Page 25 of Falling Backwards (The Edge of Us #1)

LUKE

Although Maggie and I planned to go to the park for a walk on Sunday or Monday, it’s Wednesday by the time we’re doing it.

The rain just kept on coming. Even running a few errands and driving to work together was a hassle because of all the flooded areas around town and the generally dreary, cold wetness. We didn’t go many places together at all; more than anything, we texted each other.

The sun is out now, though, and the temperature has warmed up a bit. We’re ready to follow the path around the park a few times. The Kyle coast is clear. We’ve got on some of the exercise clothes we finished shopping for just yesterday when the precipitation was kind enough to lighten to a steady drizzle.

I’m delighted to report she’s wearing those shimmery dark green leggings. And apparently, my deep liking of them is matched by her deep liking of my gray sweatpants.

When we exchanged compliments outside her apartment door, I couldn’t help imagining how she’d look in my sweatpants. They would be kind of big on her, I know, and long. Absolutely cozy, though—delectable, I had to admit.

It was hard not to let my thoughts wander farther than that.

Truth be told, as the days have passed, I’ve noticed it getting harder and harder not to let my thoughts go too far in plenty of off-limits directions. Directions like backwards to when we should’ve done things differently and forwards to…well, to possibly, maybe, if somehow we could….

But I’ve managed to control myself well enough, because we’re supposed to be living in the present.

Indeed, now I’m ready to focus on the new experience that is exercising in public with Maggie Moss at my side.

Guess the first thing I have to do is watch this not-me dude check her out. She’s bent over to fix something near her foot, and the guy sauntering past us slows even more and drops his lusty gaze to her ass.

I’m instantly filled with the urge to lay claiming hands on her right fucking in front of him.

I clear my throat not only to shake that off, but also to get his attention in a less caveman-like manner.

He looks at me and my crossing arms, my lifting chin. Then he coughs awkwardly.

“Sorry,”

he mumbles as he resumes his previous pace.

I don’t mumble.

“Yeah, you are.”

He ducks his head and lifts a hand like he doesn’t want any trouble. He walks a little faster yet to put more distance between himself and us—well, between himself and me.

“Huh?”

Maggie asks.

I look to her and see she’s upright again, now messing with her ponytail. She didn’t catch what happened.

It unsettles me to even halfway imagine how often creeps do shit like that—and worse—and women miss it because they’re minding their own business.

Even more unsettling to imagine how often women don’t miss it and are left uncomfortable.

Triple unsettling to know that, between this dude and Kyle, Maggie is in both categories.

“Luke? Is everything okay?”

I blow a raspberry, then smile at her the best I can.

“Everything’s fine.”

After a beat, I gesture at the dude.

“He was ogling you when he went by. I had to handle him right quick. That’s all.”

Speaking of discomfort: it visibly grips her, sends her shoulders towards her ears and her arms over her black sweatshirt.

“Oh,”

she says more quietly.

“Thank you. I didn’t notice.”

“Sure thing.”

She folds her damn bottom lip into her mouth and has warmth rushing me.

A second later, she’s not doing it anymore.

“Guess you could say everything’s fine because you’re here?”

That’s obviously what I meant, so I don’t know why my stomach acts like it’s something sweet she came up with all by herself.

I nod and scratch the back of my head.

“Yeah. I wish things would be fine for you without me, though.”

Hearing how that sounds, I now shake my head.

“Not ’cause I don’t wanna be here—not ’cause I don’t wanna spend time with you. That’s not what I’m trying to say.”

She can’t decide between nodding and shaking her head either.

“Oh, yeah, I—I didn’t think you meant….”

“I wish, like, in general you didn’t have to be afraid or nervous. It’s bullshit that you have to live like that, you know? Or anyone else.”

Expression softening, cheeks coloring, ponytail bouncing as she nods more.

“Yeah. I agree.”

She rubs at her scar beneath her bangs.

“Not because I don’t wanna be around you, though. Either. Like you said.”

The way my heart rate has risen, you’d think we’ve started exercising already.

We should be doing that, actually. It’s why we’re here.

I open my mouth to say so just as she asks lightly.

“Should we begin our walk?”

“I—yes. Let’s do that.”

We set off.

And we put a ton of space between us, I notice. It’s nice for catching my breath as a breeze comes, but I also feel abruptly lonely with her way over there, nearly on the other edge of the sidewalk.

I don’t last long before I have to let my next few steps take me closer to her.

She catches it, I know; her glance tells me so.

I also know she doesn’t have to give that tiny ant pile in front of her as wide a berth as she does—there’s no need for her to come arm-bumpingly close to me to avoid it.

