Falling Away (7 page)

When the first song comes on, Echo lets out a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh. “Are you for fucking real?”

It’s “Whiskey Lullaby” by Brad Paisley and Alison Krauss.

“Should I change it?”

She shakes her head floppily. “Don’t you fucking dare. It’s perfect.” She pats the bed beside her. “Sit down, Benji. I won’t test your virtue again, I promise.”

If only she knew how deeply that cuts.

We listen to music for a long time. She doesn’t say a word, and neither do I.

“Henry Lee” by Crooked Still comes on, and Echo is horizontal now, scrunching a pillow under her head and a cheek under her hand, long eyelashes fluttering against her skin.
 

She’s snoring in moments.
 

I watch her sleep and can’t help wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.

FIVE: Ease the Ache

Echo

Oh…oh Jesus. It feels like the sun is exploding inside my skull.
 

Throb…throb…throb…

I blink my eyes open, and thank god the blinds are closed.
 

Shit, I’m not at home. Where am I?

I sit up, look around. I don’t recognize the room. It’s a dude’s room, spartan and messy and male. A six-drawer bureau, piles of clothes on the floor, a white laundry basket with folded clothes. Boxer-briefs, jeans, gym shorts, T-shirts.
 

I look down, and…yep. I’m wearing a guy’s Mumford and Sons concert shirt. It smells of him, and that worries me a little, because it smells good, familiar and comforting somehow. There’s a bottle of Jim Beam on the nightstand to my left, empty but for maybe a shot’s-worth. Beside that is a Bose alarm clock/iPhone dock with a black iPhone connected to it.
 

I grab the bottle of Jim, uncap it, and finish it off, as in my experience hair of the dog is the best way to negate a hangover. That and lots of water and aspirin and greasy food. But first…my clothes.

And that’s when it all hits me: I see my dress on the floor. The black dress, the one I bought before leaving school.

The one I bought for the funeral. Mom’s funeral.

Mom.
 

Oh god, Mom.

It’s instantaneous. I go from zero to hyperventilating sobs in a split second. My chest is being torn open. My heart is in pieces.

It all comes back. The call from a police officer in San Antonio, informing me of my mother’s death. A car accident. She was dead before the paramedics even showed up.

The funeral. Father Mike…Grandma and Grandpa…

And him.

Ben.

Flashes of last night flicker in my head, but I push them away. I can’t deal with whatever I may have done to embarrass myself last night. Not now.

Mom.

She’s dead. She’s gone.
 

I feel the bed dip, and I smell him before I see him or feel him. He smells just like the T-shirt I’m wearing, deodorant, and something spicy and citrusy, like cologne maybe, and those other faint scent-elements that can’t be defined. And then his arms are around me, lifting me, cradling me.
 

He’s a perfect stranger. I remember only bits and pieces of what happened after the burial, and even less about him. But here he is, holding me as I sob for my mother. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t shush me, just feathers his fingers into my hair and presses my cheek to his chest and holds me.
 

I hear his heart beating, and it’s hammering as if he’s nervous.
 

“She’s gone.” My voice is hoarse, and the words are barely intelligible through the gasps and the sobs. “She’s—Mom…Mom is dead.”

“I’m so sorry, Echo. I’m so sorry.”

“I never—I never even got to say goodbye. The last time I talked to her we argued. We fucking
argued
. And now she’s gone and I can’t ever—I won’t ever be able to tell her—” I can’t even finish.

“She knew, Echo. I promise you, she knew.” His voice is low and smooth and soothing.

“You don’t know that.” My voice breaks, cracks.

God, what am I doing? Clinging to this guy, crying on him? What the fuck. I barely even remember what he looks like. I shift off him and he lets me sit up. I twist to look at him and I’m struck breathless.

He’s gorgeous.

Tanned olive skin hinting at Mediterranean heritage, wide brown eyes so dark they’re almost black, and thick messy black hair cut close on the sides and longer on the top. I felt it when he held me, but now seeing him, I realize he’s powerfully built, broad through the shoulders and chest. He’s wearing a sleeveless black Under Armour shirt which is stretched across his chest, leaving his arms bare, long and thick and bulging with muscle.
 

