Page 1 of Falling Backwards (The Edge of Us #1)

MAGGIE

Please, God, let Luke’s annoying ass decide to stay away from Merritt’s tonight.

The request has floated in and out of my mind a handful of times since my work shift ended and the rest of my night had permission to begin.

It was loud at first since Luke and I left the restaurant at the same time as the few other closers and he was fresh on my nerves, and then it quieted while I was at home getting ready to go out with the girls, and now it’s raising its voice again.

We’ll be at the bar very soon, and if he’s got the same idea for the night that we do, then he’ll be there soon too—if he isn’t there already.

The truth? It’s not terribly likely he’ll go somewhere else.

He and his friend know the Merritts and love their cozy bar exactly like my friends and I do; it’s their preferred socializing spot just like it’s ours.

My cheeks are warm with preemptive aggravation.

I’d say I’ve had enough of him for today, but that’s something I can say about Luke Bramhill any day.

I’ve also had quite enough of how the Uber driver’s air vents have been blasting hellfire into the cabin of the car.

I know we’re in the last few days of October and we’ve seen some cold weather, but this heat hasn’t been comforting to me.

It’s been making me feel like I can’t breathe.

I finally decide to ask him to lower the setting, but I get drowned out.

In addition to the music playing, he and Joy are chatting away in the front seat about the picture of his kids that’s taped between two vents.

If she’s as uncomfortable with the heat as I am, she’s doing a stellar job of ignoring it—but of course she is, because she absolutely loves kids.

And for better or worse, she’s pretty young at heart herself, so it’s kind of hard to talk over her when she’s animated about something.

It’s hard for me, that is.

Emma doesn’t have trouble with it.

But she’s been lost in thought for the last couple minutes and she also likes being warm, so she’s just quietly hanging out here in the back seat with me, letting pink-haired Joy be her bubbly self, not interjecting anything I can piggyback off of.

At least we aren’t cramped back here, I guess.

That would be even worse.

And honestly, the trip from our apartment building to Merritt’s isn’t very long, so we’ll be out of the car in…well, we’ve just passed Mellow Burger, so about a minute.

Mmm.

I would really love some of their spicy fries right now.

That place isn’t one of our favorite eateries for no reason.

This is Friday night, though, and Friday nights are reserved for the bar owned by the couple who lives across the hall from us.

Plus, it’s always extra important that we go there after a long or frustrating workday, which today was for all three of us.

The scrape on my left hand stings like it’s waking up from an hours-long nap, ready to be mad again.

I sigh as I recall stupid Luke’s stupid laughter.

If he ends up at Merritt’s tonight, I—

“You ladies back there have any kids of your own?”

I drop the involuntary Luke-wrought scowl from my face.

Emma finally breaks her silence. “Nope.”

“Aw. Well, they can be a handful, but being a parent is also fun. Kids are hilarious.”

The driver chuckles.

“I’m sure you three will understand someday when—”

“Why are you sure of that?”

she cuts in right as I think, Ah, that’s gonna get her full attention.

“You’ve been a fine driver, okay, which we appreciate ’cause way too many people don’t take vehicles seriously, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t let you know it’s rude to make assumptions about a person’s future as a parent. I don’t know where society got the idea that it’s cool to be like, ‘When are you gonna have kids?’ or, ‘Someday when you have kids, blah, blah,’ but it’s not cool. It’s irritating and uncomfortable for a lot of people.”

A brief slant of white streetlight illuminates her gesturing at herself, me, and Joy.

“What if none of us can get pregnant?”

she goes on.

“What if we have trauma you don’t know about? What if we don’t even want—?”

“Okay, yes. Absolutely.”

The driver is nodding almost desperately.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m so sorry.”

Pretty sure I can feel his blush from back here.

Poor guy, I think, though I agree with Emma’s point. I know her assertiveness often rubs people one wrong way or another. She isn’t mean, but she isn’t made of sugar like Joy is, nor is she wont to be quietly polite like I am.

