Feels Like Falling Read online

  It was the absolute best-case scenario. I mean, he would be getting a tip so large at the end of the summer that he could retire.

  “I’m Wagner’s soon-to-be stepmom,” Brooke announced, wiggling the fingers on her left hand. I couldn’t help but notice that my engagement ring had been much bigger, which was ironic since Greg had so much more money now. He probably didn’t want to invest as much in this one in case he decided to trade her in for a newer model too.

  Andrew looked at Brooke blankly and said, “Great. I can already tell he’s an awesome kid.”

  “Hey, Mom, I’m going to go warm up,” Wagner said.

  “I’ll be watching!”

  “Me too,” Brooke called behind, before turning her attention back to the pro. “Andrew, when should I come back to pick up Wagner?” She shot me a look. “I was trying to ask you this morning, Gray, but I couldn’t get your attention.”

  “What? I didn’t even see you,” I lied.

  She raised one eyebrow. “You’re a beautiful swimmer,” she said pertly, as if she didn’t want to compliment me but couldn’t help it.

  When your big brother drowns when you’re a baby, your parents’ life mission is to make sure you and your sister are expert swimmers. I almost said that just to see her reaction, but it felt like overkill. I wondered if she already knew about Steven. I wondered what else she knew about me, what secrets I had shared with Greg that this total stranger was now privy to.

  This afternoon Brooke and Greg were taking Wagner to Raleigh, where we lived the rest of the year, and then off to France, Italy, and Spain for three weeks on their first “family” trip. As if trying to take my company from me weren’t enough, he had to take my child away for nearly a month too.

  “Brooke,” I said, “we need to go over a few last-minute details before the trip.”

  Her smile was so self-satisfied that this time I couldn’t control my eye roll. “I sent you all the travel details this morning. Did you not see them? And I got the bags you packed and the lists you sent.” She paused and put a hand on my shoulder. “Gray, I promise you. I will take the best care of him in the world. I won’t let him out of my sight.”

  I fought the urge to shrug her hand off my shoulder, but I had to admit her assurances did make me feel better. I mean, I still thought she was the devil. Even so, I knew she would take care of Wagner.

  The tennis pro, witnessing the whole awkward exchange, looked from Brooke to me again and said, “So, wait. If she’s the soon-to-be stepmom, does that mean that you aren’t married…?”

  He paused, and I said, “Gray. My name is Gray. And I am very, very close to being not married, God willing.”

  Andrew laughed, and Brooke pursed her lips. It was obvious that she knew she should walk away but wanted to see what would happen next. “In that case,” he said, “can I take you out sometime?”

  I nearly doubled over with laughter, and Brooke, clearly unable to help herself, said, “You can’t be serious.”

  He looked to her again and said, “You can pick Wagner up at noon.”

  She flushed and finally turned to walk away.

  When Brooke was out of earshot, I smoothed my wet hair down my back and said, “Okay, okay. I see what’s happening here, and I appreciate it more than you know. I’ll see you around.” I turned to walk away, but Andrew grabbed my hand.

  “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” For a second the twinkle in his dark-brown eyes mesmerized me, but then I snapped back to reality.

  “Asking me out so my replacement could get a taste of her own medicine? That was chivalrous of you.”

  He looked down shyly and let go of my hand. “Um. No. I mean, I am chivalrous. But I really just want to take you out to dinner.”

  I eyed him skeptically.

  He grinned. “If you don’t want to commit to dinner, what about a drink?”

  “What are you, twenty? Twenty-two?”

  I could see the blush rising up his cheeks. “Twenty-six,” he said, clearing his throat. “But, I mean, a couple years’ age difference is no big deal.”

  I burst out laughing again. I guess I was hyperaware of age gaps because of Brooke and the whole divorce thing, but it was a fact that in a matter of months I would hit a large birthday milestone. There was a vast difference between twenty-six and thirty-four.

  He shrugged.

  Brooke called, “Andrew, the kids are getting antsy. Are we planning to start anytime soon?”

  I shook my head and said, “Listen. Thanks. Take care of my kid.”

