When We Fall (13 page)

A
llison had been both surprised and delighted to hear from Elizabeth, especially when she'd proposed a lunch date. The one and only time they'd met at Charlotte's house, there'd been an immediate chemistry—a circumstance that had visibly peeved Charlotte and subsequently fortified Elizabeth with a rise of satisfaction. Another enigmatic relationship that Allison's mother would advise her to steer clear of. But for whatever reason, Allison was drawn to these people. And not just because Charlie was an old friend. After all, if she took everything Charlie said as bible, she'd be left with little reason to associate with either Charlotte or her sister.

In a sense, she supposed, it was obvious. They were all vulnerable in such radically different yet patently tender ways, herself included. Maybe—selfishly speaking—investing in their pain was a means of easing her own. Or maybe it was just morbid curiosity. Kind of like watching a train wreck in progress and knowing that if you tried to help,
you'd risk being run over, flattened like a pancake on the proverbial track to enduring desolation.

Allison had suggested DJ Gourmet as their meeting spot. For one, the food was the best in town. And, if she was being honest, she looked forward to seeing Dempsey. This morning she'd brushed a hint of blush across the apples of her cheeks, had smeared her naturally pink lips with a trace of shimmery gloss, and had stroked her eyelashes with two coats of clear mascara, curling them in advance.
There's nothing wrong with wearing a little makeup every now and then.
She could hear her mother's urging refrain buzzing in her ear as she opted not to prime her skin with a layer of opaque foundation. She didn't want him to think she was trying too hard, because—the truth was—she had no idea if she wanted to be trying at all. And even if she did, what she was trying for?

What she did know was that Dempsey made her feel giddy in a way she hadn't since
before
. Not just because he was weak-in-the-knees sexy. Actually, that wasn't it at all. It had more to do with the way he looked at her and spoke to her, like he valued every second of time she was willing to afford him, which hadn't been much.
Baby steps,
she told herself, despite the fact that she was still learning to crawl.

A year after Jack died, the first wedding invitation had arrived. But it wasn't any old invitation. It was from a woman she'd met through a mutual friend. A woman who, like Allison, had lost her husband in the bus accident. Only, was she like her? Because if that was the case, as Allison had thought it was, then she wouldn't have been remarrying
twelve months
after her husband had died. In a torrent of anger, Allison had shredded the thick, embellished ivory stock with her own
hands, allowing a rainstorm of paper to trickle down to the carpet, where she'd left it until she'd summoned enough strength to wield her trusty Dustbuster. And just like that the pieces had been gone, as had any thought of the wedding and the friendship, if you could have called it that in the first place. She'd never bothered to RSVP, which under normal circumstances would have been uncharacteristic. But at the time, Allison had been fueled with rage, disappointment, perhaps even envy, though she'd considered that only in hindsight. How
dare
this woman move on with her life when Allison had barely been able to move from pajamas to blue jeans without racing home to change as soon as she was finished with whatever forced activity she'd reluctantly engaged in? How
dare
she walk down the aisle in church, in front of God and hundreds of friends and family, when Allison couldn't make it down the aisle of the supermarket, in front of perfect strangers, without bursting into tears because she'd caught sight of Jack's favorite chocolate chip cookies out of the corner of her eye? It had felt like the worst kind of betrayal.

The thing was, there had been other weddings to follow. Some in quick succession, some three or four years later. She'd read about them in the newspaper or heard about them through one of the mothers at Logan's nursery school, who'd assumed she'd want to be privy to anything and everything to do with that fateful day. How wrong they'd been. What she'd wanted was to forget. To erase it from her memory altogether. To pretend that Jack had passed away peacefully in his sleep, blissfully unaware that he was about to be swallowed by a ball of fire as the bus he was riding in plunged off a bridge and came crashing to the ground in a heap of metal.

