Page 92 of Free Fall

“How?”

“He was parked at a stop sign when a massive limb from a tree collapsed onto his car, crushing him.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And when I was in middle school, this kid named John died after getting allergy shots. The anaphylaxis didn’t start until he and his mom were on the highway, far from the doctor’s office, no EpiPen in the car, and boom…dead.”

“Jesus.”

“And Peggy Jo’s husband Ivan died when he was only thirty-two—Bella was just nine—while swimming in the ocean. A freak riptide grabbed him. Look, we don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“So why bring extra danger into your life?”

I lean back, frustrated. “Because I can’t live out an existence where I don’t at least see how far I can go against a completely unfeeling, uncaring world—in this case, the rock.”

Sejin swallows and looks back down at the map. “I’m going to make peace with this,” he says quietly. “I am. I don’t want to be the guy who couldn’t handle the enormity of his boyfriend’s dreams. I’m just scared.”

I take hold of his hand and kiss his fingers. “I get scared too.”

“Do you?”

“Of course. I’m not a robot.”

“No…” Sejin says, leaning forward and burying his face against my neck, kissing the skin there softly. “You’re not a robot at all. You’re flesh and blood. You’re fragile.”

“Not as fragile as you think. I’m made of tough stuff. So are you.”

Sejin doesn’t argue, but he does push me down to the mattress and climb on top of me. His weight is comforting and warm, and he says nothing, does nothing, for a very long time.

We just hold each other and breathe.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sejin

Peggy’s Jo’s placeis in the high-country forest and about a thirty-minute drive from town. The house itself is basically my dream home, except I’d probably have a dog instead of three cats. But I like cats too, so I’m good with caring for them. Plus, they seem to adore me.

Or theydid,until Peggy Jo started moving her luggage out to her truck. Now they’re hiding beneath beds and in cubbyholes, glaring balefully, looking worried, or somehow, mysteriously, both.

The kitchen is an open-concept with a counter separating it from the living room, which feels massive with its gleaming wood floors and floor-to-ceiling glass doors along the entirety of the back wall. These show off a stunning view of the mountains, and I can’t wait to see how the light plays over the land at all different hours of the day and what the stars look like at night. The light pollution must be low out here. There’s so much space to wander and what seems like unlimited privacy.

The living room is cozy, with a big sectional sofa, a large television screen mounted on a wall, and a rug that’s nicely fuzzy against my bare feet. The décor isn’t any particular style, but just Peggy Jo personified into a living space. There are photos of her daughter—a slightly plump, dark-haired little girl—and then woman—with a wide smile, and photos of Peggy Jo climbing at various ages. There’s a wedding photo of Peggy Jo with her husband, a tall, handsome man with heavy, dark eyebrows, and, most interesting to me, a few photos of Dan.

In one he’s probably not even twenty yet and hasn’t grown into his eyes. They look enormous—like dinner-plate large—and they’re full of skepticism and mistrust. As the photos of Dan progress, he begins to look more and more like himself, and that mistrust gradually fades. I decide to take a closer look at these pictures, and the photo albums she has sitting out in plain sight, later when I’m alone.

In the middle of the living room, there’s a wood-burning stove that Peggy Jo assures me will heat the entire room for most of the cold months of winter. There’s central gas heat too, but she says the stove will warm things up more quickly and efficiently, so she keeps a big pile of wood just around the corner of the giant glass doors. She asks only that I keep up with it, replacing what I use every few days or so. It’s not hard, she says, given that there are plenty of downed trees and limbs along the edge of her property, many quite big.

I’ve never chopped wood before, but I figure it can’t be that hard. There’s probably a YouTube video demonstrating best practices for it.

There’s also a big hot tub, the barrel-shaped kind that requires climbing a ladder on the outside to get in. Peggy Jo says I can use it any time, just to be sure to test the water regularly and to keep the lid on to prevent pine needles, leaves, and critters from getting in.

After showing me around the property one last time, Peggy Jo and I take the last of her luggage out of the house and strap it onto the racks of her truck bed, cover it all with tarps, and then come back inside for a cup of coffee before she heads out on the road.

“Sure you don’t need my help moving your stuff in?” she asks.

“Nah, I’ve got it.”

“I want you to feel comfortable here. Please don’t hesitate to make yourself at home,” she says to me for the five-hundredth time since I pulled up this morning with the entirety of my worldly belongings in the back seat. I don’t even have enough to warrant using the trunk.