To Catch a Falling Star (26 page)

At home, Lucas and Steve wait for me in the living room. I allow Ella to hug them good night and tell her to wait for me to tuck her in.

Promising to return my car from Dad’s, Lucas and Steve leave.

After I drink a glass of milk, I tuck Ella in. She remains bouncy and electric. It takes half an hour of reading Heidi and two lullabies for her to settle in.

“Mommy, was Uncle Tarry mad at me?” Ella asks in between a yawn.

“Of course not, honey.”

“Why was he so mad then?” she asks in a whisper.

“I don’t know.”

“Can we ask him?”

“Sure, honey. But now is way past your bedtime. Good night, Ella.” I kiss her sleepy face, shut off the light, and close the door to her room.

I pad down the hall and hesitate before entering my room. It’s surreal to have a man sleeping in my bed. Even under the circumstances.

Quietly, I push the door open. I stand in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. I circle the bed. Patches of moonlight filter through the window and cast a dim light on his face.

I inhale deeply, and pull the covers away. I assess the sight of him for a moment. With trembling, uncertain fingers, I grab the hem of his knitted sweater and pull from under the expanse of his chest and over his head. He mumbles, but remains undisturbed in his sleep. I chuckle a bit at Tarry’s sense of fashion. Today, he wore a button-down shirt under a preppy checkered sweater, a soft pair of ripped blue jeans, and combat boots. He completed the outfit with a few leather bracelets and had the front of his shaggy hair pulled back with a tie. It is preppy look, meets hippie, meets all-American boy, meets rocker, with an accent of a biker. Jeez, he looks badass and sexy as hell.

I strip him down. He is going commando. I pick out gym shorts that belonged to Tim and dress him. I cover him and leave the room. I put his clothes in the washer. I fold clothes I retrieve from the dryer. When I finish, I sit on top of dryer waiting for the washing machine to end the cycle that will clean any vestige of what transpired today.

I can’t help but remember the first time Will brought Portia to our home. It was after she showed up at his door, drunk. He told me at the time that there was a reason she had crossed his path. He is such a dork. But, I remember the passion in his voice when he described the vulnerability he saw in her sleeping face and how it felt to have her sleep in his arms. At the time, I was overwhelmed by an uprightness from being sheltered my entire life but I could not dispute my brother’s faith. So, even though skeptical of her intentions, I never said anything to Will.

A few days ago, I denied having feelings to Tarry. A few hours ago, I was convinced he didn’t have any feelings for me. Now, as the washer spurts another jet of water and shakes beside me, I catch myself thinking—or hoping—there is more to Tarry and I, other than crazy as hell chemistry. I can’t discard the fact that I’m attracted to Tarry, and his behavior today indicates he reciprocates my attraction. Or so I suspect. Prior to meeting Tarry, I was a woman with strong beliefs and a healthy dose of confidence. Now I feel volatile and lost. My emotions toward Tarry are confusing and agonizing. And so is my perception of his feelings toward me. I like to have rein over my emotions. I like to categorize my feelings, give them a proper label, and place them inside a proper drawer. However, it’s impossible to do that regarding Tarry.

The machine comes to a halt, ending the washing cycle. I shovel his clothes inside the dryer, hang his sweater to air dry, and go to the living room.

I grab a pillow and a quilt. The red couch beckons invitingly to me. I sink in it and, immediately, I feel submerged by its soft embrace. I drift to a land of dreams.

After I wake up, I feel briefly disoriented of where I’m. The ache in my body reminds me I slept on the couch. I get up and quietly climb the stairs. I gently push against the door, careful not to wake up Tarry. I just want to check on him.

I DON’T KNOW where I’m or how I got here. But I know one thing: I feel like shit. My body feels as if it has gone through a meat grinder. Muted steps pad on the floor, and I try to focus my hazy mind on my surroundings. A dim light filters from a sheer curtain. How the hell did I get here?

A hundred and twenty-four days, that’s how long it took from the time I was found OD’d to having a relapse.

I had a game plan. Thousands of strategies. Medication. Meditation. Counseling. Hope. All in vain. Again, I’m a bastard wimp unable to turn away from the seductive siren of substances. Tonight was alcohol. Tomorrow, drugs?

This is it. This is who I am. Weak, worthless, and a fraud.

They say you lose a piece of yourself each time you relapse. They’re wrong. You lose your entire self, only to find it again with renewed self-loathing.

What to do with all the trust placed on me? How to face the ones who have fiercely cheered, hoped, and believed this to be the final recovery? That this would stick. I sit on the edge of the bed and grab my head with both my hands.