An advantage to her mini rant: the driver’s embarrassment seems to be what gets him to finally turn the heater down.

“Well, anyway,”

Joy resumes from the front seat, her tone blithe.

“You said your little girl is dressing up as a veterinarian for Halloween? That’s the sweetest thing!”

Now that my discomfort can abate, I’m able to pay a bit more attention to everyone else.

Emma is back to being in her head, which is turned to her window; I have a feeling she’s dwelling on the promotion she lost to her boss’s daughter today.

She’ll talk more about it later, I know, so I tune in to Joy saying the three of us are just going to watch scary movies at home this year.

Then she goes on to reminisce about us dressing up as the Powerpuff Girls more than once when we were younger.

Yes, even if my stomach still wants Mellow Burger, the rest of me wants to be tucked into any one of the familiar booths at the bar with my best friends in the world—the only family I have left around here, really, with my parents now living across the country.

Even potentially having to see Luke again today can’t get in the way of how much I love my friends.

Beneath my bangs, a faint itch stirs in the rough old scar that slants through my left eyebrow.

‘It doesn’t make you ugly,’ skips through my mind, an echo of a once-kind voice that went well with once-soft blue eyes.

I tangle my fingers together in my lap.

Sometimes I still find myself tracing that scar, more than merely remembering tidbits of my very first conversation with Luke.

But I traced it most often after that nice junior-year beginning of ours took a nosedive; it was something of a habit I fell into after the thought of him started hurting like hell.

These days, there’s more annoyance between us than anything else, so I’m better about ignoring the urge to touch the place I was only not self-conscious of for that short time when I was sixteen.

When I was made to feel like it and the scar farther down on my neck weren’t as horrible as I believed by a boy whose interest I never dreamed I’d gain.

Decide not to go to the bar tonight, I silently will him.

Maybe he really won’t go.

Maybe there is a chance of that.

We don’t see him and Paxton there every time we go.

It’s true that he wouldn’t hang out at another bar, but he may have chosen to relax from today’s chaotic work hours at home.

I’m pulled from my thoughts by the gentle movement of the car coming to a stop.

Nice.

Cautious driving is extremely important to me.

Emma was right a minute ago when she said our driver has been a good one to ride around with.

Among other things, I appreciate him not being hard on his brakes and throwing us against the straps of our seatbelts just now; the same could not be said for a lady we rode with a week or two ago.

Although I didn’t do much listening to his chat with Joy after all, I do hear him apologizing again for assuming we’ll all be mothers someday.

Emma says.

“Live and learn. Thanks.”

Then she gets out of the car.

Joy adds.

“Yeah, it’s okay! Thank you so much for your kindnesses! We hope you have a great night!”

A quick scan around tells me nothing is being left behind here in the back seat.

I also inspect Joy while she climbs out into the orange glow of the streetlight, careful not to bump the white silk flower barrettes tucked into her messy pink curls; I see her purse on her shoulder and her phone in her hand.

We’re good to go.

“Thank you,”

I tell the driver myself.

Briefly, he looks unsure of whether I’m going to mention the motherhood thing. When I don’t, he just smiles and says.

“Thank you.”

I give him a little smile, too, and hurry along.

Momentarily, my friends and I are approaching the inviting wooden double doors that stand between us and what will hopefully be a relaxing night.

“Woo!”

Joy whoops. She half-turns back to me and pats at her barrettes.

“How are my pretties, Maggie?”

“Pretty,”

I confirm.

“Yay! And that sweater looks super cute on you, and Em looks stylishly badass in her jacket!”

We chuckle at her enthusiasm.

Emma’s jacket is a short black leather one and she does look awesome in it.

I love my chunky dark green sweater; it’s a pretty color, and I’ve felt most comfortable in shape-concealing clothing for a while now.

And, of course, Joy is a sweet sight in one of her many dresses—a gray wool one, currently.

