Page 10 of Falling Backwards (The Edge of Us #1)

If I had been asked to write down the top five things I thought would improve how shittily my day was going, Maggie wouldn’t have been on the list.

In fact, last night when I finally got to hang with Paxton, I followed up the story of our breakroom argument with.

“I can’t stand Maggie Moss.”

That conversation hadn’t gone as I anticipated either, though, because his response was.

“Yeah, you can.”

I raised my eyebrows so high I thought they’d leave my face.

He said.

“If you couldn’t, you’d cut her off. Quit taking the time to interact with her. Quit going places you know she’ll be.”

Despite how it felt to be called out like that, I secretly couldn’t deny he had a point. For example, I didn’t have to tease her about her ponytail missing that bit of hair.

And yet I did have to….

Even so, I told him.

“I can’t really avoid her at work.”

He conceded that but stood behind the other stuff. He said maybe I didn’t like her for years, but having to be around her at work has been a good thing, in his opinion.

“A lot of time has passed since whatever happened between you two. Life has gone on. People can mature if they’re given the chance, you know.”

I wondered if he was serious, but even kicked back on my couch with a beer in his hand, there was no sarcasm in sight.

He even brought up what I’d told him a minute before. He said.

“For all the shit between y’all, she sure was the reason you didn’t get written up by Ronald.”

Having him say it so plainly was downright annoying.

I told him I’m not going to give her full credit for that, and he laughed.

I told him I don’t need anyone to take care of me, and he laughed more.

I groaned and told him to shut up, and he told me to shut up right back.

“You did need help with that,”

he said.

“and it was Maggie who gave it. Because she’s not a total bitch. Which is why you can stand her.”

That next-to-last part in particular dug into me, but I didn’t say so. I just blinked at him as if to wordlessly ask how he could side with her instead of with me, his friend.

He laughed again.

“You ain’t gotta confess it to her, dude, but you can’t lie to me.”

I stubbornly insisted.

“Whatever, and I would’ve figured out how to fix the write-up thing myself.”

“Yeah, maybe. Or maybe not.”

We moved away from the conversation then so we could figure out a pizza order. However, it’s back with me now that I’m clocking out of my shift, no longer under the heavy heel of a bad mood and the ugly headache it brought on.

Thank God I’m feeling better.

I slept poorly again last night; if I wasn’t having stressful dreams, I was tossing and turning. When I finally gave up on trying to rest, I had the urge to go for a run outside, but I ended up freezing and sporting a leg cramp that had me cussing way too loudly for a quiet Sunday morning. Probably because I haven’t exercised in quite some time, so running was a dumb idea.

Back at home, when I checked my mail because I forgot to yesterday, I saw my dad had somehow gotten my address and mailed me a glossy card that said, ‘Happy holiday season from the Bramhills!’ It boasted a festive, smiling picture of him with his arm around my stepmother Suzanna, and in front of them stood my eight-year-old half-brother Reese. My stepsiblings Wendy and Ryan were there, too, though I doubt they still live at home since they’re very close to my age; I assume the whole family got together just for the special photo shoot.

At first, I wasn’t any more upset about the situation than usual, but the more time went on, the more shaken up I became. I felt breathless and overwhelmed, like I had been slapped and was having trouble processing it. I kept wondering why my dad thought I wanted a holiday card from him and the people he evidently grew to love more than he loved me. I’ve made it clear over the years that his actions weren’t okay with me, that I was angry with him—did he send the card to be spiteful? Or does he still, to this day, not understand what he left me with when he walked away?

There was no way to know without confronting him, and I was not going to figure out how to confront him. Though I had plenty of questions and accusations circling in my head, I didn’t want to talk to him and find out what he had to say.

All I knew was that my mood was on the ground, and it wasn’t even ten in the morning yet.

And of course the headache moved in around then. When I tried to catch a nap, it took me longer to fall asleep than I anticipated, so I kept hitting the snooze button when my alarm went off and I ended up almost being late for work. Drowsy and unhappy, I trudged my way onto the clock.

Holy hell, those first few hours were longer than long. It got to where I felt like it would hurt less to slam my head on the bar than to keep dealing with that pounding headache. Unfortunately, a guy’s gotta earn his money, so I neither risked unconsciousness nor asked to go home. I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts anyway. I just weakly crossed my fingers that there was a bit of over-the-counter magic somewhere in the building for me to fall back on.

To say Maggie’s kindness was unexpected would be a huge understatement.

I know the ibuprofen was what eased my headache, not her, but I found relief as soon as I did because she didn’t leave me to my suffering. We both knew I could have gone to the breakroom myself at some point—I truly didn’t need her help, unlike yesterday with Ronald, I’ll finally admit. But she still showed up for me.

As for the mood I was in: her kindness eased that, too, in a way. When I called the hostess stand, I was sullenly prepared for her to act the way she usually does. It was the last thing I needed, but I was willing to briefly deal with it if it would result in headache relief. As it turned out, all that happened was…she cared.

