Falling Harder (21 page)

“Carly,” I say quickly, “I’m so sorry. Did we wake you?”

“Not at all,” she says sweetly, “I was just getting up. But
where are my manners?”

She crosses the living room, letting her hips sway
sumptuously. Trace stands up from the couch as Carly approaches. If I didn’t
know any better, I’d say he’s standing at attention.

“I’m Carly,” my roommate says, holding her hand out to
Trace. “And you are?”

“Trace,” he answers, curtly shaking her hand. It does my
heart good to see that he’s not the slightest bit ruffled by Carly’s natural
flirtatious manner. 

“Trace. What a great name,” Carly says, looking back and
forth between us. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything out here.”

“No,” I say, wrapping my arms around my waist. “No, not at
all. Trace was just stopping by to say hello.”

I watch Carly notice the flowers in the kitchen. Her
curiosity is practically palpable. One of the things I’ve always liked best about
my roommate is her refusal to take no for an answer. But I have a feeling that,
in this particular instance, I might begin to find that trait regrettable.

I have to stifle a frustrated sigh as Carly sinks down onto
the couch beside Trace. She pats the cushion, inviting him to join her. He
obliges, leaving me no choice but to follow suit. The three of us sit in
silence for a long moment while Carly savors the tension in the room.

“Are you just passing through Chicago?” she asks Trace,
crossing her smooth legs.

“Not exactly,” Trace tells her, keeping his hands folded in
his lap. “I grew up here. Chicago’s always been home base. But I’ve spent the
last couple of years abroad.”

“Traveling?” Carly asks, intrigued.

“Kinda,” Trace says.

“That sounds wonderful,” Carly gushes, “Where were you?”

“Kandahar, Afghanistan,” Trace tells her, lowering his eyes.

“Wh-what?” I stammer. The whole room seems to pivot around
me. “You...You were in the army?”

“That’s right, well, the Marines actually,” Trace says,
bracing himself for my reaction, “I did three tours over there. Just finished
up the last one, uh, recently.”

“How recently?” I press.

“Um...Three days ago?”

My jaw falls open as Trace flashes me a grin that is at once
apologetic and amused. His first act, after returning home from the goddamn
war, was to come track me down? What the hell does that mean? How am I supposed
to interpret any of this? I take a long swallow of coffee, wishing all the
while that it was spiked with whiskey. Or, hell, just a mug of whiskey would be
great right about now.

“That must have been terrible, being over there,” Carly says
sympathetically.

“Of course it was terrible,” Trace says, “It was war.”

“But you’ve probably got a great support system back here,
right?” she asks, “A family, or a girlfriend, or something?”

“Not really,” Trace says, shooting me a pointed look, “I
sort of had my entire support system over there with me. Garrick. My best
friend. We had each other’s backs, like always.”

“Christ,” I mutter, sinking back into the armchair, “Garrick
was over there, too? Thank god nothing happened to the two of you.”

“Who’s Garrick?” Carly asks.

“A friend,” I tell her.

“Our old foster brother,” Trace says plainly.

The air is sucked out of the room in an instant. My entire
body seizes up as I realize what an idiot I was, letting these two sit in the
same room together. Carly’s head snaps my way, her eyes brimming with a million
questions. For fuck’s sake...Why didn’t I see this coming?

“Foster brother?” Carly repeats, her intent gaze hot on my
face.

I open my mouth to respond, to cover up, to evade her slew
of questions. But I don’t have any words to stop this. The levee that’s kept my
past so utterly separated from my new life has broken. I should have known that
I’d never actually be able to rewrite my childhood, no matter how many degrees
and accolades I accrued. Underneath the pencil skirts and staggering education,
I’m still just some orphan girl from Chicago. No matter how big of a hot-shot lawyer
I become, I can’t erase those long years of foster care, when no one in the
world seemed to want me. No one but Trace, of course.

Across the room, Trace’s eyes darken. He takes a deep breath
to calm himself before going on, “I guess Nadia never mentioned that part of
her life to you.”

“Nadia, what’s he talking about?” Carly demands. All traces
of coyness have left her voice, now.

