Falling Away (5 page)

I shake my head. “No—” My voice catches, and I have to clear my throat and try again. “No. I was…I was a client of Cheyenne’s.”
 

“Oh.” But her eyes are on me, like she sees something in me that doesn’t jive with my brush-off answer. “It’s just…she had so many clients over the years and…”

Why am I here? That’s what she’s getting at.
 

I move to my feet, keep my cane planted in the grass so I don’t pitch forward. “Sorry to intrude, and I’m sorry for your loss.”

I move past her, take a rose from the vase and toss it onto the casket, stand there for a moment wondering if I should say something or just have a moment of silence, and then I shake my head and limp back through the cemetery where a taxi is waiting for me, the meter running.

I’m climbing into the taxi, cane between my knees, when I hear feet approach on the gravel drive, and then the girl is in the taxi with me, shutting the door.
 

“Nearest bar, please,” she says, her voice choking.
 

I’m at a loss. Her shoulders shake, and she’s clearly crying, and I have absolutely not a single fucking clue as to what to say or do, especially with this girl, the daughter of the woman whose death can be laid at my feet.

She takes a deep breath, then wipes at her eyes. “Sorry. Sorry. I just couldn’t take it anymore, Grandma and Grandpa hovering, Father Mike hovering, everyone hovering.”
 

“I—” Words fail me, but I’ve got to say something. Something, anything, damn it. “It’s fine.”
 

Wow. I mean
really
?
It’s fine?
Is anything fine anymore? But she doesn’t reply, just puts her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands.
 

I feel an odd compulsion to comfort her, but I don’t know how.

The taxi pulls into a parking lot. It’s a dingy dive bar, only three cars in the lot, an open sign flashing, red letters lit one by one—
O…P…E…N
. “Thirty-nine fifty,” the driver says.
 

I hand him two twenties and a five, and then I’m hobbling after the girl, who’s already in the bar, sitting on a stool with two pints of beer in front of her, and two shots of whiskey. I take the stool beside her, lean my cane against the bar, and look around as I take the first sip of my beer. This place is a shithole. The bar is sticky, scratched, and pockmarked. There are a few small square tables covered in shitty plastic red-and-white checkered tablecloths surrounding a makeshift stage with cheap in-house karaoke equipment. A dartboard on one wall, a pool table with ripped felt and only three sticks, a pinball machine, a TV tuned to poker on ESPN 3, and an electronic poker and lotto machine on the far end of the bar.
 

The girl’s got half her beer gone already, her shoulders hunched, her hair pulled over one shoulder. She’s got her high heels and a small clutch purse sitting on the stool beside her. Her cheeks are streaked with black.

She glances at me, grabs the shot glass with her left hand and holds it up to me. “To Mom.”
 

I clink with my own shot glass. “To Cheyenne.”

We down the whiskey, Jack Daniel’s I’m pretty sure.
 

“I’m Echo,” the girl says, glancing at me.
 

“Ben.” I’m a little impressed: she didn’t make a face after downing the shot. Clearly she’s no novice at shooting whiskey.
 

We drink our beer in silence for a few minutes and, strangely, it’s not at all awkward. I’m loath to break the silence, to start a conversation, lest it turn into telling her how I knew her mother, why I was compelled to go to the funeral even though I’d only known her for a month. I’m sipping my beer, Echo is guzzling hers. She lifts a hand and the bartender—a wiry, greasy-haired old guy with an untrimmed goatee—silently pours another pair of Coors and sets them in front of us, and then goes back to staring at the TV.

“So. Ben. Let’s try this again. How’d you know my mom?” Echo pivots on the stool, angled toward me.
 

I shrug. “I told you. I was her client.”

“But out of all the clients she’s had over the years, even the ones she was currently working with, why are you the only one at the funeral?”

I almost shrug again, but don’t. I move my nearly empty pint glass in circles on the slick yet sticky wood of the bar top. “She was a friend when I needed one.”
 

Echo nods. “That’s Mom for you.”
 

“Yeah, seems like it.”

“You work with her for long?”

I shake my head. “No. Just over a month, not quite six weeks, I think.”