  I wanted to yell bye to Wagner, but I knew better. I would embarrass him in front of his cool summer friends, and I had spent too much money on tall socks (the short ones were out), New Balances (the only good shoe brand this summer), and Under Armour everything else (extra points for a smaller, understated logo) to risk mortifying him now.

  As I started across the street toward the clubhouse and pool, Andrew called, “I’m serious. I’m going to track you down later today.” I glanced back to see him say, more quietly, “I’m impossible to resist.”

  I laughed and shook my head—but I had a feeling he was right.

  Marcy was standing on the sidewalk waiting for me in a linen cover-up with a deep V, the sleeves casually rolled. I could just make out the outline of a teeny bikini underneath.

  I threw my hands up as if to say, So now you decide to show up?

  “What?” She looked truly mystified.

  “I felt like I was very specific about meeting here at nine a.m.,” I teased.

  “You said ten,” Marcy said. Then she paused. “Or maybe you said nine, but I knew I would never be up that early so I decided to hear ten.…”

  I laughed and wondered what it would be like to be that carefree. Marcy was thirty-one, only three years younger than I was, but our lives were so different. She had never been married, had no children, and lived footloose and fancy-free year-round in the waterfront home beside mine that her parents, who lived in Maine, had bought for investment purposes and visited only once a year.

  I had been married for nine years, had an eight-year-old son, and had bought my second home in Cape Carolina when I landed the largest client of my career at ClickMarket. My company. I was mad all over again.

  Marcy pointed toward the tennis courts. “What the hell was that all about?” she asked.

  I rolled my eyes, and we made our way toward the beach for one of the long walks that comprised our summer exercise routine. There was nothing I looked forward to more than the sand under my feet, the surf splashing around my ankles. “Wagner’s tennis pro asked me out for a drink, but I think he must have been kidding. You know, doing it for effect because Brooke was standing there being Brooke.”

  Marcy stopped, her hand frozen to the top of the pool gate. “Wait. Brooke was standing there?”

  I smiled. “Yeah. It was kind of awesome.”

  “Gray, the hot tennis pro wants to date you. When God gives, you take. You take and you run and you don’t look back.”

  I smiled. I knew logically that my thirty-fifth birthday wouldn’t magically make me old. But I think everyone has a scary age, an age by which they think they are supposed to have it all figured out. For me, it was always thirty-five. And it wasn’t scary for a long, long time because I had it all together. And now, only months before my scary age, my perfectly choreographed life had fallen apart. I was back at square one. Barring a miracle, it didn’t seem like I was going to have it all back together by October.

  We walked through the pool deck exchanging waves with the women already lounging there, watching their kids train for swim team. As our feet hit the warm sand, she said, “But don’t you remember it?”

  “Remember what?”

  “Dating a twenty-five-year-old,” Marcy said wistfully.

  I raised my eyebrows at her.

  “Oh, right,” she said. “You haven’t been on a date in a hundred years. How do I always forget that?”

  I smirked.r />
  “Seedy bars and karaoke, beer pong tournaments and sleeping on the beach just because you can. Meeting new people, kissing without the expectation of anything more, your stomach flip-flopping over whether he’ll text you the next day.…”

  “So, not nice dinners followed by 20/20? No neatly hanging your clothes up in the closet and lining your shoes up by the bed before slipping between the pressed sheets trying not to get them wrinkled?”

  We both laughed.

  To be honest, I had kind of enjoyed the nice dinners and the 20/20. I thought my seventh year of marriage was amazing, blissful even. Wagner was old enough that having a child wasn’t super stressful anymore. Greg was making money, which made him feel like I wasn’t the sole breadwinner. ClickMarket was up 20 percent in the first quarter, and I felt like my meticulously edited staff was the dream team. Our friends were fun. The living was easy.

  And then the storm broke. Seven years and eight months into the marriage, and he didn’t love me anymore. They call it the seven-year itch for a reason.

  I looked down at my pedicured but unpolished toes, nauseated at the mere thought of dipping them back into the dating pool. I sighed. The cellulite-blasting exercises in my Self.com e-mail that morning ran through my mind. “It has only been sixteen months. That’s not that long.”