She wasn’t rigid or bossy or annoying at all.

I had a hard time thanking her in such clear terms, but I was thankful.

Confused, too, obviously. My compliance with her help confused me as much as her offer of help did. You’d think the mood I was in today would’ve put my patience at zero and made me even snappier when she tried to be nice. Wasn’t I supposed to be aggravated with her butting into my business and not leaving me to deal with my own problems?

I guess the opposite was true instead—I didn’t have the energy to be snappy and aggravated.

…Maybe that’s why she wasn’t snappy or aggravated either?

In any case, Paxton’s words about her were flickering in my mind even then. He had spoken of her not being the literal worst, of me not actually loathing her, of people being capable of maturing.

Currently, I fix my gaze on the eye-catching hostess stand as I make my way to the front entrance. I’m not working until closing time, but she is. As if relaxed, she’s leaning forwards with one elbow on the stand and her chin in her hand, studying something on the iPad lying in front of her.

She isn’t relaxed for real, though. For one thing, she doesn’t know how to be that at work. For another thing, while she hasn’t been cold to me since she brought me the ibuprofen, she has been determined not to look at me straight. I’ve noticed that. And I’ve felt the tension in her shoulders as if it were my own.

In fact, when I pass close enough to the stand that my presence can’t possibly go unnoticed by her attentive brain, she’s careful to move her eyes from the iPad to my shoes instead of right up to my face. Even though they do trail upwards, they seem to only make it to where my coat is draped over my arm. Then she slips a fingertip beneath her bangs, folds her bottom lip into her mouth, and refocuses on the iPad.

It’s not the same kind of, ‘I’m ignoring you,’ behavior that I’ve occasionally gotten from her in the past. This kind almost seems shy.

Been years since I last saw the shy side of her.

I take a slow breath, then finally take my eyes off her so I can walk out into the cold evening.

Not for the first time, I think to myself that her kindness towards me probably surprised and confused her too.

—

“Quite a dinner you’ve got there,”

says a playful female voice from my left.

As I dig my wallet out of my pocket, I look over to see if I’m the one being spoken to. It seems I am—the pretty redheaded girl at the self-checkout stall next to mine is lifting her chin at the items I’ve just scanned. I, too, glance at the package of gummy worms I came here for and the big box of frozen eggrolls I decided I want to spend my unexciting Halloween night with.

Then I look at her again. Notice that she seems to be thinking I’m good-looking too.

Pleasing though that is, a longer look at her face has a very different one drifting into my mind and distracting me. Again.

“Yeah,”

I reply, managing a courteous smile.

“One of the many perks of being an adult, huh? I can eat whatever I want.”

“Well, you can get away with the candy since it’s Halloween, but yes, being an adult is the best.”

She winks and skips another look over me.

I let out a light laugh, then get back to paying for my stuff.

Part of me thinks I’m a fool for not continuing to talk to her. She’s friendly, attractive, and clearly interested to some degree.

The rest of me thinks of Maggie.

Who the hell knows why. She and I are way over, and one calm conversation between us does not a reconciliation make. Not that I’d want one anyway.

But I can’t help it: even though I’m not standing here pining for Maggie, a moment spent imagining where my current random conversation could lead doesn’t get me itching to find out for real. It only brings back how quietly Maggie said, ‘You’re welcome,’ to me earlier today when her eyes were all over me.

Yeah, I don’t know why, but that last little half-look she gave me before I left work is taking up more space in my head than the flirty look this girl just gave me.

But that’s another perk of being an adult, right? I don’t have to talk to anybody I don’t want to talk to, and it doesn’t matter why I don’t want to.

Well, really, that’s true for people of any age, but whatever. I’m going with it here and now.

As I’m retrieving my receipt and bag of items, I hear the girl taking a breath like she’s going to say something else. I turn my eyes to her and see she’s stepping towards me with her own bagged purchase in hand, the beginnings of a suggestion of some kind on her face.

“Bye,”

I tell her politely.

“Have a good Halloween.”

She pauses in place, her mouth half-open. After a second, her expression shifts into disappointed curiosity.

“Okay, bye,”

she says.

“Enjoy your dinner candy.”

“Certainly.”

Only after I’ve gone on my way do I think she might have shifted into making fun of me with that parting comment.

Not like I care. Especially since it wouldn’t have been anywhere near the worst insult a girl has ever sent my way.

Once upon a time, a certain girl even took it upon herself to post flyers all over our school to anonymously yet publicly spread embarrassing lies about me…as well as one truth that hurt way worse than any of the made-up things did, because I never dreamed she would use my deepest pain against me.

I wonder if I’ll ever get over that.

I wonder if there will ever come a day when thinking back on it doesn’t bring up the burn of betrayal.

Or the sting of sadness.

Or the rush of regret.

The quiet thoughts have me loudly clearing my throat.

I wish it were so—that the memories wouldn’t bother me so much, I mean. I’m not sure how it could happen, though. Whether or not Maggie has been around me over these last several years, what went on between us has at best lingered somewhere in the shadowy back of my mind, never truly gone away. At worst, it has dominated my thoughts to the point that it heated my blood or churned my stomach or left me shaky.