“I...Um...” I stammer, looking frantically back and forth
between the two of them. It’s clear that no one’s letting me off the hook this
time. “I never mentioned...Er, told you that?”

“You sure as hell didn’t,” Carly says, crossing her arms.

“Must have just never come up,” I say.

“That’s a pretty big chunk of information, Nadia,” she goes
on, “Things that big tend to come up. Unless they’re hidden on purpose, of
course.”

“I didn’t mean to...It’s not like I lied to you or
anything,” I say.

“Oh please,” Carly says, “You forget, my dear, that I’m a
lawyer too. You think a flimsy defense like that would ever work on me?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Trace says, “It wasn’t my
place.”

“It’s not your fault, Trace,” Carly says, “You simply
assumed that my good friend Nadia here would have mentioned anything at all
about her life to me. Come to think of it...I don’t know anything about where
you come from.”

“You never asked,” I remind her.

“But still,” she says, “You’ve met, like, my entire family.
You know everything about my entire life leading up to grad school, and I don’t
even know that you were in a freaking foster home? What the hell?”

“What does it matter?” I say, exasperated.

“Uh, tons,” Carly insists, “What else don’t I know? Your
parents are dead, I got that much out of you—”

“Hey,” Trace says firmly, “Cool it. If Nadia didn’t share
the grim details with you, I’m guessing that there’s a reason. Those of us from
her past may not like that reason very much...”

“You think I’m ashamed or something?” I ask quietly,
training my eyes on Trace’s.

He shrugs his shoulders, hurt shining in his eyes. God, how
well I know that expression of pain. How many times did I see it come over his
face when we were kids? Whenever Garrick had too much to drink, whenever his
junkie mother came after him for pocket change, whenever older guys leered at
Conway...that same unknowable pain was always there. Seeing it here, in my
home, ten years after the last time I laid eyes of Trace—it’s too much.

“Nadia...” Trace says softly, as the first round tear slides
down my cheek.

“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Come on. If you act all nice to me
now, I’m only going to cry that much harder.”

But my protestations fall on deaf ears. In a heartbeat,
Trace crosses the room and draws me up into a tight embrace. I soften into his
body, resting my cheek against the firm panes of his chest. All at once, the
warring emotions within me erupt. I bury my face in Trace’s flannel shirt and
let everything out—the surprise, the anger, the joy, the abandonment, the
guilt. Trace wraps his arms more tightly around me, and lays a sweet, ardent
kiss on my forehead.

I hear Carly’s bedroom door click closed. At least the girl
knows when to make her exit, most of the time. Weeping freely, I turn myself up
toward Trace’s. The closeness of our bodies only adds an exponent to everything
that I’m feeling. How can it feel so right to be near him, pressed against him
like this, even after ten years?

Feeling his body against mine is like remembering something
I’ve always known. It’s deeper than muscle memory, more lasting than lust.
Trace’s arms simply feel like home.

“I got sn-snot...all over...your shirt,” I cry, resting my
hands on Trace’s broad shoulders.

“I think I’ll live,” he tells me, as his face cracks open in
the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. “Can I get you anything?” he asks.

“No, no...Just—let’s get out of here for a minute, OK?” I
say, “I need to clear my head.”

“OK,” Trace says, “Do you need to get ready, or...?”

“Ha. You saw me every day at the brutal end of my awkward
years,” I remind him. “I think I’ll live.”

Chapter Seven

Trace

Reunited At Last

We walk out of Nadia’s building without any idea where we’re
heading. The doorman gives us quite the suspicious look as we leave together. I
suppose that the Delivery Man Trope is generally reserved for badly written
pornos. If only he knew what the real story is.

It’s just about noon as we step out into the sunlight. The
early spring morning is absolutely perfect, and the entire city seems to be
reveling in it. A slow panic starts to creep through me as I struggle to
reacquaint myself to being in a city like this.

After so much time overseas, the littlest things about
America strike me as strange. From the stacks of prepackaged food to the
tabloids in the newsstands, it’s hard to imagine accepting these things at face
value. But I suppose I was never really quite “in” with American culture. After
all, so much of the commodities available were beyond the reach of foster kids
like me and Nadia.

