Page 19 of Falling Backwards (The Edge of Us #1)

LUKE

I couldn’t believe how okay the first day of my and Maggie’s pretend relationship went.

It was strange in plenty of aspects, to be sure—we’re not used to being amicable or trusting with each other anymore—but it wasn’t bad.

The next couple days, on the other hand, felt much more familiar. At first, there was a decent bit of nothing between us. We only needed to spend a little bit of time together for work travel and none for shifts, and we didn’t have any errands to run; outside of that, we couldn’t decide whether we should go somewhere just for appearances, so we didn’t do anything at all. Then on an afternoon when we did have to spend more time around each other for work, our typical animosity burst to the surface again.

I mean, we didn’t end up considering calling off our plan or anything; neither of us was willing to dump her back into her unsettling situation to fend for herself. But were we all calm glances and idle chat? No. We argued all the way from her apartment to the restaurant because on the way out of her parking lot, I stomped on the brake to avoid hitting a car I truly hadn’t seen coming and it pissed her off.

Even though that was two days ago now, I clench my jaw just thinking about it.

She accused me of not paying attention, of course. I insisted I was paying attention—I really had no idea where that other car had come from. Were they speeding around the lot and so they seemingly appeared out of nowhere? Was it some trick of the lighting with the color of their car? I didn’t know. But Maggie got started on a true rant about how anxious she always is in cars and how it shouldn’t be hard for me to drive properly at least while she’s with me.

What pissed me off was her next accusation: that I don’t care about her anxiety or her safety.

Yeah, that’s when the fight really started. I demanded she tell me why I’d pretend to be her boyfriend to keep Kyle at bay if I didn’t give a shit about her fears or her well-being. She demanded right back that I enlighten her about how I could see the seriousness of that situation but not of driving responsibly. Which, of course, brought up the turn signal thing again. Which led to me calling her uptight, then to me criticizing her penchant for criticizing me all the damn time, then to me defending my driving yet again because I am responsible with my vehicle and I don’t care if she disagrees. Which took us back to her saying I don’t take her anxiety about cars seriously and me saying I do and that she should trust me instead of micromanaging me to insanity.

Well, that nearly tangibly resurrected her recent, ‘Oh, can I trust you?’ thing. And that memory—and all the ones it harked back to—helped nothing.

We didn’t reach a truce by the time we got to work. Didn’t chill out during our shifts—not towards each other, anyway. The last thing either of us wanted was for our bad moods to affect the job. But we found little moments for glares and surreptitious snips like, ‘Get your head out of your ass,’ and, ‘You get on my damn nerves.’

It has gotten better in the two days since then, though. I’ve had more chances to prove I’m not a bad driver. She has stopped sitting tensely enough in my passenger seat to make even my muscles tired. And we’ve been able to exchange words not loaded with vexation and insult.

This very moment, I finish cashing out a guest and catch Maggie’s eye where she waits for a couple to sit at their table here in the bar area, and the look we share could almost be called mild.

We’re not back to having an ‘okay’ day yet, but maybe soon.

Really, I guess we’re probably doing well, all things considered.

—

It’s day three after our car fight when I get out of the shower and see I’ve received a text from Maggie:

I’m still a little spooked about the parking lot thing from the other day, but I apologize for how that went. I feel like I overreacted even though I know it came from a bad experience I had that would probably stick with anyone

Simultaneously, something in me grumbles that she did overreact and something else in me murmurs that I understand and the rest of me thinks her text is a nice surprise because as I was falling asleep last night, I realized I’ve started feeling a little bad for some of the stuff I said as well.

ME: I promise it does matter to me whether you’re comfortable and safe, and I get why your fear is hard to shake. And I promise I didn’t see that car coming on in the lot even though I was watching where I was going. But I apologize too

MAGGIE: Yeah, I know you care. You really wouldn’t be helping me with Kyle if you didn’t

She types for a couple seconds, then stops, then starts again.

MAGGIE: What a situation we’ve found ourselves in

A smile tugs at my lips, a little wry, a little amused.

ME: Yep. It’s taking some getting used to

MAGGIE: It is

Another stretch of seconds in which she figures out what to say.

Then:

Thank you still

Her gratitude is something else I’m still getting used to, along with the sincerity behind what I’ve been doing to earn it.

I’m sure the same is true for her.

ME: You’re welcome still

As I get back to my night, there’s no ignoring the sense of ease that’s settling on me—or the urge to keep talking to her that I feel. I listen to both and decide to continue our conversation with chit-chat that doesn’t involve apologies for past arguments.

