This Is Falling(55)

“Oh, that’s…you don’t have to do that. I wouldn’t know what to wear,” I say, not really sure what he means, or how he could take me to a high school dance that doesn’t even happen until the spring.

“No excuses. It’s my birthday. My wish.” Dimples. Smile. Accent. I’m sunk.

I knew his birthday was coming up, but I forgot it was this weekend. I have to get him something. I should get him something, right? What do you give a guy like Nate? With Josh, it was easy—I took him to a game and just splurged on nice seats for the Diamondbacks. Maybe Nate would like something like that?

I pull my phone out while I walk to class alone, and before I can talk myself out of it, I flip to the webpage I had saved—his mother’s gallery site. I hit the contact tab and type her a message. Foolishness settles in the second I hit send, but it’s too late, so I put my phone back in my pocket and join the others filing in to the lecture hall for art history. When my phone buzzes in my pocket minutes later, I almost fumble it to the floor just getting it out.

My email alert is on, and when I open the tab, there’s already a reply from Cathy Preeter.





Rowe, so good to hear from you! I just called Dave, and he said he does know someone with season tickets in Oklahoma. I’ll email you the name and number later, and I’m sure Nate would love that for his birthday. Send Nate my love. – Cathy





I’m almost more excited to have such a kind email from Nate’s mother than I was to get a message from Nate in the first place. I’m not good at making impressions on parents—I’ve had so very little practice with it. And with Josh’s parents, they knew me as coach’s daughter long before I was the girlfriend. I wonder if that’s what I am to Nate’s parents? The girlfriend.

The lights go out, so I push my phone back into my pocket and pull out my notebook to make notes on today’s set of slides. But every now and then I let my pen spill over to the margin, where I doodle hearts.





Nate





The week dragged by, probably because I couldn’t wait to get to Friday. I know there’s a lot Rowe missed, and her senior prom is probably just the tip of the iceberg. But this is also one of those things I can fix—I may not be able to bend time, but I can fill in the memories.

Taking Sadie to the prom was probably my last great memory I have of her. She was tall and toned, like Rowe, and she wore this deep purple dress that hugged her body down to her feet. It’s the only picture I have left of us in my wallet, and I should probably throw it away. But something always kept me from tossing it in the past. I think it was the nostalgia, of being able to pull it out and remember us like that.

The last time I looked at it, I had just bailed from some girl’s apartment during summer ball at about five in the morning. I woke up, hung over and naked, and for some reason that picture was poking out of the edge of my wallet on the floor when I crawled to my feet. I didn’t miss Sadie, but I missed having someone. And my new pattern wasn’t about finding someone. It was about finding anyone—anyone that would do. But seeing the picture of me with Sadie reminded me what really being with someone felt like. So that was the last girl I had sex with, despite the world of crap Ty gave me over it. I was going to just focus on baseball—baseball and nothing else until the right girl came along.

Rowe just happened to show up really fast.

She has tried to back out of what she is now calling the Nate Preeter Prom Experience all week long, but she’s been trapped in her room with Cass and Paige for the last two hours, and I saw Paige walk in with garment bags and hair products. I honestly thing she’s more excited about this whole thing than Rowe is.

“Did you seriously get a limo?” Ty asks from the hallway as he makes his way through our open door.

“Yes. I told you, I’m not messin’ around. Prom is serious shit, and when you throw a prom, you do it right. Now come fix my damn tie,” I say back, untying my fourteenth attempt at the bow.

“How are you my brother? I mean…seriously, I’m starting to think we need to give up on all the Barbie shit in our room, because you’re making estrogen. You’ve become an estrogen factory, like women should come visit you for donations for hormone replacement. Wait, show me your legs.” Ty is loving this, and as he reaches down to grab my pant leg to roll up the material, I kick at him.

“Dude, don’t touch my leg. What are you doing?” I say.

“Just checking to see if you’ve started shaving your legs. Your razors aren’t pink, are they?” he snickers.

“No, jack-ass. And this is just important, so cut the crap,” I say, shoving the ends of my tie in his face so he can help me.

“To whom? To Rowe? Because I was in that room an hour ago, and she was not a happy camper having Paige’s hands all over her face and head,” he says, tugging and pulling on the tie until it’s finally even on both sides.

“I know, but that’s just her style. She doesn’t like the attention and the fuss. But she likes the experience, and everyone needs to have a prom to remember. She missed out on hers,” I say, slipping my jacket on and dusting the sleeves.

“I don’t know, bro. I didn’t have a prom experience, and I turned out fine,” Ty says, winking as he turns away and reaches for the remote to flip on the TV.