Free Falling

Chapter 3-2

“Aargh!” I kick the cement base of the bus stop bench. The woman sitting on the bench—who’s been ignoring me since I stalked up to the bus stop—shoots me a dirty look.

“Sorry,” I mumble, apologizing to both her and my throbbing foot. I hobble around to where she’s sitting. “What time does the 5:15 bus usually get here?”

The old woman pulls her sweater up on her shoulders and without a trace of humor, says, “5:15.”

I bite my lip and count to ten. My mouth has already done enough damage for the day. Besides, neither the woman nor the bench have anything to do with how I’m feeling. This is all about Christopher. He and I were inseparable during our sophomore and junior years in high school. When we weren’t at school, we were at Cecelia’s. I can’t believe he’s been back in Pointe Hill and didn’t tell me. I can’t believe he called Cecelia’s a mess. And I can’t believe I still care.

By the time the bus arrives, the air around me is charged with the electricity of an incoming storm and the current of my own anger. The bus is packed with a mix of Friday evening commuters and students eager to start the weekend. There are no available seats, so I stand by the back door and press my forehead against the cool window just as the plinking of raindrops begin on the bus’s metal roof.

Christopher is back in Pointe Hill.

I close my eyes. It’s not that I never imagined seeing him again. Hell, I’ve written, directed, and starred in that scene a thousand times. Christopher would see me across a crowded room, and his jaw would drop. I would be sharp, sophisticated, and successful. I would be the Laura Winslow to his Steve Urkel, the Penny to his Leonard. What I would not be was wearing an old T-shirt over a sports bra that made my boobs look like a caged pool noodle.

My phone buzzes and I grab it, checking the screen before answering. “Hey, cuz.”

“Where are you?” my cousin, Iris, asks.

“On my way home.”

“I guess things didn’t go too well with Eubanks.”

I roll my eyes. “How long did it take before your BFF called you to snitch on me?”

My mother and her only niece are close. Even more so since Dad’s death a little less than a year ago. It bugs me when Mom confides in Iris, and then I feel guilty about it. And that bugs me, too.

“Your mother is just worried about you. The way she tells it, you stormed out of the restaurant like a bat out of, well, she didn’t say hell, but she wanted to.”

“I had to do something. She sure wasn’t going to. Anyway, Simone’s still coming by the restaurant tomorrow for the tasting, right?”

Simone is Iris’s new boss at Solstice, the event management company where Iris works. A few weeks ago, Iris arranged it so that Cecelia’s would get the catering contract for a few of Solstice’s smaller events. Everything had been “cook and curry,” as my mother would say. Or it had been until Simone took over day-to-day management of the firm.

Iris grunts. “She’ll be there. I still can’t believe Garrett is retiring. Simone might be his daughter, but event planning sure isn’t in her DNA. She couldn’t plan a successful U-turn. But he’s determined to hand over the reins of his company to her, so—”

“But we are going to get the gig, right?”

“Simone coming tomorrow is a formality. Garrett loves you. Anyway, it’s bad enough I have to talk to her when I’m in the office. I don’t want to talk about her when I’m not there. How’d it go with Eubanks?”

“Not good. Bad, actually.” I run a finger through the condensation on the bus’s window. “I signed the lease.” I hold the phone away from my ear, but I can still hear Iris yelling.

“Are you crazy?”

“Not crazy, just desperate,” I say, still holding the phone at arm’s length in case of another outburst. “Sometimes they’re one and the same.”

“And that’s what I’ll have them put on your tombstone after your mother kills you.”

“Don’t start planning my funeral. Yet. You home?”

“Just walked through my front door.”

“I’m only a couple blocks away from your place. Listen, Iris, there’s more, and it’s bad.”

“How much more and how bad?” I hear her keys land with a clink on her kitchen table.

“We’re going to need tequila.”

“It’s tequila bad?”

I sigh. “They’re back.”

“Who’s back?”

The bus stops, and I step out of the way as the door opens to let on more passengers. “Christopher is back in Pointe Hill.” After a couple of seconds, I add, “And so is Jason.”

The silence on the other end of the line goes on for so long I wonder if the call dropped. “Iris, you still there?”

“s**t,” she finally mutters.

“I’ll be in front of your building in ten,” I say, and use my finger to erase the words I’ve written in the condensation on the window: not again.