  “Sixteen months?” Marcy put her finger in her ear and wiggled it around as though she couldn’t possibly be hearing this properly. “Sixteen months? I’ve heard after a year you go into spontaneous menopause. Your reproductive organs give up and you get chin hair and it’s over.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh, which was something Marcy had been good for since the day we met. The day my now almost ex-husband, Greg, and I closed on our beach house five years ago, Marcy came by with a measuring cup in her hand.

  “You need sugar?” I’d asked.

  “No,” she replied. “Vodka.”

  I knew right then and there that this girl and I were going to get along just fine.

  “Weird that I’ve decided to get married the year you’ve decided to get unmarried,” Marcy said. “You’d probably have way more time for me now.”

  I nearly choked. “What? You didn’t tell me you met someone!”

  She waved her hand as if that was a small detail. “Oh, I haven’t. But I’ve decided I need to get married this year so I can have two kids before I’m thirty-six.”

  “Why thirty-six?”

  She shrugged. “Just what has always been in my head.”

  I was getting ready to say how impractical that seemed. But Marcy, with legs up to her neck, her perky strawberry-blond ponytail, and not even a sign that a wrinkle was planning to visit her face, would probably find a husband in record time. Plus she was smart and fun and cool. Perfect wife material. If she weren’t my best friend, I might have been jealous of her.

  “One problem,” I said. “Haven’t you kind of dated everyone around here who’s even an option?”

  There were only so many men in Cape Carolina.

  “Yeah,” she said. “But I figure every eligible bachelor from Raleigh east will be here at some point this summer. So my plan is basically to work even less than normal and spend every spare moment man hunting.” She ran her hand through her ponytail. “I’ll need a sidekick.”

  I laughed, even though my brain had moved on to my to-do list for the day: Check with marketing to see if the banners are ready for the Design Influencers Conference. Schedule a lunch with the CFO of Glitter. Whittle my unread e-mails to below 250. Sign Wagner up for basketball camp. Send last month’s profit-and-loss statements to my attorney. I lifted my stainless water bottle and clinked it with Marcy’s. “To husband hunting,” I said. “But just so you know,” I added, “husband hunting for me is the last thing I ever want to do again.”

  We turned as we reached the row of brightly colored houses that was our halfway point.

  I had heard—especially from my sister, Quinn—that I should stick my marriage out so Wagner could have as normal a life as possible. The problem is, when your husband walks out that door, there’s not one thing you can do about it. Greg was fully immersed in the pleasure zone that was Brooke. I probably should have paid more attention earlier, but when you’re growing a media empire and trying to be supermom, it’s easy to become caught up in your path to success.

  “It’s a good thing you’ve stayed hot,” Marcy said, getting me out of my thoughts.

  I looked at her doubtfully.

  As we reached the pool deck again, Marcy refilled our water bottles from one of the large coolers all around the pool while I spread towels on a pair of matching teak loungers for us, folding my cover-up neatly at the bottom of mine. Returning from the cooler, Marcy raised her eyebrows and pointed toward my bathing suit bottoms. “What is that?”

  I shrugged. “What do you mean?”

  “What’s with the high-waisted bikini bottom? You hate those.”

  “Yeah… but they’re in, right?” She looked at me skeptically, and I laughed. “Okay. You caught me.” I looked around and then whispered, “It covers my ringworm.”

  Marcy’s mouth hung open. “Ew. Ew. And again, ew.”

  “Wagner found a stray puppy that ended up belonging to one of our neighbors. We gave him back, but not before he gave Wagner ringworm. And Wagner gave it to me.”

  “Oh my word. I’m rethinking having kids.”

  I nodded. “Yup. They’re vile little beings. He’s lucky he’s cute.” I felt a lump forming in my throat. I cleared it to keep myself from crying. How was I possibly going to make it three weeks without him?

  “Are you sure that’s what it is?”

  I smiled. “I was certain I had some late-onset STD from Greg, so I ran directly to the doctor. He was pretty amused by the whole thing.”

