This Is Falling(5)

I shut my laptop and push it away from me, like a child does to a plate of vegetables. The crickets are still chirping outside, and in the distance I can hear the music pumping from someone’s apartment balcony. If I listen closely, I can almost make out the sounds of girls giggling and guys celebrating. Maybe it’s all in my head—the soundtrack I’ve imagined for college, based on all of the movies I’ve seen. Or maybe it’s real. I’ll never know because I’ve kept myself on the periphery, too afraid to be in the middle. I hate myself for being so afraid.

My hair is still damp, so I reach under my bed for a dry towel to cover my pillow. When I catch my reflection in the window, it gives me pause. Nothing about me is extraordinary. My hair is long and straight—the color of a pecan, just like my eyes. I used to be good at sports; I was on the tennis team before I left the school system, and I continued to play with my dad, so my body is lean. I’m nothing like Paige—things on me don’t curve, and there is nothing voluptuous happening. Taking my personal inventory has me laughing at myself now, and laughing hard.

Nate probably won’t remember me in the morning, and here I’ve gone and imagined some crazy scenario where we’re a couple, leaps and bounds away from reality. I’m one of a handful of girls to arrive to the dorm so far; a pleasant waste of time until something better comes along. And if anything, he’s a potential friend, and maybe my only hope of upping my number in my inner circle from one—if Cass even counts yet—to two.

I know that in about two more minutes I’m going to become so sleepy that I might accidentally agree to donate all of my organs to Nate, so I open the screen on my computer and type fast, using this strange mix of rationality and courage that has suddenly taken over my body.





Sounds great. I’ll meet you at the elevator.





-333





Chapter 3





Nate





I know the second he finds out Ty is going to give me shit. She’s totally my type. I know I have a type. People have types for a good reason, to help weed out all of the jerks on earth. And my type looks exactly like her.

I have pretty good instincts. It’s why I’m a catcher—I can anticipate the bad pitches, the short swings, and what the batter is going to do. But my instincts run deep. I can read people off the field, too. And Thirty-three? She’s not the kind of girl that spends an hour getting ready to go out for the night. She’s blue jeans and T-shirts. Burgers and fries.

Her fingers were bare—no annoyingly long fake nail shit or sparkly colors. She was wearing an old T-shirt to bed, not some special outfit that probably costs more than everything in my closet. And, while I know this would probably mortify her that I noticed, her underwear was simple—plain-white, cotton. Not granny panties. They were tiny and delicate and far from granny panties. In the slight seconds they were in my hand, I imagined them on her, and believe me, that fantasy is going to haunt me for the rest of the night.

Even her name was perfect. Rowe. No room for bubble letters and hearts. Just four letters that cut right to the chase. Okay, so I’m probably still a little buzzed from the party I bailed on an hour ago, and her personality could totally blow it tomorrow. But tonight, I’m deciding to believe this girl is perfect, and I get idealistic and romantic after I drink, so I’m going with it.

I’ve dated lots of chicks, and some have come close to perfect. But somewhere along they way, there’s always that one big issue. Sadie, my ex from high school, was really close—all the way until she slept with my best friend at our graduation party. That was her big issue, and apparently it had been her big issue for a few months. I just hope I don’t uncover Rowe’s tomorrow, because I’d like to enjoy this for a while.

Thank God for Facebook. I promise I’ll do something good for the world later this week, because people are supposed to thank God for things far more important than some geeky billionaire computer-developer’s invention. But, right this minute, I’m giving the grand ole mighty shout out to Facebook.

She doesn’t seem to post much on her page. Maybe it’s private? I feel lame sending her a friend request, but I guess I already sent her a message, so what’s one more level of stalking? I wish like hell she had a picture posted. Probably would have spared me my first attempt that went to some pre-teen in Arkansas.

“What’s that smirk on your face for? Are you watchin’ porn?” Yeah. Here comes Ty’s shit.

“No, *. I do that on your bed.” I’m not even surprised when his notebook flies at my head. I duck just in time, but he gets me with the follow up of his hat.

For a guy who can’t move his legs, my brother is pretty nimble. He’s lived with paralysis for almost six years now, and he’s half the reason I decided to come to McConnell. He’s here for grad school—an MBA. And part of the deal when I committed to play here was that we’d get to room together.

Ty is the good in me. For some, it’s hard to see that, because my brother can be blunt and crude, and he’s a real * to women. But he’s also exactly who he is—no apologies, no pretending. The day he woke up in the hospital and the doctors told him he wouldn’t be able to walk anymore, he asked them what he could do. And he’s been putting all of his energy into those things ever since. It’s probably why he’s so damned good at school.