Once we’re through the doors and enveloped in the warmth of the front area, I turn my attention to pulling out my phone so I can tip the Uber driver.

The other girls are better at claiming tables for us than I am.

But mere moments after we enter the large main room, even with my focus on the app, I’m touched by the sense that there’s a pair of eyes watching me.

I blow a raspberry, only glancing up to ensure I’m still following my friends.

Merritt’s has a few different types of seating options, and they kind of ripple outwards from where the bar itself commands the center of the room:

there are the usual stools, then tall tables spread out from those, then four-seater booths along the walls and even bigger rounded ones in the corners.

Tonight we end up in a wall booth, which is exactly what I’d hoped for; me working as a hostess at a popular classy restaurant in town means that sitting in one of these cushioned seats instantly feels good after the day I had on my feet.

Soon, with our Uber business taken care of, our butts comfortable, and our drinks ordered, we’re ready to kick back.

Joy announces.

“It is snack o’clock!”

She reaches for the skinny menu book on the table. We didn’t need to consult it for our beverages, but there are so many good bar food choices in there that we usually spend a minute perusing.

“Hmm,”

Emma muses from beside her.

“I want something cheesy.”

“Mmm,”

I hum in agreement. The pretzel bites come with a beer cheese dip that’s pretty good.

Joy looks over the menu wordlessly but not motionlessly.

She tends to do a little decision dance when she’s mulling over options, food-related or otherwise.

It can be a side-to-side step, or a willowy wiggle, or a cha-cha sort of thing. Right now, she’s moving her shoulders up and down to the music playing from the ceiling.

Oh, hey, it’s the song from when Kat and Patrick have their paintball fight on 10 Things I Hate About You.

“We need to watch this movie again soon,”

Emma remarks as that exact thought forms in my head.

Joy doesn’t pause her decision dance or even take her eyes off the menu, just adds a nod to her shoulder movements. “Sure do!”

“Yep,”

I say.

“Em, you’re due for some drooling over Heath Ledger.”

She turns her eyes heavenward.

“Ah, His Gorgeousness. Rest in peace, my love.”

Joy and I chuckle, but she exchanges a knowing look with me.

Celebrities and fictional guys are the only ones Emma truly speaks fondly of, and while it can get pretty funny, we wish the root of it could be tended to.

She claims to be fine with only having casual physical things with real-life guys, and we think that’s true to an extent, but we know she deserves closure from the heartache she went through a few years ago—

the heartache she still carries with her, tucked away beneath her tough exterior.

She deserves the chance to be fully happy and to not have to be guarded.

But we don’t bring it up.

We typically try to let her come to us with anything involving Graham.

Plus, there’s also no doubt that after her workday, thinking about him would put her in a terrible mood, which would put us in one too. So no.

Instead, Joy says.

“Okay, you two, look at this menu!”

She puts it in the middle of the table where Emma and I can both see it.

Before I can read the first thing on the list, I feel again like I’m being looked at.

This time, I glance up and slightly to the right, towards a good chunk of the room, to see if I’m imagining….

Ugh.

My stomach does the weird thing it often does, for one reason or another, when I’m around Luke: part twist and part leap and part fall.

Of course, all he does is blink at me from across the way, looking as cool as ever where he and Paxton are in a booth like ours on the next wall.

His dark hair is a cool, slightly curly mess on his head.

I know his eyes are a cool, misleadingly pleasant shade of blue.

His expression, the way he’s relaxed against the wall with his forearm on the table, and the pushed-up long sleeves of his dark shirt are all cool.

But no matter how he looks, I know he’s not excited to see me, because I’m not excited to see him. It has been a mutual feeling since I started working with him at Lucent ten months ago.

We may have spent several post-high-school years happily doing our own things, determined to leave the mess of us in the past, but nothing zombifies old hostility like having to be near the person who wounded you.

“I’d ask who Maggie’s looking so hard at,”

comes Emma’s amused voice.

“but why bother?”