  “I guess that would have been worse,” Marcy said. “But just barely,” she added under her breath.

  I couldn’t help but smile as I caught a glimpse of Andrew, who was opening the gate, out of the corner of my eye. He was even cuter than he’d been earlier, if that was possible, with a line of sweat around his slightly wavy brown hair. I tried to ignore my racing heart as he approached.

  “It’s just a drink,” he said, shrugging. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  I adjusted my ponytail. “You’re sweet, Andrew, but I’m really trying not to be that stereotypical divorcée.”

  He grinned. “So you won’t go out with me because of your reputation, but you still think I’m a fox?” He flashed that dimple at me. “Okay, how about this? I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Yeah, Gray,” Marcy chimed in, clearly amused. “Just give him a chance.”

  I shot her a warning look.

  “Fine. One drink. Next week. But you may not take me anywhere even decently nice where I would know a single person.”

  He laughed. “Oh, believe me, I know just the place.”

  When he was out of earshot, Marcy clapped approvingly. “Why would you throw all that hotness at some eighteen-year-old who’s too drunk to even appreciate those sexy diagonal ab lines peeking over his shorts?”

  “He had his shirt on, Marcy.”

  She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “Yeah, but you know they’re there.” She sighed. “Just think, Gray. You two can date for a couple of years, get married, have another baby with those dimples and your eyes. It’s all so dreamy.”

  “I’m having one drink with him and that’s it,” I said unconvincingly. Weren’t you practically required to have a few inappropriate flings in the midst of a divorce? “But get serious. It’s not like I’m going to marry the guy, Marce.”

  She pulled her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and peered at me from underneath her hat. “Famous. Last. Words.”

  diana: some kind of home

  I’ve had the same nightmare since I was eleven years old. It doesn’t matter that I’m forty now. Every time I’m too stressed or worried, that nightmare sneaks up on me. And the worst part i
s that, yeah, it’s a dream. But it also happened. I had to live that mess.

  The nightmare always starts with Charles talking. Charles, he’s the oldest, bless his sweet soul. Charles, then Elizabeth, then me, then Phillip. He was only fourteen when it happened. Elizabeth was thirteen. I was eleven. Phillip was ten. Irish twins. That’s what they called Phillip and me.

  We were used to being alone. Damn used to it.

  Momma had had Charles when she was sixteen. Her parents had thrown her out on the street when they found out she was pregnant, and, as you could probably guess, she didn’t make real good choices after that either. Not a one of us knew who our daddy was. Poor Charles, when she was out gallivanting around town doing God only knows what with God only knows who, he’d be trying to figure out something to feed us for dinner, usually cereal. He was just a kid, so young, so handsome, living in the projects and trying to take care of his brother and sisters.

  Now, Elizabeth, tiny little thing, she didn’t look a day over ten even though she was thirteen, but, thank the good Lord, she couldn’t stand a mess. She was always trying to get the house straight when Momma was gone or laid up on the couch. Even once Momma left, she washed up all our clothes every day and made me take a bath so we’d look clean for school.

  “That’s the most important thing,” Charles would say. “None of our teachers can know that Momma’s gone.”

  Pretending didn’t seem real hard to me since it’d taken us a good week to figure that Momma was gone gone. She was in the habit of disappearing now and then, leaving us alone for a couple days.

  “Should we call the police or something?” Elizabeth had asked.

  Now, Phillip, he was just sitting over in the corner, real quiet and scrunched up, while me and Elizabeth and Charles got this stuff straight. We knew Phillip wasn’t quite like the rest of us, but we didn’t have a name for it yet.

  “Yeah,” I’d said. I missed my momma so bad. Oh, I’ll never forget that emptiness way down deep in my soul. She was kind of crazy and she had a habit of running off, but she loved us kids. When she was around she took the best care of us in the whole world. She’d pile us all up in her bed and read library books. She’d try to pull together some sort of dinner for us to all sit around the table together and eat. She always told us how much she loved us. She really was a good momma—except the leaving us, that is. I was trying hard not to cry, but I couldn’t help it. I needed my momma. I needed her to brush my hair and hug me and tell me it would be okay.