Another smile comes to me when she goes right along with it.

Not wry or really even amused, though, this time. Just…pleased.

—

“What?”

I ask into the phone, dumbfounded by what my dad’s sister has said.

“You gave him my address?”

“Oh, Luke, I’m sorry! I didn’t know it would bother you.”

Her remorse is pouring through instead of her previous happiness.

Just like that, our nice morning conversation takes a dive for me.

She says.

“You’ve never mentioned being really upset with him, so when he asked for your address, I just thought he’d lost the paper he wrote it on. I didn’t know he didn’t have it in the first place.”

As I pace around my kitchen, I rub at the side of my face, trying to stifle my irritation. Aunt Joni isn’t a spiteful person. I believe that she didn’t do this to be calculating.

Still, I am irritated.

There’s a reason I don’t talk about my dad with people, and it’s that I don’t like to. Would it really have been so hard for her to deduce that? Seems like she’d have thought of me being walked out on all those years ago and then thought, ‘He’s probably got some deep feelings about all that. I should try to respect them.’

“I’m sorry,”

she says again.

I know she means it, but Jesus.

“You should’ve asked me first,”

I tell her.

“A person’s address is something they should give out themselves.”

Imagine if Kyle approached an unsuspecting individual that Maggie knows and put on a friendly show about needing her address—that he wanted to surprise her with flowers or something—and then the other person was just like, ‘Oh, okay, here you go.’

That situation and mine aren’t quite the same, obviously, but still.

I go on.

“It’s bad enough that he keeps calling and texting even when I’ve made it clear I don’t wanna talk to him. Now he….”

Can send me bullshit holiday cards from him and his new family.

Can potentially drop by and force me to see him in person for the first time in years.

There’s no way around it: I feel betrayed here.

Aunt Joni apologizes again just as my phone vibrates against my ear. I pull it back and glimpse Maggie’s name at the top of a text message notification.

Since we’re going a few places today before work, I already knew this phone call couldn’t last a long time. Still, I’m probably about to sound abrupt to my aunt.

“Hey, I have to go, actually,”

I say.

“My girlfriend and I have errands to run before work, so I gotta go pick her up.”

My girlfriend. My girlfriend.

I haven’t said it out loud to anyone before now.

“Your girlfriend? Oh, how nice! I didn’t know you were seeing anyone!”

She’s trying to lighten the mood between us, and it irks me even more somehow.

“Yeah,” I mumble.

“How long have you been together?”

…Shit, we didn’t even think about that detail.

I go with a vague, “A while.”

Then I clear my throat.

“I’ll talk to you later.”

I think I hear a quiet sigh.

“Okay,”

she finally says.

“Have fun.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

“Bye-bye, dear.”

We end the call. I try not to stomp around as I get ready to leave, but it’s hard not to. It’s hard not to feel upset by this information I learned only because Aunt Joni mentioned receiving her own holiday card and I muttered about not knowing how my dad sent me one.

Who gives out someone’s address without fucking asking them first? That could go so wrong in so many ways.

On the drive to Maggie’s apartment, I also find it hard to stay out of my thoughts. I think about how much it stung to get that card, and about how my dad told me family is important during our last phone call, and about how it felt to be fifteen and hear he was marrying the woman he cheated on my mom with just a few short months prior—he was going to build a brand new life, not care about what happened to the one he left behind, be a full-time dad to two teenagers and neither of them were m—

Startled, I jerk my mind from that not only because it burns at my insides but also because an oncoming car is turning across my lane, cutting right in front of me to go to Burger King. I rush to brake while they don’t even look my way.

“Asshole!”

I yell at them and at my dad. I honk my horn for an aggravated second, but the other car has already sped away from me.

Also like my—

“Fuck off,”

I snap to my brain now.

“Shut up. I don’t wanna think about this shit anymore.”

Well, I do my best not to, but my mood doesn’t calm very much.

When I get to Maggie’s building, I slip into what is already becoming a habit: looking around to see if Kyle is lurking anywhere. He isn’t. Not in the parking lot, not in the lobby, not in the second-floor hallway she lives on.

Two minutes before the agreed-on time of ten o’clock, I knock on her door, then cross my arms and think about our plans. We’ve got some shopping to do; she said she needs workout clothes, and I decided upon waking this morning that I could use some, too, because I don’t want to completely give up on trying to exercise. I also need to replenish my laundry detergent and body wash. Lunch is probably in there somewhere. We should be able to get all that done within a couple hours, leaving us with enough time to get ready for work at one.