I pull my gaze back to my own business and the menu I’m supposed to be studying.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Nah, I’m sorry to interrupt. You and Bramhill like to try to glare each other into ash, and you know I’m always rooting for you to figure out how to win.”

Joy giggles.

After a moment, I let a smile through.

“Okay, well…”

I refocus on our food choices.

“…snacks….”

By the time our server comes with our drinks, we’ve decided on mozzarella sticks and the pretzel bites with cheese dip, plus a side of mustard for me. We place the order and then start sipping.

Ah, yes. Mojito with extra lime. My favorite.

The girls audibly feel the same way about their margaritas—original for Emma, raspberry for Joy.

“Hell yeah,”

the former says.

“That’s better already.”

It sure is.

“Today was so dumb,”

Joy complains.

“I know,”

Emma groans.

“You go first, Em. Tell us about the promotion.”

Emma closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“I can’t believe I didn’t get it. I really thought it was mine. Really thought I’d proved myself.”

I shake my head in displeasure as Joy lays a hand on her shoulder and says.

“You should’ve gotten it. You earned it. You did everything right.”

I add.

“Your boss was totally unfair to favor her daughter over you. Tatum didn’t do anything but reap the benefits of other people’s work.”

Joy nods. “Exactly!”

Emma drops her hand and frowns at us in sharp agreement.

“Y’all are so right. When Belinda made the announcement, she was all, ‘Tatum will be such an asset to our upper-level sales team! She has done nothing but impress!’ But…how? What has she done to impress the clients we’ve been working with?”

I chortle.

“Bring sparkling water to the meetings.”

Joy snorts.

“And wear short skirts to pose in while she delivers pitches!”

“Seriously!”

Emma exclaims.

“Nothing wrong with sparkling water and short skirts, but—”

“None at all,” Joy says.

“Those things are great,”

I confirm.

Emma nods.

“But that can’t be all you have going for you when you’re up for a job promotion. How do those things stand up to the work I put into our pitches?”

Joy snaps her fingers in what would be a sassy way if she weren’t so cute.

“Honey, they don’t.”

I copy her even though I’m less sassy still.

“Honey, they don’t.”

Emma snaps her fingers and nails the attitude as smoothly as a fish swims in water.

“Honey. They. Don’t.”

She tucks back her smooth brown hair as she picks up her margarita.

“But you know what? Even though I’m upset, it’s fine. Tatum can’t fake her way to success forever. Something somewhere is gonna trip her up, and the company is gonna wonder why they gave her so much responsibility.”

Joy and I are in wholehearted agreement with that, and when Emma holds her drink out toast-style, we follow suit. Our glasses clink together.

“Okay,”

she says as we bring them back to ourselves.

“it’s your turn, Joy. Tell us how dumb your day was.”

“Oh my gosh, I don’t know what it was today, but the boutique was crawling with people who were just crazy! So much attitude and drama. And we caught one group of teenage girls trying to steal jewelry, and their mamas got all upset when we contacted the police.”

She gestures to her hair.

“One of them accused me of lying about her daughter just because I have pink hair. She said I look like a hooligan she wouldn’t trust with the truth about anything!”

That gets a big laugh out of us. Joy Ritchens, a hooligan!

“I know,”

she giggles with us.

“And she wasn’t the only one to pass judgement on me ’cause of my hair. Later on, I was helping a girl pick out something cute to wear for her senior photos and she said she’d love to have colorful hair someday. Her mama butted in and was like, ‘Yeah, no. You’re going to college to make something of yourself. You need to look professional.’”

Emma scoffs.

“She said that right in front of you? Basically that you haven’t made anything of yourself ’cause of where you work?”

“Sounded like it.”

I tsk.

“How rude. You work in a clothes store because you think it’s fun and you might wanna have a place of your own someday. Not because you can’t do anything else.”

Nodding slowly, Joy gets her straw to her lips.