My gaze rakes over him, and then goes back to his eyes, and something inside me clenches. His expression is shuttered, but I can see through it. I can see worry and pain and doubt and strength and self-assurance. Such expressive brown eyes, even when he’s trying to keep from showing his feelings.

Or maybe I can just read him.
 

Fuck. I’m checking this guy out, and I just buried my mom yesterday. What the hell is wrong with me?

He clears his throat and swings his legs off the bed, scoots forward, and stands up, hopping a little as he grabs a cheap black drugstore cane from where it was propped against the bed. I remember flashes of him from last night—that cane, a limp. Something about a football injury?
 

“Want some coffee?” he asks.

“Maybe some water and aspirin first?”
 

He nods. “Sure. Stay put.” He turns away, but not before I notice his gaze flicking to my legs and then quickly away.

I realize then that the T-shirt I’m wearing has hiked up, giving him a nice view of my entire lower half from the waist down. At least I wore panties with the dress yesterday. I pull the sheet over my waist and stuff the pillows behind my back, lean against the wall and ignore the pounding in my head as I reluctantly try to summon memories of last night.

Nothing good comes to mind.
 

Ben returns with a bottle of water, a mug of coffee, two aspirins, and a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel slathered generously with cream cheese. He’s got his cane hooked over his arm so he can carry everything. I feel immediately guilty, letting him hobble around bringing me breakfast in bed.

Jesus. This is nuts. I’ve known the guy for like five seconds and he’s treating me better than anyone I’ve ever dated. Which, honestly, isn’t that hard, but it’s worrisome.

“You didn’t have to bring it to me—” I start.

He waves me off, handing me the pills first and then the bottle of water, then setting everything else down on the bedside table. “It’s fine. You’ve got to have the mother of all hangovers—” He cuts off abruptly. “I mean, a hell of a hangover.”
 

The shitty thing is, I really do feel that fragile, that even the word ‘mother’ has the power to make me choke up.
 

“God, Echo. I’m sorry.” He winces, rubbing at his forehead. “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Thank you.” I swallow the pills and force myself to drink the entire bottle of water slowly, sip by sip, until it’s gone.

He starts to turn away. “I…I’ll—let me know if you need anything. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need.”
 

The idea of being alone right now scares me. I’ll lose it if I have to be on my own. “Ben, wait.” I scoot over to the other side of the bed and then reach out for the coffee mug and the paper plate with the bagel. I pat the bed beside me. “Sit. It’s your room. And…I wouldn’t mind the company.”

He seems reluctant, oddly, but then lets out a breath and takes the spot on the bed beside me, lifting his injured leg onto the bed with obvious relief. He snags his phone from the dock and scrolls through his FB feed while I eat my bagel. It’s strangely comfortable, the silence between us. I’m not given to idle chatter, and neither is he, it seems.
 

When I’m done, and my stomach is less tumultuous—a little, at least—I set the plate aside and sip at the coffee, which is strong and lightly creamed, which is how I happen to like it.

I let out a sigh, knowing it’s time to bite the bullet. “So. My memory of last night is…hazy.” I can’t quite look at him. “But knowing myself and how I get when I drink as much as I did, I probably embarrassed myself. So…fill me in, would you?”

He clicks the top button of his phone, putting it to sleep, and sets it aside. His gaze goes to mine, serious and compassionate. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, Echo. I think…under the circumstances…”

I groan at the hesitancy in his voice. “Just tell me what I did.”

He shrugs. “You hopped in my cab as I was leaving the cemetery, and you had the driver take us to the nearest bar. Which, by the way, was one of the nastiest shithole dive bars I’ve ever been to. You must’ve had…oh man, like four or five pints and at least six shots in maybe an hour and a half at most.”

I thunk my head against the wall. “Jesus.”

“So, yeah. That hit you pretty quick. We left the bar and just drove around for a while. You ended up passing out in the cab, so I brought you back here.”

I close my eyes and try to remember. I have flashes of memory: the cab ride, hearing one of Mom’s favorite songs, seeing the outskirts of San Antonio through the window, wishing I could fall asleep and never wake up. Ben helping me walk, a strong arm around me, holding me up.
 