Why was it, then, that eleven years later, when most of these women had new families—with multiple children unrelated to their perished husbands—Allison still couldn't get through a single night without instinctively reaching over to Jack's side of the bed, only to endure a lesser, but still very tangible, pang of loss? If anyone could understand, it would be Elizabeth. While Jack's death had felt insurmountable in those first days, weeks, and months
after
, Allison couldn't fathom the agony inherent in losing a child. Without Logan, she was certain her life would be meaningless. There'd be no reason to get out of bed in the morning, to put one foot in front of the other. Because where would there be to go? Perhaps Elizabeth had seen a kindred spirit in Allison, as she had in her.

“Hey, pretty lady!” Elizabeth appeared with a healthy flush on her face, her auburn hair swept back into a loose chignon. It looked like she too had applied a little makeup in advance of their meeting, undoubtedly for a different reason.

“Hey!” Allison stood up, tucking the gardening book she'd been reading back into her purse. It was never too soon to start planning. “Wow, you look nice.”

“Job interview.” They sat down across from each other. “Don't tell Charlotte.”

“Why?” Allison crossed her legs, leaning forward so the couple next to them couldn't eavesdrop. The close proximity of the tables was the only downside to DJ Gourmet's layout, but there was no avoiding it. While the space as a whole wasn't tight, there was always a line out the door in the mornings and at lunchtime. “That sounds like something she'd be happy about.”

“Oh, for sure, but she'd also nudge me about it every five
minutes.” Elizabeth glanced at the oversized chalkboard above the prepared-food case. “What's good here?”

“Everything.”
Allison had already decided on the Asian chicken salad. Or was it the grilled cheese with oozing fontina and apples pressed between two thick slices of peasant bread? “Numbers three and nine are my favorites.” Jack would have offered to share, even if neither of them had been his first choice.

“Yum. Wanna split those?” A smile reached Elizabeth's probing blue eyes, as if she'd read Allison's mind and she knew it.

“Yeah, I do!”

“I like a woman who enjoys her food. In case you haven't noticed, my sister eats like a rabbit.”

“I have. She said it's hard for her to stay slim. A problem I, fortunately, do not have.”

“Same here.” Elizabeth looked around for a waitress. “Do they come take our order?”

“Oh, you've
never
been here.”

“I don't think so. I live on the other side of town. Maybe once for a muffin or something.”

“You have to go up to the counter and then they bring it to the table when it's ready.” Allison pushed her chair back. “I'll go.”

“Don't worry about it. I got it.” Elizabeth hopped up. “Drink?”

“Just water.”

“Pellegrino?”

“Nah, the good old-fashioned tap variety is fine.”

“
Thank you.
I honestly don't understand why people pay
five dollars for bubbles.” Elizabeth stalked toward the counter in her scuffed black leather boots, which didn't look entirely appropriate for a job interview, unless she was applying to be a hooker, but Allison decided to keep her opinion to herself. She and Elizabeth weren't there yet.

Allison thought wistfully about the time in college when her best friend, Melanie, had come out of the closet—literally, not figuratively—dressed in the most hideous, mismatched getup she'd ever seen. Allison hadn't said a word. She'd just pointed back toward the closet, belly laughing and shaking her head, while Melanie had tilted hers downward in mock shame. She'd resurfaced seconds later in plain blue jeans and a black sweater. There were just certain relationships where verbalizations weren't necessary. A simple look or motion could say it all. Allison missed that.

“Success?” She swiveled in her chair as Elizabeth approached the table.

“Um, yeah, but—excuse me—who is the fucking hot-as-hell guy standing between the cakes and the coffee machine? You know, the one who looks like Johnny Depp post–
21 Jump Street
. He's been ogling you like a dog in heat and you're a fine piece of meat.”

“That's the first time I've heard that one.” Allison laughed.

“You like it? I just made it up.” Elizabeth grinned complacently. “But seriously, do you know him? Because if not, you should.”

“I do, actually. We went to high school together.”

“And?”

“And nothing. We barely knew each other. We still don't. He seems nice. I mean, it's not like there's anything going
on . . . or . . . that I want anything to be, you know, whatever. . . .” Allison stumbled through her weedy explanation, which she could tell Elizabeth wasn't buying.

