Falling

30

“What do you want to do for your birthday, babe?” I ask as she stretches before heading to the studio for rehearsals. I always enjoy seeing her like this—poised, hair up tight in a bun, leotard with an old pair of torn, baggy sweats. There’s no doubt she was made to dance because she completely looks the part, and that look is doing things to me that I need to get under control.

“Nothing. I told Jase that the four of us could just grab dinner.”

“We do that all the time.”

She sits on the ground to roll her ankles when she says, “Please don’t get any ideas. I really don’t like doing anything for my birthday.”

“Why?” I ask when I sit in front of her and take her leg in my hand to rub out her muscles.

“My mom would always throw me these over-the-top parties when I was little. Well, she threw them for her and her friends. It was all show with the moms, everyone trying to one-up the others. It was never what I wanted, and I would spend the whole day upset but forced to pretend to be their perfect daughter and behave as etiquette told me I should.”

“So let me do something nice for you,” I suggest.

“It makes me uncomfortable. It always has. I’m a year older; I just don’t see the big deal in making a fuss over it.”

“Candace.”

Her only response is a shrug of her shoulders.

“So tell me then, what was it that you really wanted when you were a kid?” I ask when I move to massage her other leg.

Her hands rest in her lap as she sits on the floor and tells me, “Simple. It sounds trite, but what I really wanted was my friends to come over and play with me. Have a cheap cake from the grocery store instead of the fondant covered ones my mom would order from the bakery in town. That fondant tastes like crap, you know?” she says with her brows raised with exaggeration, and I laugh at her.

“I don’t even know what that is,” I admit with a smile.

“Well, it’s gross. And I hated—hated—being forced to open all the gifts in front of everyone. I never got toys, but instead little trinkets and things. Like that bouncy ball,” she exclaims. “I never got stuff like that.”

“So that’s why you hate getting presents?”

“It’s just awkward for me, so I’d rather not deal with it.”

“I’ll call Jase. Why don’t we just hang out here? Eat pizza, watch TV,” I suggest.

She smiles, agreeing, “Sounds perfect.”

She’s simple in ways that I like, but for reasons that shouldn’t be. I’ll give Candace her non-birthday birthday party, but I can’t not get her something to make it special. Because it is. So I’ll find a way to do that for her without making her feel uncomfortable. My girl can be a challenge, but I like that about her.

While Candace is busy on campus all day, I head over to Fremont to stop by a couple vintage antique shops. Jase and Candace are always hanging out here, and I know Candace well enough that she doesn’t buy most of her things from mass marketed retail shops. Yeah, she’s simple, but she likes nice things.

I spend a couple hours roaming around, but nothing catches my eye, so I decide to walk down to Peet’s and grab a coffee. When I pass by one of the little shops, the name stops me because Candace came home the other day with some shaving lather for me from here.

Stepping into Essenza, the place is filled with fine European perfumes, soaps, clothes, and jewelry. This looks like a place that she would shop. I’m the only one here and the lady behind the counter steps out and walks over to me, saying, “You look lost,” with a friendly smile.

“That obvious?”

Her smile is warm and even though she screams elegance, she’s quite relaxed when she offers me a glass of wine.

“I’m good.”

“So what are we shopping for?”

“A girl. I know she’s been here before, so I thought I would stop in,” I tell her.

“What’s her name?”

“Candace.”

“The ballerina?” she squeals.

I nod my head when she adds, “She’s been shopping here for years. We’re the only boutique in the state that carries the perfume she wears, so she’s pretty loyal.”

“Why does that not surprise me? That she would’ve picked a perfume that was exclusive to one store in the whole state of Washington,” I laugh as she joins in.

“You must be the guy she was shopping for last time she was in a couple weeks back.”

I nod and introduce myself, “I’m Ryan.”

I give her a friendly handshake as she says, “Well, I’ll let you be. Please, I’m Viv, let me know if I can help you or if you change your mind about the wine.”

Joking, I ask, “Does your boss know you drink on the job?”

“Please,” she drawls and winks at me, adding, “It’s a requirement.”

I wander over to check out the perfumes, and sure enough, I spot her bottle of Flou. Next to the display there is an old antique wrought-iron table with a locked glass case that serves as the round table top. Looking down through the glass, there are a few pieces of handcrafted jewelry, most of them rings. There are a couple hand stamped pieces with various quotes. I eye one of the necklaces. It’s the only one with a flat, rectangular bar at the drop that connects the thin, delicate chain. I stop looking at the rest of the jewelry when I read words that couldn’t be more true, and I know I have to get this for her because this—these words—is exactly how I see her and how I need her to see herself.

Looking up to Viv, who is sipping her wine, I ask, “Can you show me a piece from this case?”

She hops up and comes over to unlock the glass, and I show her the one I’m looking at. She pulls it out and hands it to me.

“It’s perfect,” I murmur as I look it over. The stamped letters are rugged and uneven, a contrast to the polished silver bar and fragile chain.

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

I look up and she clarifies, “The quote. It’s from ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’”

I run my thumb over the jagged impressions of the words, And though she be but little, she is fierce. “Was this here the last time she was in?”

“No.”

“I’ll take it.”

When I hand her the necklace, I follow her over to the counter. “A gift?” she asks.

“It’s her birthday.”

“Shall I wrap it?”

“No,” I say, and when she looks up at me, I add with a smirk, “She hates gifts.”

She smiles as she takes my credit card. “Ryan, Ryan, Ryan,” she tsks and then swipes my card before handing it back to me. “I like you.”

“Not gonna lie, Viv, I like you too,” I respond with a light chuckle before she hands me the bag.

