The Fall Up (The Fall Up, #1)(8)

Besides, she seemed somewhat stable. I could go. No worries.

Right?

“I should probably go. Can you promise me that you won’t jump? You know, ease my conscience and all that.”

“Just go,” she whispered.

“That’s not an answer.”

Her tongue snaked out, nervously licking her lips. “I’m fine.”

Fuck.

That warranted all the worries.

Fine was my specialty.

And I knew firsthand that fine was never truly fine.

“Look, I don’t know you. But I think we’ve really bonded over the last two nights.” I bumped her shoulder with mine. “Sure, I may have lived up to the title ‘Tattooed Stalker’ at first, but I didn’t follow you home or anything.” I grinned, and she offered me a courteous chuckle. “I mean, that has to say something about me, right? I’m a decent guy, I swear. How about we grab a cup of coffee”—cough—“and a carton of cigarettes”—cough—“and talk for a little while.” I ended with a grin, giving it every ounce of charm I possessed.

“Sam, I’m serious. I’m really okay,” she assured, but it was a weak attempt.

“Now, that’s just not fair. I don’t know your name. So it’s really difficult for me to sound convincing like that.”

“I’m not telling you my name.”

“Okay, what if I guess?”

She shook her head but said, “Sure. Go for it.”

I stepped away, dragging my eyes up and down her body (only partly to check her out again.) Then I framed my hands and pretended to be a photographer looking for just the right lighting as I walked around to her other side.

She didn’t acknowledge my attempted humor, but when I leaned on the rail next to her, the slightest bit of amusement crept across her beautiful mouth.

“Bianca,” I guessed.

She gasped and her hands flew to her mouth.

“Oh my God. That’s it, isn’t it?” I threw a fist pump in the air.

“That was incredible,” she praised from behind her hands.

I blew on my nails then polished them on my shoulder. “What can I say, Bianca? I’m awesome.”

I wasn’t.

But watching her subtle reactions made me feel awesome. I guessed that was close enough.

“Incredible and wrong,” she amended dryly.

My puffed chest deflated. “Yeah, I figured. Who’s really named Bianca anyway? Hello, snob!”

“My mother.”

Right.

Of course.

I scratched the back of my neck. “Well, it is a beautiful name.” I tossed her an awkward smile, waiting for a laugh that never came.

Instead, something strange passed over the little bit of her face I could see. There was no doubting that the air around us had changed.

It was suffocating.

At least for her.

I was breathing clean air for the first time in a long time.

And that was suffocating for me.

Fuck, I need a smoke.

I didn’t know her. I couldn’t have even picked her out of a lineup without shades and a wig. But I knew for certain I couldn’t leave her there.

“Please come with me.” I lifted my hands pleadingly. “I can feel the heart attack approaching, and there was this nameless woman on the bridge tonight who fed my life source to traffic.”

She flashed me a forced smile. “Thanks, but I think I’m just going home.”

“Good.” I breathed in relief—and disappointment.

“Have a good night, Sam.”

“You too…” I paused. “Uh…Bianca’s daughter.”

Shaking her head, she walked away.

I stayed for a minute longer so I wouldn’t really look like a stalker following her. After bumming a cigarette from a stranger walking by, I filled my lungs with the sweet poison and imagined a specific night just over four months ago.

A night where I hadn’t been standing on that bridge but would have given absolutely anything to be able to change that fact.

A night where there hadn’t been a beautiful woman in a blond wig as a distraction.

Or Anne would have still been there.

“I’ve got to quit,” I whispered to myself, lifting the cigarette to my mouth for another drag. “Tomorrow,” I promised myself.

But every day was yet another tomorrow.





The next day …

AFTER A THIRTY-MINUTE conversation with Morgan the day before, she’d admitted that I was actually number two in her book. Not surprisingly, Henry Alexander was number one. The way she’d giggled as I’d told her embarrassing stories about him had touched me so deeply that I’d spent all day mourning the moment the world would lose such a sweet soul. In a fit of guilt that I couldn’t do more, I’d forced Henry to sign nearly every piece of merchandise he had. I didn’t have to hand-deliver it, nor did I have to make a special trip up there at nearly midnight after a show. It wasn’t like she would have even been awake. But the sooner I dropped it off with her nurses, the sooner I’d feel better.

Hopefully.

With the second sold-out concert in San Francisco under my belt, I was struggling even more than usual. I was exhausted from back-to-back shows, not to mention the fact that I had another one the following night. But I found myself utterly unable to shut down. My mind raced with things I could—should—have been doing. Sleeping in a plush bed helped no one. Not even me. I was well aware that I was running myself into the ground. I just couldn’t figure out how to stop. Which was ultimately how I ended up staring at the ceiling from the floor in front of the nurses’ station at the children’s hospital.