“Mmhmm. And besides her slighting me, she all but told her daughter what she is and isn’t allowed to do with her own appearance.”

Emma nods too.

“I mean, there probably are some careers that demand you look a certain way—like, if you work for the FBI or a school—”

“But if she wants to own her own business or do something that’s creative in any way—”

“Yeah, exactly. And it’s cool if the girl does dream of a fancy job and looking snazzy, but who says you can’t be snazzy and have your hair dyed a fun color? Man, if she gets to be our age and decides she wants pink hair like the sweet employee at Charm Life Boutique….”

Emma nudges Joy, who lifts her shoulders and smiles cutely.

I finish.

“Then she should have that right.”

“Sure should.”

“Definitely should!”

Joy agrees.

She tells us a bit more about her work shift. It should have ended at nine when the boutique closed, but it ran forty-five minutes late.

When she says.

“All right, Maggie, complain about your day now,”

I’m able to sum up my own work shift pretty quickly.

I count the highlights off on my fingers.

“One of the other hostesses booked three large reservations at overlapping times, which we aren’t supposed to do. Two of them were wedding engagement parties, so the guests got drunk, and our assistant manager didn’t do a good job of containing them. And Luke scared me one time when I was leaving the bathroom, which made me jump and stumble and bang my hand into the wall—that rustic wood wall, you know?”

Now I hold out my left hand and show where the wall scraped me…and, once again, I remember Luke laughing at me.

Joy’s interest in my injury keeps me from focusing on those aggravating moments. She leans forwards to inspect the reddened place, her brow furrowed with worry.

Emma says.

“Ouch. And three big reservations overlapping? Jesus. Who let that happen?”

“We figure it was the new girl,” I answer.

“Oh. Yeah, probably. No one who knew better would’ve booked the place up like that.”

I nod. It’s a fair assumption.

Joy finally leans back from my scrape and unzips her purse.

“Hey, I think I have a Band-Aid.”

I lift my drink for a sip while Emma says what I’m thinking again.

“Big enough to cover that whole scrape?”

She peers into Joy’s purse.

“I think so! I try to keep an assortment since you never know when you might need a big one or a little round one or—”

“Ahem!”

comes with movement at my shoulder.

I jump in fright and my fingers let go of my glass. I gasp and cringe as ice-cold mojito surges down my front and soaks my lap.

Familiar deep laughter bursts out at me for the second time today.

Damn it!

“Luke!”

I exclaim, fumbling my wet glass onto the table.

“What the—?”

I snap my gaze up to where he’s standing beside me. One of his hands is covering his mouth, his shoulders are shaking with laughter, and his eyes are alive with amusement.

I also pick up on how a few other people around us are looking over here and grinning widely, having seen this happen. Embarrassed heat rushes straight to my face.

Turning a glare on still-laughing Luke, I demand in a hiss.

“What the hell is your problem?”

He lowers his hand, lifts his eyebrows, and downgrades to chuckles.

“Excuse me?”

he counters.

“The hell is your problem? You’re the one who’s been clumsy today. By the way, how’s your hand?”

I don’t bother answering that last mocking question.

“I’m not clumsy. You keep sneaking up on me.”

There’s less jarring movement in the corner of my eye, so I look over to find the girls waving some napkins at me. Face burning, I accept them with one hand and start collecting ice cubes with the other.

Luke isn’t shutting up, though.

“Wow, you didn’t leave anything in the glass, did you? Good job. You must be freezing now.”

I snap.

“And you must’ve been born incapable of learning how to act. Your lack of manners is astounding.”

He shifts his weight and starts turning away.

“Ah, no big deal. You’ve learned enough manners for the both of us.”

He walks off, finally acknowledging the girls with an indifferent.

“Magnolia’s friends.”

At his use of my full name, I hurl a scowl at his retreating form. I used to love it when he called me that, but not anymore, and he knows it, which is why he does it.

I consider also hurling my empty glass at him.

How would that be for manners?

