This Is Falling(18)

I lean against the wall next to Nate’s door, and for minutes I just listen. The less I hear, the more my heart races, until I’m either going to pass out or choose to be strong.

More than a few times, I turn to walk away, but I keep pausing at the elevator and walking back. Finally, on my last trip, I shut my eyes at his door and turn the handle slowly, stepping carefully into his room, which looks like a smaller version of mine. It’s dark in here, so I leave the door slightly cracked to let my eyes adjust. At first, I don’t quite know what I’m staring at. But then the blonde curls of Paige’s hair register with me, and she rolls over, twisting her body into the blankets even more—unfortunately not enough to cover her underwear. Panties that are nothing like a single pair in my drawer. Victoria Secret panties, made of barely anything at all.

“Hey,” someone whispers, and I just back to the door a little. “Hey, it’s Ty. Rowe? That you?”

Ty is lifting his chest up from the other bed, and I blush when I recognize Cass is cradled next to him.

“Oh god, I’m sorry. I was just…they didn’t come home. So, I…I don’t know. I’ll just go,” I fluster, hitting my knee with the door when I pull it open. God, could I be any louder?

“If you’re looking for Nate, he had workouts this morning. He’s out on the fields,” he whispers, lying back down and moving the pillow over his face to block the little light I’m letting in.

“Okay. Thanks,” I say, with no intention of doing anything with that information other than going back to my own bed to fume over Paige and where she slept last night.

“Oh, and hey. When you see him, make sure you ask him when his birthday is,” Ty says, and within an instant, I swear he’s sleeping again.

I shut the door behind me, and before I can talk myself out of it, I go to the elevator and push the button for the first floor. What would Betsy do? Be like Betsy.

It’s getting easier to leave the building on my own, which is promising for my first day of classes the day after tomorrow. But right now, I’m grateful for ulterior reasons. I keep telling myself that every act I’m doing is an amazing achievement in my own recovery. But really, it’s just an act of bitter jealousy—and so will be the embarrassing fit I throw in front of Nate after his practice, when I rip him apart for being predictable and hooking up with Paige for the night.

Unless…unless it’s not just for the night? Maybe they hit it off? Maybe he decided he likes her after he got to know her. And maybe she’s more than just Katy Perry lyrics and G-strings.

As much as the doubt is there now, I can’t convince myself wholly of the idea of Nate and Paige as a couple. Not that I want to be a couple with Nate. I just don’t want anyone else to be. I think I may need to write Josh again.

The ball fields are easy to find. When I climb onto the bleachers, my back against the solid corner in the back, I’m transported to my life two years ago. The way the ball sounds when it’s struck by the bat—I think it’s a similar effect some people have with wind chimes. Over and over, that repetitive crack! The sounds of gloves catching balls, of boys shouting plays, random swear words, and laughing. It’s every practice my dad ever held. It’s every tryout I went to with him. It’s watching Josh play summer ball, and staying late to watch his practices after tennis would end.

I’m so lost in my own nirvana, I almost forget why I came. And then I see him pull the mask from his face, propping it on top of his head. He’s standing next to another catcher, and Nate completely dwarfs him. I used to have a thing for the pitchers. That’s why I first had a crush on Josh. But seeing Nate stand there—his hair tussled in different directions, wet with sweat, and his face smudged with dirt from the field—has now become my favorite memory. And I’m finding it harder to hold on to that raging, jealous anger that got me here in the first place.

When his eyes snap to me, I jolt. Crap! I really didn’t want him to see me, but I kind of thought he would have an equal look of panic when he did. Instead, he’s all dimples and teeth. He’s saying something to one of his coaches, and I can see his head nod in my direction, which suddenly has me on my feet, scrambling my way down the bleachers. I think I might just make it, when he pops out of the back of the dugout, cutting off my path.

“Hey, how’s your head, Thirty-three?” Dimples. Accent. Damned irresistible charm. He’s looking at my eyes with concern still, worried about my head after last night’s faint.

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m fine, I mean. I was just…tired last night?” I say it like a question, like I’m trying to sell myself on my excuse. I wasn’t tired at all. I took Ambien like I always do, and then I had messed-up dreams augmented by the drug that only left me feeling worse about everything this morning.

“You didn’t miss much. Your roommates did a bunch of shots and passed out,” he says, kicking his feet into the dirt on the ground and swinging his catcher’s mask at his side.

“Yeah, I saw them,” I say, gritting my teeth hard, forcing myself to smile and not delve into what else I saw. I don’t want to leap with my assumptions, because I still have hope that I’m wrong.

“You…stopped by my room?” His head is tilted when he asked, and I can tell he’s being guarded.

“Yep. Saw Paige made herself nice and comfortable in your bed.” My mouth! Maybe I need to revise the what-would-Betsy-do campaign, because snarky and biting just doesn’t sit well with me.