“Uh-huh.” Elizabeth smirked.

“Enough about me. Tell me about your interview,” Allison deflected as a neatly dressed twentysomething woman with a pleasant smile diverting attention from her crooked teeth appeared with two overflowing plates of food and a side order of frizzled onion straws.

“That was fast!” Elizabeth motioned to the onion straws. “But I don't think we ordered those.”

“Compliments of Mr. James.”

“Thank you.” Allison nodded, catching sight of a grinning Dempsey in her peripheral vision. She'd swooned over them last time she was in with her mom and had begged for the recipe.

“You are
totally
blushing.” Elizabeth waved at Dempsey, who saluted in return.

“You were going to tell me about the interview,” Allison reminded her.

“I was?” Elizabeth feigned ignorance. “Okay, fine. It's just a temp firm, but they send people out for some good stuff. Short-term, no more than six months at a time. Still, it beats working as a salesgirl at the Posh Teen. Those kids are such entitled little brats.”

“That sounds promising.” Allison took a sip of water, nearly choking on a partially melted ice cube as a hauntingly familiar figure walked through the front door of the café. At first she couldn't place his face, but then it hit her like a frying pan to the skull. Instinctively, she dipped her head
toward the ground, praying he wouldn't spot her and, if he did, that he wouldn't recognize her. No such luck.

“Well, look who we have here,” Buck Baird bellowed, sauntering over to her table, a grossly bloated version of the rakishly handsome star of Wincourt High School's undefeated soccer team. He'd scored so many goals his freshman season that he'd been labeled “Lucky Bucky” from then on. The name had transcended his good fortune on the field—one of the main reasons Allison had resisted his persistent overtures. That and the fact that he'd been something of a meathead. A hot meathead, but still.

The summer after their sophomore year, she'd finally relented, agreeing to one date, for lack of anything better to do on a random Saturday night. He'd driven her, in his father's beat-up Cadillac—which had reeked of chewing tobacco, Old Spice cologne, and dark rum in one pungent brew—to Hideaway Hill, where he'd expected to feel up
her
hills. To his obvious disappointment they'd been more like bug bites. He'd tried to go further. “The kids” were calling it third base at the time, but she'd resisted his advances. If there'd been less of a crowd, he might have been more forceful. She could tell he had it in him, especially when he was further motivated by a very large boner pressing against his too-tight Levi's. Instead, he'd grumbled something about blue balls and had taken her directly home without even the remotest suggestion of food or drink. Some date.

Not that she'd cared. She'd been overcome with relief the minute she'd slammed the dented Caddy door behind her and run into her house without looking back. What she
hadn't expected was that he'd intended on having a second “date,” one that would entail her putting out. Everything. When she'd graciously declined his calls and dodged him in the hallways at school the following year, he'd promptly spread the rumor that she was a slut who'd “jumped him like a car battery.” His words, not hers. But she'd never forget them. How could she when they'd been etched into the door of every bathroom stall in Tillingheimer Hall?

“Hi, Buck. How are you?” Allison tried to give Elizabeth a warning look, but Buck's swollen brown eyes were fixed on hers.

“Not as good as you, apparently.” She watched as he took stock of her merchandise like the horny old man he probably was. Even though they were the same age, he looked to be about ten years her senior, at least.

“I'm just in the middle of a meeting with my colleague, here.” She motioned to Elizabeth, who'd caught on without needing a signal.

“That's right. Important business.”

“You wouldn't be blowing me off, now, would you?” His voice grew louder as Dempsey sprinted to Allison's side.

“I hope you're not bothering these ladies, Buck.” Dempsey's abundant wavy brown mane and invitingly fit form only served to highlight Buck's receding hairline and distended beer gut.

“Buzz off, Dempsey.” He shooed him away with a beefy hand, refusing to divert his gaze from Allison. “I'm not bothering you, am I?” He smiled at her roguishly.

“Um, I . . . ,” Allison stammered awkwardly.