I head out to my car, having one more errand to run, because I’m not quite satisfied yet.

When I get home later, I hear Candace in the shower, so I go ahead and stash my purchases. I walk into my closet, shoving them into one of the drawers and cover them up with a couple sweaters. My camera sits on the tabletop of the drawers, and I grab it, taking it with me as I flop on the bed and wait for Candace to come out. I scroll through the only pictures that are stored—the ones of Candace’s back. I click on each one, zooming in on the preview screen to get a closer look.

The bathroom door opens, and I look up to see her walking out, towel drying her hair, wearing a t-shirt and a pair of my boxers. God, she’s hot.

“I didn’t know you were home,” she says as she stands at the foot of the bed.

Ignoring her statement, I let her know, “I like it when you wear my underwear.”

“Stop,” she says in a nagging voice as I pop up to my knees.

“I’m serious. It’s hot as shit.”

When she laughs at me, I hold my hand out to her and pull her on top of the bed with me, twisting around and laying her on her back. Her skin is still damp from her shower, and I weave my fingers into her wet hair as I begin to plant slow kisses down her neck. She smells insanely good, and when I pull back to look down at her, I’m taken by how beautiful she looks right now.

Leaning over, I pick up my camera, and as soon as I bring it up to my eye, she covers her face, complaining, “No.”

“What?”

“You can’t just take my picture.”

I laugh at her. “Don’t be shy with me,” I tell her and then sit back on my heels. “Let me see you.”

She removes her hands from her face, and when she does, I say, “Let me photograph you.”

Lying there, she doesn’t respond one way or the other, so I bring the camera back up to my eye and snap a few quick shots of her. Hair splayed around her face, flushed cheeks, and a soft expression on her face.

“Thanks,” I say when I’m done capturing her face and then shift to the side of her, holding the camera back to my face.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving myself something to work on,” I mutter before adding, “Bend your legs up, babe.”

She does without question, and I use my hand to maneuver them to my liking until they are at the perfect angle. The clicks of the shutter are the only sounds that fill the room as she lies there, watching me intently every time I shift my eyes to hers. I’m glad she’s comfortable with this and not so tense like she was the last time we did this.

I move to set the camera on the nightstand and then back to her, easing my weight on top of her. She runs her hands along my face, drawing me down to kiss her. We let ourselves get lost in one another, moving in a way I have only done with her, and when her shirt hits the floor with mine, I drop my head to her chest. Her arms encircle my head as I cover her in my mouth, finding that the feel of her lace bras are a turn-on I never expected.

Her skin is soft beneath my hand as I run it down her side and to her leg as I tighten my grip because she feels that damn good. When she grazes her lips up my neck, she sends chills down my arms. Our breaths begin to run deep, and my need for her strengthens as I slide my hand in from her hips, over the waistband of her boxers, and down between her legs, cupping the heat of her.

“Stop,” she snaps and jerks my hand away, startling me.

“Babe?”

“Just . . . don’t,” she whispers.

I accept all of her hesitations, but it still hurts when she rejects my touches. Her eyes are closed when I lie down beside her, pulling her hip over so that she’s facing me.

“Please look at me,” I urge in a hushed voice, and when she does, I go with transparent honesty and say, “I want to touch you.”

“I know. I just . . .” I see the worry in her eyes and the lines in her forehead.

“You can tell me anything, babe. I’ll never judge you.”

She takes her time as I run my hand up her arm and into her hair. When she does speak, it’s strained as she confesses, “He’s the only one that’s touched me there.”

I work hard to not get upset. To stay calm so that I can talk to her about this because we can’t keep avoiding it. I know this is the last thing she probably wants to discuss, but it has to be done, so I choose my words carefully, telling her, “You know that I would never hurt you.”

“I know. It isn’t that.”

“Then tell me what it is. I need to understand.”

She tucks her chin down, and when I lift it back up with my fingers, I explain, “I need you to talk to me about this because I need to know.”

“It’s embarrassing,” she admits quietly.

“There is nothing for you to be embarrassed about, babe. But I’m gonna be honest with you—it hurts when you push me away because I don’t want you to be scared of me.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“Then what?”

After she lets out a slow sigh, she finally reveals, “It makes me feel dirty.”

My forehead gently falls against hers, and I close my eyes, shaking my head. With my hands on her back, I feel the soft heaves, letting me know she’s crying. It infuriates me that he did this to her. That this is how she views intimacy. The last thing I would ever expect or want her to feel when she’s with me like this is dirty. Knowing that makes me sick to my stomach.

“Listen to me,” I say when I pull my head back to look at her. “That guy was a piece of shit, we both know that. He’s a sick fuck, and yeah, what he did and how he touched you was dirty. The disgust is beyond that. But that isn’t what this is. That isn’t us,” I try to explain to her. I pull her in tight, continuing, “I want to touch you and feel you. He made that something ugly for you, and I hate him for that. That he could take that away from us.”

“I’m sorry,” she cries.

“You have nothing—nothing—to be sorry for,” I scold. “He did this, not you. The way I want to touch you is nothing like that. I love you, and I want to touch you like this because it’s a way for me to feel close to you. It’s a way for me to love you and to make you feel that too.”

The tears run down the side of her face as she responds, “I want to give that to you. I do. I feel awful that I can’t, but I’m trying. I need you to know that I am trying.”

Wiping her face, I say, “I know you are. I see it. I’m not blaming you, but we need to talk about this so that I can understand.”

“I hate this,” she confesses and then buries her head in my chest.

“I know you do, and if I could do something I would. I just don’t know what that would be. But I love you, even the parts of you that you think are ugly. I love it all.”