Falling into You (Falling #1)(39)

I take her face in my hands. It’s too familiar, too affectionate, too soon. I can’t help it though. “Just the opposite. I will protect you. From others and from yourself. Always.”

“Why?” Barely audible,

“Because I want to. Because…” I struggle to find the right words. “Because you deserve it, and you need it.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you do.”

She shakes her head. “No. I don’t deserve it.”

I sigh, knowing I won’t win by arguing. “Shut up, Nell.”

She laughs, a tinkling giggle that makes me smile into her hair. “So. Are you gonna show me your shop?”

“It’s four in the morning. We’re in Tribeca and my shop is in Queens. The far side of Queens. Plus, I don’t have a car here. I walked here from the bar.”

“You walked here? You’re crazy! That’s like twenty blocks.”

I shrug. “I like to walk.”

“So we’ll take a cab.”

“You really want to see my shop that bad?”

“Yeah. And I really don’t want to be here.” She shudders again, remembering.

“Well then, you’ll need pants.”

She does the giggle again, which I decide call the Tinkerbell giggle. “Nah. Pants are for sissies.” She pulls away and disappears into her room. “No peeking this time, Pervy McGee.”

“Then close your door, dumbass.”

The door slams in response, and I laugh. I’m glad she can laugh. It means she really is coping. I know she’s internalizing a lot, though. Putting on a show for me. She’ll have new scars on her wrists soon.

She comes out in a pair of jeans and purple V-neck T-shirt. I have to keep my gaze moving so I don’t stare. She doesn’t need my desire, right now. Maybe not ever. She grabs her purse from the counter where I’d set it after cleaning up.

I extend my hand to her. “Come on, Tinkerbell.”

She takes my hand, then pauses at the nickname. “Tinkerbell?”

“Your laugh. That little giggle you do. It reminds me of Tinkerbell.” I shrug.

She does the giggle by accident, then claps a hand over her mouth. “Damn it. Now you have me self-conscious. You can call me Tinkerbell, though.”

“Don’t be self-conscious. I think it’s cute.”

She wrinkles her nose at me as she locks her door behind us. “Cute? Is that a good thing?”

I lift an eyebrow at her. “There’s a lot of words I could think of for you. Let’s just go with cute for now.”

“What’s that mean?” She’s holding my hand platonic-style, palm in palm.

I flag a passing cab with a lit sign and we slide in. I give him my address and watch him put it into a Tom Tom. When we’re moving and the wavery tones of the driver’s Arabic music floats over us, I turn to Nell.

“Sure you want to ask that?”

She lifts her chin. “Yes.”

“You’re a lot of things, Nell Hawthorne. You’re complex. You’re cute. You’re lovely. You’re funny. You’re strong. You’re beautiful.” She seems to be struggling with words and emotions. I keep going. “You’re tortured. You’re hurting. You’re amazing. You’re talented. You’re sexy as fuck.”

“Sexy as fuck?” She tilts her head, a small grin tipping her lips.

“Yep.”

“Is that more or less than sexy as hell?”

“More. A lot more.”

She just nods. “You’re sweet. But we must not see the same person when we look at me.”

“That’s probably true.” I look down at our joined hands, then back to her. I shift my fingers, twine mine in hers. “What do you see when you look at yourself?”

“Weak. Scared. Drunk. Angry. Ugly. Running.” She turns away from me as she says this, staring out the window. “I see nothing. No one.”

I know there aren’t words to change how she feels, so I don’t offer any. I just hold her hand and let the silence extend through the blocks.

She turns to me, eventually. “Why don’t you argue with me when I say shit like that? Why don’t you try to convince me of my own worth and all that bullshit?”

“Would it work?” I ask. She narrows her eyes, then shakes her head. I shrug. “Well, there you go. That’s why. I can tell you what I see. I can tell you what I know about you. I can tell how I feel. I can show you what you really are. But arguing with you won’t accomplish anything. I think we’ve both had our share of people trying to fix us. It doesn’t work. We can only fix ourselves. Let ourselves heal.”

“But I’m not any of what you said. I’m just not. And I can’t heal myself. I can’t…I can’t be fixed.”

“You’re committed to being broken forever?”

“Goddamn it, Colton. Why are you doing this? You don’t know me.”

“I want to.” It’s the answer to both of her statements.





Chapter 8: Fermented Grief





We arrive at my shop, an old garage with the door facing an alley, a little apartment above. I pull my keys from my pocket, open the side door to the shop, and snap on the lights.