We were never up to speed on the newest TV shows or snack
foods or what have you. In some ways, it’s like we did live in a little country
all our own. Nadia was just about to immigrate back to the mainland more
gracefully than I was. Hell, even after with a detour to the Middle East, I
still feel like I’m circling the runway.

“Where are you staying now?” Nadia asks, tugging me out of
my reverie.

“Oh. Just this little one bedroom. Nothing fancy,” I tell
her.

“Is Garrick there too?” she asks, setting off down the
sidewalk.

“Nah, he’s got his own thing figured out,” I say, following
behind her like a goddamn puppy dog.

“I can’t believe you guys have stuck together this whole
time,” Nadia says, shaking her head. “Makes me feel like a bad friend.”

“You did what you had to do, right?” I say, “There’s no use
talking about good or bad, when it comes to all of us. We’re all just trying to
get by.”

“Still,” she says, “It might have been nice to know where in
the world you guys were. Would have been a whole lot less lonely.”

“Well...I was thinking about you, even when I wasn’t there,”
I tell her. “I never let you out of my mind for long.”

“...Same here,” she says, peering up at me in the sunlight.

We walk along in silence for a long while. I shove my hands
deep into my front pockets to keep myself from grabbing her hand. For some
reason, it feels like no time has passed between us. I have to remind myself
that I don’t have permission to behave however I want with her, just because we
used to fool around in high school. I want her to know that I’m after more than
just a quickie with my old flame. Though honestly, I guess I don’t know what it
is I’m after, exactly.

“Here we are,” Nadia finally says.

I look up and let a bark of laughter escape my throat. We’ve
stopped outside a greasy spoon, just like the one we used to frequent during
out tutoring sessions in high school.

“Your tastes haven’t developed beyond this yet, Faber?” I
tease.

“Bite me,” she replies with a smile. God, if only she knew
what I would do if she asked me twice.

We make our way inside and settle into a booth. Our waitress
quickly furnishes our table with coffee, and we put in our orders without
missing a beat. Falling back into sync with Nadia is at once comfortable and
sad. It’s sad to think how many years we missed out on because of one terrible
accident.

What would it have been like to watch her go through college
and law school, kicking ass all the way? What would I have been up to, instead
of sitting in jail and dealing?

“You thinking about what I’m thinking about?” Nadia asks.

“I don’t know,” I tell her, “But probably.”

“What we would have done, if...?”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

“I used to fantasize about that all the time,” Nadia tells
me, “When they first took you away. I wondered how we would pick things up when
you were out. Then more time went by, and I imagined you calling out of the
blue, wandering back into my life. But as more time went by, I figured those
were all just pipe dreams. So I started wondering what we would have been like
together, if we’d been allowed to grow up.”

“And what did you imagine then?” I ask quietly.

A slow smile creeps across Nadia’s face as she recalls. “A
small wedding,” she all but whispers, “A little house in Evanston. A teaching
job for me. Something manly and artisan-like for you. Maybe a baby, or three.”

“Sounds nice,” I tell her, trying to ignore the painful
constriction of my heart.

“Yeah,” she says wistfully. “Guess that ship has sailed
though, huh?”

“Maybe,” I allow, “But that’s the great thing about ships.”

“Sorry?”

“I just mean that, when one sails away, another pulls into
harbor.”

“Ah,” she says, resting her elbows on the table, “Is that
what this is? Are you the ship I’ve been waiting for to carry me off across the
horizon, off to some brave new world?”

“I’m not trying to carry you anywhere you don’t want to go,”
I tell her sincerely, “I would just love to be along on the trip.”

She opens her mouth to respond, but our waitress bustles
back with our food just at that moment. Nadia swallows her reply, keeping her
eyes trained intently on me. We hold each other’s gaze over the generous plates
of pancakes and home fries, daring the other to point out how ridiculous this
is, how impossible.

But instead of caving, we simply take up our forks and tuck
in. “Ridiculous” and “impossible” have their time and place, but for now we’re
just savoring “together”.