Especially one as stunning as she is.
“Mind if I join you?”
She looks up sharply, her eyes wide, as though she’s completely surprised by my question. Which I suppose says enough about the quality of interactions on campus.
I have the distinct impression that she sees me, the real me. Not the hunched-over-the-bar-and-one-sad-story-away-from-eating-a-fucking-bullet-for-breakfast me. No, not that me. The me beneath the scars and the ink and the scruff.
“Sure.” She’s watching me carefully. I’m definitely being inspected. For what failings, I’m not sure.
I sit. Not right next to her, because that would be kind of strange in a room that has as many empty seats as it does. I leave a single seat between us and try to do the mindless prep for class rituals my classmates appear to be doing.
I’m getting ready to summon up the courage to ask her what her name is when I get a second unpleasant surprise. Two in one week. Well, I only need one more for the shit show trifecta to be complete.
Parker Hauser breezes into class like a force of nature. It’s a certain way that women like her carry themselves around here but Parker, Parker has perfected it and it’s annoying as fuck. She was in one of my classes last semester and she annoyed me to no end talking about personal responsibility and rational choice theory. Before I remembered that I was a founding member of the fucking nuts club, I’d tried to engage with her arguments. Now? Now if she starts in on her rational choice theory bullshit, I might just completely lose my shit. Again.
“Oh great,” I mumble.
“Friend of yours?” I am very much drawn to the sound of her voice. I wish we were alone. So I could do something daring and bold. Like talk to her while being cold sober.
“Not really.” The anxiety catches in my throat, squeezing tight. I take another sip of my coffee and watch my cellmates—I mean classmates—filter in, trying not to feel awkward and weird that I don’t know what to say to the girl I’m not quite sitting next to.
Maybe if I had a drink or two in me, I’d finally find something witty to say. Maybe I’d be able to ask her why she was in this particular class without choking on the nervousness. Maybe I’d finally feel something around a girl.
Except I haven’t felt that kind of excitement in a long, long time. And it’s not likely to change any time soon.
And holy hell, I am not confronting that unpleasant memory today. I mean, what in the world is wrong with this week? It’s like my psyche is deliberately fucking with me.
And honestly, I don’t need any damn help in that department.
The professor walks in. I suppose it’s strange that I’m relieved and disappointed all at once.
It’s actually a good thing he showed up. Because a thought had taken hold – this idea that maybe, I could actually have a conversation that didn’t involve alcohol. That maybe I could flirt and pretend that I’m just another guy in the dating pool.
I’m meant to be alone. If I wasn’t sure about that before the war, I damn sure am now.
Professor Quinn finally starts class, ending any chance I have to talk to her.
Which means she’ll be safe.
At least from me.
Abby
I am struck silent the moment he walks into the classroom.
Even more so when he scans the room briefly then his gaze settles on me. Only me. I am poignantly aware of my skin fitting too tightly over my bones.
I can’t explain my reaction to seeing him here, in my space. There is a sense of anticipation, a warmth flowing through me.
If I really investigate what I am feeling, it is…that anticipation just before hope turns into something else. There is no reason why I should react this way to a man I’ve spoken to exactly twice.
He seems darker here. More threatening and out of place. Here I can clearly see the hard lines of his face beneath the stubble. The penetrating green of his eyes is focused one hundred percent on me.
He is still as the world moves around him. The motionless energy of a predator watching his prey.
Which would be me.
And I am not afraid.
No, it’s definitely not fear coursing through my veins at the moment.
It’s something decidedly different when he approaches and asks if he can sit next to me.
Just like that, I am no longer alone on the edge of the classroom.
I am used to sitting by myself. I barely even notice it anymore.
In that single span of time when the space close to me goes from empty to filled, something shifts inside me.
I release a hard breath. It should not be a big deal that maybe a guy wants to actually talk to me. It shouldn’t be and yet, it is.
Maybe Graham is right and I do need to knock the dust off.
For once I am not alone and I have no idea what to do with that feeling. Maybe I can assume risk this once and allow myself the pleasure of a fantasy daydream.
If I close my eyes, I can let myself imagine his fingers on my neck. A simple gesture that is both erotic and comforting all at once.
Something no lover has ever done to me publicly.
Something I need to give myself permission to want. To let myself crave. Today, I want to imagine his fingers on my skin. His breath mingling with mine, the woodsy taste of scotch on his tongue.
The fantasy comes to a screeching halt. Wow, my life is a real beacon of hope for strong women everywhere. The only guy who seems to get me hot and bothered was drinking before noon yesterday.
I want to know his name. I’ve decided that already. I should text Graham and ask him if he knows it. But that would clue Graham in that I was interested, and while I love Graham like a brother, he has far too much invested in my love life or lack thereof. He’d give the guy my number, home address, and blood type if he thought it would get me laid.
I might make jokes about it, but I’m not that open when it comes to sex. It’s not that I’m morally opposed to it. But it hasn’t been exactly…earth shattering for me. Robert was…more concerned with his own pleasure than mine.
And wow, do I need to think about something else. Something other than the man next to me with the haunted eyes and thick, blunt fingers that are currently toying with a pencil.
Down, girl.
I’m better than this. I’m not boy crazy. I don’t let myself get distracted from why I’m here and guys definitely fall into the distraction category these days. I know who I am and what I want in life. And while the fantasy of having a guy stroke my neck and whisper things to make me laugh might be appealing, it’s nothing more than a fantasy for girls like me in a place like this.
Fantasies are safe.
Fantasies don’t ruin your life and crush your soul and try to change who you are. They don’t pretend to love you.
And in my fantasies is where he’ll stay. In the dark and the shadows, where I can take out the idea of him and play with it for a little while, then put it safely away where it can wait until next time.
Because fantasies can’t hurt you.
And as interested as I am in the man who did such a simple thing by sitting next to me, I am far too cynical to pretend that this is anything more than it is—a kind gesture.
Nothing more.
**ONE CLICK BREAK MY FALL**
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