“Never a pleasure,”

Emma calls after him.

She used to be more spirited in standing up for me to him, but I’ve gotten good enough at doing it myself that she likes to sit back and let me have at it. She would definitely approve of me throwing my glass at him.

“That dude,”

she begins now.

“Is an idiot?” I supply.

“Is cute,”

Joy chirps.

“But is also an idiot,”

Emma agrees with both of us.

I scoff. Cute. Yeah, right.

I mean, yes, he is.

I mean, to tell the whole truth, he’s always been solidly good-looking to me.

‘Cute’ is as far as my friends ever went with him—differing tastes and all that—and I guess they haven’t budged on it even though it’s strange to think I, of all people, am the only one who’s noticed how good time has been to him.

He filled out over the years in a much more pleasing way than how I did.

But something else Luke has long been is gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

An itch in the middle of my back.

The sun as it sits in just the right place in the sky for the flipped-down visor in my car to be completely useless.

Seriously, what was he even doing at our table? He didn’t do or say anything worthwhile.

He just wasted time being a bother.

After I dump a handful of damp napkins on the table, Emma asks.

“You get most of it?”

I sigh.

“Yeah, but I’m gonna go to the bathroom for a minute.”

“Gotta wash your mojito hands.”

“Yeah.”

Joy says.

“Well, at least your sweater is dark and your leggings are black! You don’t look like you spilled anything, you know? And now you’re gonna smell extra-good!”

She’s right. Those are things to be glad for. I summon a smile for her as I get to my feet; she beams back cheerfully.

Love her.

Do not love that I step away from the table and have a couple of those nearby people joke about my spilled drink. Also don’t love that my brain seems to pick up on more of Luke’s laughter as I head for the bathroom.

It probably isn’t even real, though. He’d been going back across the people-filled room when he left our booth, towards his own booth, opposite where I’m going. He wouldn’t still be close enough for me to—

Someone appears in front of me, causing me to walk right smack into them. I inhale sharply and bumble backwards.

This isn’t my day, is it?

“Hey, hi,”

the guy rushes out. After a moment of focusing, I take note of sandy hair and wide, dark eyes that, indeed, do not belong to the guy I’m annoyed with.

I nod politely and give the best matching smile I can, which isn’t great, thanks to my uncomfortably wet clothes.

Another second doesn’t see him moving out of my way, so I start around him.

“Wait!”

He steps in front of me again, and my exasperation spikes.

“How are you? Okay?”

Oh. Realization arrives. He’s trying to check on me because he ran into me.

“I’m all right,”

I assure him.

It’s true. The little collision wasn’t a big deal. The only real insult I’ve suffered around here strictly involves a taller, cockier guy than this one.

Now I nod my thanks for his concern, trying not to let fresh irritation about Luke onto my face. However, it’s unavoidable when I start walking again and glance down at my sweater.

‘The hell is your problem? You’re the one who’s been clumsy today.’

Try as I might, I can’t keep those thirty seconds at the booth out of my head.

They play over and over while I stand in front of the farthest mirror in the bathroom and dry my clothes some more.

These paper towels are better than the flimsy napkins, but I still catch displeasure on my reflection’s face every time I glance up at it.

And of course I notice the pink that’s still in my cheeks.

Luke always finds a way to bring it on.

Next to my dark brown hair and light skin, it might be charming if it weren’t born of him grating my nerves.

‘You’re the one who’s been clumsy today.’

He’d probably also blame me for that other guy walking directly into my path.

I throw away the paper towels and finally get around to washing my hands, which causes the scrape on my left one to smart a bit.

Yeah, I definitely didn’t acquire that injury all by myself. He can act like I did, but I didn’t.

But you know what? This isn’t anything new from him. This is standard Luke behavior, and I don’t feel like letting him put any more of a damper on my evening than he already has.

So I finish up here and head back out…

…and although I won’t go through with it, I allow myself to daydream about sneaking to his table and startling him into spilling his own drink.