Except that she wants to come closer.

We both apologize about the bumping despite that I didn’t contribute to it and that she doesn’t actually seem sorry.

Neither of us moves very far from the other at all.

“So,”

she says, her voice light again.

“your mom taught you the importance of a clean home?”

It’s a random choice of topic, but after a moment of puzzlement, I decide I don’t mind.

“She did.”

The memory that resurfaces makes me shudder.

“We went out of town once when I was younger—before I met you—and we got this inn room that we thought sounded nice but turned out to be shitty. We kept seeing bugs.”

Maggie shudders too.

“Oh no. Ew, ew.”

She shakes her hands out.

“I hate that.”

“Same. I’d been super excited to stay somewhere out of town, but believe me when I say that place had me wanting to go back home. Our house suddenly seemed so much better. And when I told my mom, she said, ‘This is why we keep our house clean. I bet your chores don’t seem so bad anymore, huh?’

“Aha! Mom with the lesson at the ready!”

“Yep! Regular spraying for bugs is important, too, but still.”

“Of course.”

She winces at me.

“Did you have to stay the night there?”

“Nope, we bailed.”

I feel my old relief all over again.

I see relief washing over her too.

“I’m so glad you were able to leave. That’s really fortunate.”

“Definitely. Was quite an hour. It taught me about cleanliness and gratitude in a few different ways.”

She’s looking ahead again, but I still see her soft smile.

“That’s good.”

“Mmhmm.”

We fall quiet for a minute. The only speaking we do is to greet a cyclist and an older couple we pass on the path.

As the time slips by, I feel a heightening desire to ask Maggie something in return, but I can’t decide what to go with. There’s a lot I’m finding myself wanting to know. What’s even worth asking? What’s lame? What’s boring?

…Well, it’s kind of embarrassing how long it takes me to realize I don’t have to limit myself like that. Don’t have to decide which questions are the most important. Even if all these things in my head don’t get talked about during our current trip to the park, that’s okay; I can learn her from day to day for as long as I want to.

I like the sound of that—the truth of that.

So I dive in.

“What’s your favorite food these days? It used to be extra-cheese pizza, right?”

This time, her smile is one of curiosity.

“Wow, yes, it did. My favorite food now, though? What a hard question.”

I recall.

“You like the eggs Benedict from work, huh?”

“Oh,”

she moans.

“I love that.”

The response rolls over me in a far hotter way than she means for it to.

Imaginings of her in my clothes try to come back—and ones of her out of them—or out of hers—and she’d be giving me a moan over something not-innocent that I—whew, God.

Okay, who’s the creep now?

Except I’m not truly being gross, because there’s no denying that Maggie is much more to me than just a gorgeous girl. She’s a part of—

“You know,”

she says, startling me.

“I honestly think I could eat that hollandaise with a spoon.”

She didn’t notice me falling into my head.

“I wish I knew how to make it at home,”

she goes on.

“Then I could have it anytime. But it’s not like I have a lot of confidence in my ability to make even a decent hollandaise, let alone a magnificent one.”

Food-unrelated heat aside, that has me chuckling.

She joins in on it, which chills me out even as it deeply pleases me.

I say.

“I, too, could eat it with a spoon, and I actually have tried making hollandaise at home.”

Her little gasp is excited.

“Really? How was it?”

My laughter grows. “Uh….”

“Don’t be modest! Was it fantastic? Can you teach me how to make it?”

“Teach—? Fuck no!”

A full laugh erupts from me.

“It was inedible! I said I tried to make it, not that I did!”

Surprise and sympathy burst through her expression like fireworks, widening and brightening her eyes. Then she’s exploding into laughter too.

And if I thought her mere chuckles went deep through me, I didn’t know what ‘deep’ meant.

This sound right here just about wrecks me.

“Oh no,”

bubbles out of her as she presses a hand to her chest, grinning.

“It was inedible?”

I don’t know how my lungs work well enough to keep me laughing with her. “Yeah!”

“What happened?”

“I….”

Shrugging, I think back to how aggravating and disappointing my attempts were.

“I don’t know if the recipe instructions were bad or if I followed them horribly, but my first try was undercooked—like, truly had a raw-egg taste—and the second was overcooked to death. Super lumpy and gross.”

She’s cracking up so much her face is growing pink. “Oh no!”

she says again.

With a groan, I lament.

“I just couldn’t get it right. And I had everything else ready to go!”

“You didn’t!”

she refuses, matching my tone. Her brow pinches with fresh sympathy even as she goes on grinning.