I hear the squeak of a door opening. I glance up and see Mel. Her eyes are shining like a beacon of hope in the midst of the darkened room.

She sees me sitting on the bed. “Tarry, you’re up?”

I want her to go away. I can’t stand the sight of her.

“Can I come in?” she asks.

I remain silent.

“Hey, are you feeling okay?” As a tiger approaches its prey, she moves toward me slowly.

“Fucking fantastic,” I say with a bite to my voice.

“Do you want an aspirin?” she asks, pointing to the side table.

I ignore her, though it seems I have an ax pushed into my skull.

I sink my eyes into the heels of my hands. I sense when she kneels in front of me. Her chamomile scent slowly envelops me and all I can think is for a way to escape from here, from her intoxicating presence.

“Tarry, please talk to me,” she pleads in a whisper.

“Is my car here?” I ask.

“Yes…,” she says. “Lucas and Steve left it here for you. But you’re not leaving.”

“Says who?” I can almost smile at her fierce attempt at being bossy. I’m fucking Tarry Francis.

“Please, Tarry. Look at me.” Her voice trembles. It shatters me to think my fucking relapse affects her.

“I need to go,” I say harshly.

“Don’t you understand I can’t let you leave? This is a crucial moment for you.” She stands. My eyes remain closed, but I can hear her pacing the wood floor. I can feel the tension rippling out of her body and pounding on me like waves of an agitated ocean.

“If you leave, you risk using again, going on a binge. God, Tarry. Do you realize this is a crossroad? I won’t allow it,” she says with resolve.

“No one has told me what to do since I was five, Melody,” I say bitterly.

“Tarry, addiction is considered a bio-psychosocial disease. That’s why sometimes it’s beyond the scope of your own will.” Her words sound like fingernails scraping against a blackboard.

“That’s why you want me to stay? Because of your goddamn knowledge of the disease. Guess what, Mel? I don’t give a damn about your textbook description of addiction. I know firsthand what it is. It damn nearly killed me. Many times.” Her professional concern infuriates me. I look up and meet her gaze. Her eyes have shades of desperation. But there is something else in them. I just can’t discern it.

“No. No. No.” She moves my way. I shrink a little. And, yes, I feel like a fucking pussy. “I want to help you because… because… I care about you. Please stay. Deal with it. Don’t run,” she pleads, staring at me in the darkness of her room.

A lump blocks my airway and my lungs burn with the lack of oxygen. I study her features in the dark room. She is so fucking beautiful. But it’s beyond her beauty. It’s beyond her genuine concern. It’s beyond her compassion. Inside, my heart shatters. I can’t name what I see in her eyes because no one ever looked at me this way before.

I crumble. As if having a life of its own, my arms snake around her waist and I draw her to me. I bury my face in her chest. The generous swell of her breasts feels soft against my face. Though I’m fully aware she is not wearing a bra, this is beyond sexual tension. This is some unknown shit. This is a haven where I want to spend the rest of my days. This is the fairy tales for which many kill or die.

What happens to me next is beyond the scope of words. I cry. No, I sob into her chest. Mel’s arms clench around my head, my neck. I cling to her, needy and vulnerable, as an infant latching on his mother’s breast.

We remain woven together for a long time. Just us. The dark sky out her window yields to a new dawn. After a while, I release her from my deadly grasp.

“I’ll get your clothes.” As silently as she walked in, she walks out. I retrieve the aspirin and water and swallow it in a gulp.

Mel finds me on the same spot she left me. She places my clothes—now laundered, on the bed. The smell of laundry detergent is comforting. The small act warms my heart. No one—other than paid help—has ever done something like this for me.

“Lucas and Steve got your car last night. Your keys are on the kitchen counter,” she adds with a pained voice and turns to leave.

“Mel.” I grab her wrist.

Her hopeful eyes meet mine.

“Can I stay?” I ask with a small voice.

She stares at me with those burning eyes. They carry an indescribable expression that has me puzzled. “Do you want to?”

“Yes.” I don’t know what staying entails, but I am enthralled by the tenderness of this woman. The pull of getting high is less than the pull of staying with Mel. The thought is sobering and refreshing.

She reaches up and brushes wisps of hair away from my eyes. I’m still. Her touch is feathery, but it reaches deep inside my soul. It’s soothing, like the perfect concoction of a balm, calming a raw wound. I want to stop time and harness the moment.

“Okay,” she whispers.

ELLA WAVES TO Tarry and me from the bus window.

“Well, that was lie number two. Let’s go inside I need to make a phone call.”

“What was a lie?”

“Telling Ella that you came over this morning,” I explain.