“So you barely knew her.”
 

“Guess so.”

Echo wipes at her right eye with a finger and sniffs. “She made everyone she worked with feel like they were important. It was what made her so good at her job. You always had her full attention.” She lifts the empty shot glass and the bartender refills it, and mine. “I can’t believe she’s gone.” She knocks back the shot without warning, and I follow suit.
 

“She was patient,” I say. “But she had this core of…I don’t know. Hardness. She wouldn’t give up. Like the priest said.”

“Father Mike. I grew up calling him Uncle Mike, actually. He was one of Mom’s first clients, and he was a friend before that. I think he was a little in love with her, to tell you the truth. I mean, he couldn’t and wouldn’t do anything about it, and didn’t as far as I know, but the way he looked at her, I knew he always wanted to help her however he could.”

I nod. “Sounded that way, the way he talked about her.”
 

“It was hard
not
love my mom, though. She just had that way.” Echo’s voice breaks, and she puts her face in her hands and breathes deep several times, and then blows out a harsh breath and shakes her hands.
 

Watching her struggle with her emotions is hellish. “I’m sorry,” I can’t help saying.

She shakes her head. “Why? You didn’t have anything to do with it.”
 

Ouch. That cuts. Because I very much did, only…how do I say that? Answer is: I don’t. I don’t dare.
 

“I just mean—”

“I know what you meant,” she interrupts, not looking at me. She lifts her shot glass again, and as soon as the whiskey fills the glass she tips it back. “I’m sorry if I’m being a bitch. I’m just…I don’t know what to do…how to handle this.”
 

“There isn’t any way to handle it. And you’re not being a bitch. It’s fine.” I need to get out of here, away from this girl. I stand up, leaning on the bar, and fish for my wallet in my back pocket. “I’ll go. Let you—have your space, I guess.”

A small hand—thin, elegant, strong fingers, unpainted but manicured nails—wraps around my wrist. “Don’t. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

I settle back down onto my stool, feeling unstable emotionally and physically. I don’t know how to interact with this girl. How to comfort her, how to keep up a conversation when all that runs through my head is
I’m sorry! I’m sorry! It’s my fault!

“What’s your story, Ben?”
 

I tip back the pint glass and finish it, and start on the second one. “Not much to tell. I was playing football; a tackle went wrong and took out my knee. Your mom was helping me get my mobility back.”
 

Echo looks at me, eyes red-rimmed with sorrow and yet still piercing, knowing, sharp. “There’s more than that to it. I can smell it on you. You don’t go to the funeral of a woman you just met. You maybe stop by the visitation and pay your respects, but you don’t show up at the burial. And you don’t—” she waves at my face with her shot glass, which is somehow full again, and then shoots the whiskey, making a face as she swallows and keeps talking, “you don’t have that look on your face for someone you just met.”
 

“What look?”

She shrugs and wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist, then takes a swallow of beer. “I don’t know. But there’s something. You look…distraught? Upset? I mean, me? She was my mom. My one and only parent. My best friend. So I get to be distraught. But you? No disrespect, dude, but you knew her a
month
. Why do you get to be upset?”

“I told you. She was a friend to me when I needed one.” I blow out a breath, resigned to giving at least some of the truth. “The tackle that took out my knee, it ended my football career. I could’ve gone pro. Would have. There were scouts…but that’s over, now. Permanently. And Cheyenne told me about how her dance career ended and I guess we…I don’t know…bonded over it, to some degree. That’s all.”
 

But that’s not all. Not even close. But I can’t say any of that.

Echo nods. She’s now on her third beer, and there’s another full shot waiting for her, and I’m getting worried about her. She’s starting to look like she’s feeling the booze, and I’m wondering how far she’s going to take this. She lost her mother, so I mean, god, she’s got the right to this bender, but we’re in a shithole bar on the outskirts of San Antonio. I don’t have a car, and neither does she as far as I know, and she’s on her way to shitfaced, and I’m responsible for her mother’s death, and what the
fuck
am I supposed to do?

She knocks back the shot, and I’ve officially lost count of how many that is. Five? Six? Echo finishes her third beer, chugs it, drains it like pro, and then presses her knees together and spins on the stool, stands up.
 