What can be done about it?

How can this whole thing be resolved when we hurt each other in ways that can’t be forgotten, much less undone?

—

“Okay, seriously?”

I say impatiently, eyebrows lifting.

“It. Does. Not. Matter. That I have my phone in my pocket instead of stashed in a locker.”

“Not if you’re waiting on news about an emergency,”

Maggie agrees.

“Are you waiting on news about an emergency?”

“Nope,”

I try to reply blithely, but I don’t really succeed. I’m annoyed that she’s bothering me about this.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised about it, but I can’t lie: part of me had kind of wondered if our last real work conversation—the one about the ibuprofen—was some indication that we’re capable of being halfway nice to each other. Especially since I was off yesterday and didn’t see her at all, which meant there was an extra bit of padding between that encounter and today’s fresh chance to step on each other’s toes again. I wasn’t holding my breath or anything, but that part of me did wonder….

Then a minute ago, she came into the breakroom as I was getting ready to leave it and she somehow noticed I didn’t put my phone in my locker like I’m supposed to. She promptly had things to say about it.

Now she makes a huffy sound and brings me out of my thoughts. I see she’s got her arms crossed and her eyes on the ceiling, like she’s searching for the right way to put her irritation with me into words.

Seeming to sense me looking at her, she drops her eyes to me and shakes her head.

“How long has this been going on?”

she asks.

“Was there ever a time that you did what you’re supposed to do or have you always had this disregard for—?”

“Chill out.”

I start walking so I can use my last minute or two of break to get settled at the bar again.

“You are way too upset about this.”

She scoffs.

“No, I’m not too upset. How is what you’re doing fair to those of us who follow the rules?”

I slow to a stop again, happening to be close enough to her now that I can hear the little tremble in her breathing. I could laugh. ‘I’m not too upset,’ my ass—she’s starting to do that thing where she gets so frustrated with me that it has her short of breath. It’s like her body wants her to remain composed and softspoken like Maggie Moss naturally is, but her distaste for me is clawing its way to the surface, so her lungs get put to work trying to find balance.

I don’t bring that up.

“I’m not doing any harm by having my phone on me. My work still gets done and my customers still get taken care of. I just like to be able to fill in the downtime with some quick texts or whatever.”

I gesture at her.

“I mean, how big of a deal could it be, Maggie, when you’ve never even caught me on my phone? God knows you’ve got eagle eyes when it comes to finding shit you think I should or shouldn’t—”

“You should do the right thing whether someone else is looking or not.”

I roll my eyes.

“It’s not like this is actual scummy behavior! I’m not a scumbag!”

“But you’re breaking employee rules for no good reason! There’s usually something else that can be done in your downtime, another task that can be taken care of! And, what, do you think I wouldn’t like to be able to text my friends when I get bored? Why do you get to do it and I don’t?”

I give her a quizzical look.

“Uhhhh, you could do it if you wanted to. You have free will.”

“I also have the responsibility of following rules that—”

Lifting clenched fists, I whisper emphatically.

“It’s not a very important rule!”

“It’s still something we’re supposed to respect! When we’re on the clock, we’re supposed to tend to our responsibilities, not check Facebook or—”

“I don’t have a Facebook account. I hate the fact that they—”

“Okay, cool, I don’t have one either, but that’s not the point I’m trying—”

“Look, I’m so aware of what your point is, it feels like a pencil going through my eye.”

Silence falls while she stares at me, appalled.

I stare back in total seriousness.

“I’m not that bad,”

she defends herself.

“You annoy the hell out of me,”

I inform her.

“Something else we have in common, then,”

she snaps now.

That has amusement flaring to life in me.

“What? You annoy the hell out of yourself? Is that what you just said?”

The heavy drop of her shoulders pulls her body into a familiar stance, and she fixes a flat look on me.

Oh, good God.

I can’t help flicking an absorbing look over her, temporarily less concerned with what we were talking about. I cannot help it.

Those eyes show me the shift in her mood: she’s done with our whole conversation.

She starts walking to finally go about her own business, and she says sarcastically.

“Have fun being a rule-breaker.”

“Ah, that is not the insult you think it is.”

As I resume going on my way, too, I know I could check the clock on the wall for the time, but instead I pull my phone from my pocket and wave it over my shoulder, just in case she’s looking.

“By the way, I’m late getting back to the bar because you insisted on being the employee handbook police. Who’s the irresponsible one now?”

My ears pick up on a scoff and the sputters of her trying to formulate a retort, but I’m out of the room before she lands on one.

Shortly, I wonder if the air out here in the rest of Lucent is actually cooler than in the breakroom or if arguing with Maggie just gets me that heated.

Either way, it’s a plain fact that no one else I’ve ever met has been able to make me feel the way she makes me feel. No one else gets under my skin the way she does.

But it brings me a peculiar sense of comfort to know she’s burdened by the same thing with me.