“You had the poached eggs ready and everything?”

“Yes! I mean, they weren’t great either ’cause I overcooked them, too, but the prosciutto was awesome! I got all fancy and crisped up some prosciutto to, like, this…this completely perfect….”

We’re both laughing so hard now that we have to stop walking. She drops her face into her hands as her shoulders shake, and I hold where my left side is starting to cramp.

“Holy shit,”

I hear her muffle out.

“Perfect prosciutto, sad everything else.”

“I know.”

She pulls her hands away and fans at her face.

“Oh, Luke, my eyes are watering.”

I see she means that, and I swear to God, the sense of pride filling my chest is like none I’ve felt before. It blazes just as much as the sexy thoughts from earlier did, makes me feel just as hot as they did; I know my cheeks have colored like hers.

Even teenage-me didn’t love making teenage-her laugh this much.

She’s still fanning herself, but I don’t care—I reach out and take one of her hands anyway, folding mine around it.

The catch in her breath doesn’t escape me, nor does the flicker of suddenly shy liking in her expression. Yet she grips my hand right back.

I blaze hotter still.

There’s no way it isn’t true for her too.

The next little laugh we share is quieter. A bit awkward, though not in an unwelcome way.

We resume walking, letting our wrapped hands lower to hang comfortably between us.

She sighs and then asks.

“Your scrapes feel a lot better?”

even though she knows they do. She has checked on my hands every day since the night I hurt them.

Nevertheless, I confirm.

“They’ve healed up great.”

“Great.”

We walk in silence again, but not for long; we start cracking up a bit more. Although I don’t ask if she’s thinking about my eggs Benedict disaster again, I suspect she is.

Indeed, her next question is.

“Did you try to cook all that by yourself?”

“I did.”

After a moment’s thought, I add.

“Maybe that’s why I had trouble with it. Maybe it was a little much to try it for the first time without help.”

“Hmm. Maybe.”

Surely the idea I have also occurs to her. It’s an obvious one.

Suggest it, I think at her. Or I will.

Once, twice, thrice, her hand flutters around mine, like a fidget. Or like a count to three.

“Wanna try it together?”

she asks.

“It’s okay that you can’t teach me how to make hollandaise—we can just figure it out together.”

I’ve already started nodding, happy we really are on the same page again.

“Sounds awesome.”

“I think so too.”

“Let’s do it ASAP.”

Funny how I get the feeling she’s smiling again and then I look over and see I’m right.

“I love fruit and raw vegetables,”

she says after a second.

“Those are favorite foods of mine. And the spicy fries at Mellow Burger, but I haven’t been there since the Kyle stuff got scary.”

Momentarily, I remember.

“Ah, yeah, ’cause he works there.”

“Mmhmm.”

I take my time deciding how to respond to that.

I end up with.

“Well, I know we aren’t supposed to go places we think he’ll be, but it’s ass that you can’t eat one of your favorite foods just because of him. If you wanna get the fries one of these days, we can make it happen somehow.”

She considers it.

“I guess it’s possible he wouldn’t be there,”

she concedes.

“Yep. But even if he is, it would be okay. I wouldn’t leave you alone for a second.”

After another pause, she says more softly.

“I know, and thank you, but…I’m not sure. The thought of seeing him again is upsetting. Even if we went to the drive-thru, he might be at the window, and then he’d know what kind of car we’re in—if he doesn’t already—and…and….”

I can practically feel worry about that last thing piling up on her. I give her hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

Her words don’t leave me feeling gentle at all, though. Not towards Kyle.

Her trip to the grocery store on the day we became a pretend couple was the last time she actually saw him, and she hasn’t gotten any weirder-than-usual feelings that he might be out of sight, but I know she hasn’t felt totally relaxed. Sure, she’s safe with me, but the mental aspect of having any level of stalker is no joke. The handful of times we went out in public over the last few days, I noticed how much attention she still paid to our surroundings. I noticed how shaky she got during one work shift when there was a single-guest reservation for a Kyle, and I noticed how heavily relief fell on her when it turned out to be a harmless older gentleman.

I notice in this current moment how hard she swallows as her eyes dart around us.

In a murmur, I tell her.

“It’s all right, Magnolia.”

Her fingers are suddenly fumbling—quick as a skipped heartbeat, they’re notched with mine, surpassing the way our hands were simply curved around each other before.

The way it feels is sharply painful and utterly perfect at the same time.

It is better than I remember.

It’s a sense of completeness that, somehow, I’ve still never come close to feeling with anyone else.