Except that when Maggie answers the door, her body is wrapped in a short green bathrobe and her hair is so messily bunched into the small towel in her hand that some of it is falling out, clearly wet.

She’s nowhere near ready to leave.

In fact, she looks surprised to see me.

My irritation goes up another notch.

“Oh, hi. I—uh—”

She backs away from the door, wordlessly inviting me in.

“I didn’t think you’d get here so fast. I—”

“What do you mean ‘so fast’? I’m here at ten because I said I’d be here at ten.”

I enter the apartment with a frown, thinking about how much hair she has and how long it’ll probably take to fix it.

“Did you think I wouldn’t know how to show up on time just because we don’t have work yet?”

She frowns too. “No, I—”

I groan.

“Well, please tell me you haven’t turned into the kind of girlfriend who takes a fucking eternity to get ready to go places.”

She’d just begun to shut us into the apartment, but now she stills, her frown becoming a glare. It almost looks like she’s thinking about pushing me back out the door.

“Number one,”

she says.

“you know me well enough to know I respect people’s time. Number two, it’s not my fault our hot water went out and only got fixed, like, twenty minutes ago. What are you biting my head off for?”

I glare back.

“Are you serious? I’m annoyed because you could’ve told me you got delayed so I—”

“I did!”

She cuts a disbelieving look along me, then scoffs.

“Oh, okay, Luke. Have you turned into the kind of guy who doesn’t pay attention when his girlfriend texts him?”

I start to retort—but my words wither as that last part registers with me.

All too late, I remember she did text me a little while ago, but I never….

“Shhhhit.”

I close my eyes and rub at them with the heels of my hands.

Apparently, I’m a dumbass. And now I’m even more frustrated because I’m a dumbass.

Maggie prompts, “Well?”

She sounds disappointed now, like she had faith in me being a decent fake boyfriend and then, after a mere week, she’s begun wondering if it was misplaced.

It wasn’t.

I mutter.

“No, I’m not like that—not neglectful or whatever. I was just on the phone with my aunt when you texted me, and I was upset with her, and I forgot to see what you said.”

A few moments of silence. Then she mutters back, “Ah.”

At the sound of shuffling, I drop my hands. Through the spots in my vision, I see her walking away, abandoning the nearly closed door.

I close it myself and prepare to settle in for my inevitable wait.

“What did your aunt do to upset you?” she asks.

Guess she doesn’t mind me hanging around. I’m not telling her the truth, though.

“It’s nothing.”

She stops walking again and sends another frown over her shoulder to me.

“Then why are you still carrying your bad mood around?”

As I trudge forwards, I speak as measuredly as I can.

“No offense, but it’s not your business. It’s not anyone’s business. I’ll get over it when I get over it.”

Her eyes sharpen. She turns to face me fully once more.

“Uh, how you treat me is my business. You showing up here and taking your bad mood out on me is—”

“I’m not taking it out on you. I just thought you were being a slowpoke and—”

“Yeah, because you didn’t read the message I sent because you were distracted being angry and then you decided it was appropriate to snap at me instead of ask a calm question.”

As I stop in front of her, I notice a few things: that she’s growing slightly breathless, that she smells of something faint but luscious, that the scar cutting through her left eyebrow is in plain sight with her wet hair being swept out of the way, and that I’m quite late on the apology I owe her.

The stubborn part of me doesn’t want to give it. Ridiculous, I know, since I was needlessly rude to her…but people are allowed to be in bad moods, right? Hell, we were both bad-tempered just two or three days ago and we got over that.

Because we apologized for it, whispers the other part of me, the one that’s been nagging me lately. Have you not learned your lesson? Didn’t you learn almost two weeks ago, even, after the almost-write-up, that sometimes you act immature towards her and you need to do better?

It takes me another second to realize her expression has been falling out of vehemence. However, more disappointment isn’t what’s coming up. Instead, it’s….

“Nevermind,”

she says quietly.

“You’re…you’re right.”

Curiosity touches me.

“You don’t have to share personal stuff with me. Your situations are your situations, and I’m sorry for prying.”

The unexpected shift has me holding my breath for just a second.

Also has my insides aching and burning at the same time because I wonder if she’s somehow recalling the days when me sharing personal stuff with her ultimately led to her stabbing me in the back.

“Just please try not to aim your stress at me,”

she finishes. The request isn’t snarky.