“Gotta visit the girls’ room. Be right back.” But then after two steps she wobbles, stumbles, and has to catch herself on the bar. “Whoa. That caught up fast.”
 

 
I stand up, snag my cane and limp to her side. Ignoring the screaming multitude of things in my heart and head and body—the pain in my knee, worry for this girl I just met, the undeniable attraction I feel to her because holy shit, she’s even more beautiful than her mother, the guilt I feel over that very fact piled on top of the guilt already there—I put my arm under her shoulder, around her waist, support her and help her walk to the bathroom. I shove the door to the ladies’ room open with my cane and help her through it, to a stall. She grabs the sides of the stall door.
 

“Thanks,” she says, her voice small and wobbly.

“No problem,” I tell her.
 

Seemingly oblivious or uncaring of my presence, she lifts her dress up around her hips, baring black panties and long strong pale legs. I feel myself blush and turn around, start toward the door.

“Just wait. I’ll probably need your help again, so just wait.” I hear the stall door bang closed and then the sound of her urinating, and then the flush of the toilet. My cheeks burn hotter.

I don’t hear the stall door open; don’t feel her approach behind me, so I’m startled when I feel her hand on my shoulder. Her fingers tighten in my trapezius muscles, and I turn to see her swaying on her bare feet, blinking, taking deep breaths.

“Okay?” I ask. God, what a stupid question.

She seems to think so too, because she snorts gently and shakes her head. “No. I’m not even remotely okay. But thanks.” She peers at me, and her fingertips touch my cheek. My skin tingles where she made contact. “Oh my god. You’re blushing. Jesus. What, have you never heard a girl take a piss before? So fucking cute. Lemme wash my hands and then we can get back to the drinking.”
 

“Should you maybe slow down a bit? I mean, I don’t really know you and I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but I just—” I don’t know what else to say, so I leave it there.
 

Echo rinses her hands, dries them on a wad of paper towel, and then turns away from the sink, squaring her shoulders and trying gamely to walk a straight line on her own. And damn, she does, too. Slowly, carefully, but she does it. I follow her back to the bar, wait until she’s perched on her stool and then take my own seat.

She takes a long pull off her beer, and then turns to me. “No, I don’t think I should slow down. If I slow down, I’ll have to start feeling shit, and I’m in no shape for that.
 
It’s not real yet, and I don’t want it to be real. I want to drink myself into oblivion. Which is exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to drink until I pass out.”

“Ah. I get that,” I say. “Well, at least tell me where you’re staying. Do you have a car here somewhere, or what?”

“Nope, no car. I took the bus here from school. I’m staying with Grandma and Grandpa, about an hour outside the city.” She glances at me. “Is my drunk ass going to be a burden to you, Ben?”

I shake my head slowly. “No. Not at all.”
 

So that’s what happens. I sip my beer and we make small talk. She likes a wide variety of music, as do I, so music becomes the focus of our conversation.
 

“So, Ben. Favorite song of all time.” She’s drunk as hell, but holding her liquor a lot better than I’d have ever thought a girl her size could.
 

I shrug. “A single favorite song of all time? I don’t even know. I’m not sure I could pick one.”
 

“Sure you can. Just close your eyes, clear your mind, and think of music, think of your favorite song. What’s the first song to come to mind?”

I try it. The answer comes immediately, but it takes me a few beats to get the words out. “‘Let Her Go’ by Passenger.”
 

She looks up at me, wobbly gaze speculative. “Ooh. I hear a story there.”
 

I shrug. “An old story, and a long one.”

“How ’bout you just say it’s a story you don’t want to tell?” She leans toward me and bumps me with her shoulder. “We’ve all got stories like that.”
 

I laugh despite myself. “All right, then. It’s a story I can’t tell. Not now, anyway. Maybe another time.” I glance at her. “You? Favorite song?”

Her answer is immediate. “‘Better Dig Two’, The Band Perry.”
 

“Why?”

This time her answer is longer in coming. “You ever hear the song?” she finally asks.

I lift a shoulder. “A couple times, maybe, but not recently.”