“I remember some of that.” I try again, and recall a memory of fighting with my dress, and calling Ben “Benji.” I remember him not liking it, but not fighting me on it. But then, I was probably pretty belligerent. “I remember calling you Benji, for some reason. And I also remember trying to get my dress off.”
 

The fact that I’m in nothing but his T-shirt worries me. What did I do? And what do I not remember doing? I’m scared to ask.

Ben’s lips quirk. “Yeah, you…I was getting you a drink. You demanded a drink after we got here, and I guess maybe I shouldn’t have given you anything else, but I did. So when I came back in with the whiskey, you were trying to unzip your dress and you were all like ‘fuck this dress, I’m done with this stupid dress.’”

“Anything else?” I ask, not daring to even look at him. “I didn’t…I mean…did we…?”

“No,” he answers immediately. “You were beyond wasted, and there’s no way in hell I’d ever take advantage like that. No fucking way.”

“So I took my dress off and passed out?”

He makes a face. “Not…quite.”

“Fuck.”
 

He won’t look at me directly, and I’m pretty sure he’s blushing hard. “You…took your bra off, too. And you…”

“I threw myself at you, didn’t I?”

He shrugs. “Sort of. Yeah.” He finally looks at me, and I see a welter of emotions in his gaze. “So I got a shirt on you, and got you in bed. You asked me to put on music, so I did, and then you fell asleep.”

“God, Ben. I’m sorry—”

He cuts in over me. “Don’t. Please don’t apologize. You have nothing to apologize for.”

I take a long sip of hot coffee. “I guess I’m lucky you’re an honorable guy. Most guys wouldn’t have hesitated.”
 

Ben doesn’t answer right away. “I’d like to think there are more decent guys out there than that. How could anyone have even considered it? You were drunk and hurting. You just wanted to forget—that’s what you said. And I get it. It was…a defense mechanism. Just forget it. It’s okay.”
 

“I can’t forget it. How can you?”

“Do you remember doing it?” he asks.

I think back. I do, sort of. I have a memory of thinking he was sexy and that his kindness was sexy. He was taking care of me, he was there for me, and that was sexy. That’s what scares me about this situation. I may have been shitty wasted last night and, like he said, throwing myself at him was a defense mechanism, a reflexive act of desperation to not have to think or feel, even for a minute. But that sense of desperation is there, still, even now. Especially now. Sober, it’s even worse. And Ben isn’t making it any easier. He’s insanely hot, those big expressive dark eyes, that powerful athlete’s body, and the fact that he didn’t take advantage of me, that he listened and held me and let me cut loose, and understood what I needed.
 

“I do, a little. I remember…” I close my eyes and summon the memory. “I remember you backing away from me. I remember you putting your hand out to stop me, and accidentally touching my breast.” I look up at him as I say this, watching for his reaction.

He’s looking down, rubbing his hand on the fabric of his gym shorts. “Yeah, that was an accident. You walked into me. I didn’t mean to—” He’s blushing hard. Even with the shade of his skin, it’s easy to tell.

I can’t help grinning. “It’s fine, Ben.” The humor is gone immediately, though. “For real, Ben. Thank you. For…everything. For putting up with me. You don’t know me, and you don’t…you didn’t have to do any of this.”
 

He shrugs. “You clearly needed someone. What else was I supposed to do?” My coffee is gone, and Ben nods at the empty mug. “More?”

I shake my head. “I’m still hungry, actually.”

He starts to get off the bed. “I’ve got—”

I interrupt him. “How about we go somewhere for breakfast? I know a couple good diners.” I glance at the clock, and I’m glad to see it’s only ten in the morning.
 

He shrugs. “Sure. Let me change, then.” He points to the other side of the bed. “Your dress and bra are over there.” He flushes again as he mentions my bra. How cute is that? Why is he so easily embarrassed by such simple things?
 

I don’t really relish the thought of going to breakfast in my funeral dress, but my bag with my things is at my grandparents’ house, which is a good hour away. I should probably call them, just to let them know I’m okay; after breakfast, I decide. Maybe I can stop at a Kohl’s or something and buy a new outfit.
 

Ben slides off the bed and rummages in his bureau, withdraws a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a blue-and-white striped polo shirt. “I’ll change in the bathroom real quick. You can take a shower, if you want. I don’t have any girly shower stuff, but you could rinse off if you want.”