In a way, it should be. I haven’t taken responsibility for my actions. I’ve done the opposite, even—like she said, I did let my mood dictate my behavior, which she didn’t deserve.

In another way, I’m glad she’s not being snarky anymore because it means she understands that I don’t quite deserve it either. Means she respects my privacy.

This reminds me of the way I felt during one specific part of last week’s fake-dating conversation. She said I was being extremely generous to her after how she acted when we were younger, and it felt to me like she was implying that she isn’t proud of what she did.

Could it be so?

Despite what we’ve been through, I care about keeping her safe from what scares her, so could she still be on my side, too, when it comes to what causes me pain?

Does she feel regret?

I ponder it for a good few moments.

However, I don’t feel like I can ask it aloud. We outright agreed not to talk about things that could wreck our temporary truce. She betrayed my trust because I betrayed hers, and there’s still a lot of pain there. Getting into it would mean getting into an argument, and God only knows what we’d end up saying to each other.

Neither of us signed up for a trip down the road of our mistakes. We signed up for dealing with the here and now.

Which means both that I appreciate her apology for a minute ago and that it’s time to give the one I owe her.

Get back to living in the present day, Bramhill.

I say at last.

“You’re right too. I’m sorry I forgot to read your message. Sorry I jumped on your ass.”

Diffidently, I add, “Again.”

She holds my gaze. Momentarily, I see appreciation of her own.

Her eyes aren’t exactly soft, but something about them weakens me a little bit.

Or maybe it’s the way she looks in general right now. Or the knotted-up way I feel in general.

Or all of it.

All I know is I honestly miss the days when she cared about how I felt. When, for some reason, it was easier to talk with her about hard things than it was with anyone else.

She finally nods her forgiveness of my attitude and continues walking away.

I also remember that she forgives me for making her spill her drink a couple weeks ago at Merritt’s.

It had taken me some time to figure out how to word my messages to her, especially that one. My hands were oddly trembly; in a way, they worsened when her response turned out not only to be favorable but also relaxed. Was like it made me nervous, but I felt relieved, too, and…something else I couldn’t pinpoint.

Yet I was trembly before that point in the night as well. I had been for a while because I tucked her perfectly against my side two different times, stood with her behind Lucent’s bar for minutes that almost felt easy, got through a work shift with us exchanging looks that didn’t carry animosity or impatience.

“I’m sorry I’m not ready to go yet,”

she says from across the way, her back still to me.

“I’ll try to hurry. Twenty minutes or so….”

She clears her throat, like she feels bad about the hang-up.

And I clear mine because somehow, it’s only just now occurring to me that there’s probably fucking nothing under that little bathrobe except for her. Clean, soft, beautiful Maggie.

Her body is already fantastic in clothes. How incredible must she be na—?

“Are you okay?”

alerts me to how I’ve cleared my throat again, more weakly than before.

Thank fuck she turns to look at me just in time to not catch my eyes soaking her up.

I cross my arms, hoping to hide the fresh unsteadiness taking over my hands—and hoping my face won’t warm enough to give away that something out of the ordinary was just on my mind.

“I’m fine. And don’t be sorry. Do you want me to leave and come back in a little while, or…?”

Her shrug is bashful. “Oh, I….”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with is good with me.”

She gently rubs at her hair with that small towel, but it’s an absentminded action. Her focus is on me.

“I, uh…don’t really wanna be here alone again, but if you’d be bored just sitting around, I won’t ask you to do that.”

I head for the couch.

“It’s no problem. I’ll have time to finally read your message and quit feeling like an asshole.”

As her eyes follow me, a small smile graces her lips. There’s no time for me to get used to it before she giggles.

The sound is as quiet as ever, but it still has my feet dragging to a halt, my jaw going just slack.

She doesn’t notice—she’s already turned away and going in the direction of her bedroom.

I got a giggle out of her? How? I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was trying to…I don’t know, apologize in another way and assure her that, despite how I acted when I got here, it’s not a big deal that she’s running behind.

Maggie’s laughter used to do something so good to me. To my soul, even, it seemed sometimes.

In fact, now I’ve glimpsed it again, I’m not really sure of the last time I gave a shit that a girl found me funny. It’s always a compliment, you know, but….

I hear her bedroom door close, and I blink out of thought.

Then I blink harder, shake my head, and continue to the couch.

“You’re a fucking mess, dude,”

I inform myself.

Well, what’s new about that?

Sighing, I dig my phone out of my pocket and sit down.

In good ways and bad ways alike, I’ve always been a mess when it comes to her.