So many things about her give me that sense.

An echoing truth I can’t pretend away.

And something tells me those kinds of things are going to keep coming.

It dawns on me that I’m both dying for them to and afraid for them to.

She exhales slowly, steadily. I see she’s nodding, closing her eyes just for a moment.

“Yeah, it’s all right,”

she agrees.

I squeeze her hand again, and this time, she squeezes back. Tiny shockwaves ripple away from that point of pressure and settle all throughout me.

Painful and perfect, yes.

Shortly, another thing I want to know about her floats into my mind, so now that I’ve learned more about what foods she likes, I move on.

“What’s something you would buy if you won the lottery?”

Once again, a smile of curiosity overtakes her lips.

“Are we playing Twenty Questions?”

Well, there’s an idea. “Sure,”

I say.

“Why not? I was just gonna ask some of the random things in my head, but if you have stuff you wanna ask me back….”

She lets out a small laugh.

“You know, I think I do.”

“Cool.”

“Okay. Well, something I’d buy if I won the lottery is….”

Almost immediately, she gestures as if to erase that.

“No, it’s not a purchase. What I’d do is donate a bunch of money to charities and organizations that help people in need.”

The second she says it, I realize both that it’s no surprise and that it’s something I’d like to do myself.

“What about you?” she asks.

“Same thing. Right away.”

Her eyes lighten.

“Really? What’s a cause you care a lot about?”

Many come pouring into my mind, a small avalanche of things that matter to me.

“Getting food to people who are hungry, suicide prevention, reducing bullying, defending human rights for people who are discriminated against.”

Maggie is nodding so ardently, our hands are jostled between us.

“Oh, yes. Those things matter to me too. And survivors of sexual assault and people who need mental healthcare.”

“People who live in abusive households.”

She’s counting them with her free fingers now.

“Impoverished people and sick people.”

“Natural disaster relief and veterans.”

“Anything that helps children.”

“Hell yes. And even more things than these, probably, though I can’t think of them right this second.”

“Yeah!”

As I experience it in chest and stomach more strongly than I think I ever have, I frown deeply and say.

“God, it’s literally gut-wrenching. Not being able to support people as much as I want to, I mean.”

Maggie’s outward expressions of agreement calm back down. She frowns, too, but not for long. The look she gives me is resolute.

“Well,”

she says.

“I don’t know how much you support people in need now, but I know I don’t do it enough, and that bothers me too. So let’s change it somehow. Even if we have to take baby steps.”

My eyes drift away from her so I can watch where we’re walking again, but her sweetly firm expression stays at the front of my mind.

It makes me feel resolute.

Excited.

Inspired.

“That’s a great idea,”

I say.

“We don’t have to be rich to help anybody.”

“Right?”

Her smile is audible.

“Plenty of people who help others aren’t rich. Even if we can only do a little bit or only do it sometimes, that’s something.”

“Exactly! We can, like, choose an organization once a month or once every couple months—whatever we can afford, and—”

I snap my fingers.

“And it’ll probably be even easier to afford than we think if we cut out stuff like going to Merritt’s so often—”

“Yeah, I mean, you’re an amazing bartender and we’re starting our own cooking adventures, so we can just learn to make the stuff we like.”

I laugh at her compliment and nod at her point.

“Yep, homemade mojitos and pretzel bites, here we come!”

She chuckles.

“Teach a man to fish and he can feed himself for life, right?”

“Absolutely.”

I tsk.

“Look at us being geniuses.”

“Yeah, we’re good together, aren’t we?”

Her flowing reply is happy, but it hits me hard.

Hits her hard, too, judging by the audible stutter in her breathing and the way her hand twitches in mine.

The past tries to come back up in my mind. My mistakes. Hers.

But I fight that. I don’t let that stuff pull me away from her. I don’t let it taint the various golden things she’s been doing to me.

I don’t want to.

What I want is to agree with her, so I do. “We are.”

She doesn’t pull back in action or emotion either.

Even after another minute of silence having settled between us, her mood seems calm and her hand stays woven through mine.

I like that.

But I miss her voice. Miss making her laugh, making her smile. So I move on to my next question.

“What’s a place you’d like to travel to?”

She lets out a hum of longing.

“Wherever the big trees are.”

“What big trees?”

“The really old ones. I think they’re in California.”

I don’t know what she’s talking about, and she’s appalled to learn that, so I dig my phone out of my pocket and look these trees up—with my free hand, of course.

Because whether it’s nostalgia, fresh addiction, or our fake-dating plan that’s behind it, the plain truth is I don’t want to let go of her.