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“So… you’re the beer guy?” I say, trying to break the awkward silence.
“The beer guy? Is that how I’m referred to around here?”
Houston’s gaze is focused on the desk so he doesn’t have to look me in the eye. His elbows rest on the arms of the chair and his hands are clasped in front of him. That’s when I notice the wedding ring.
“You’re married,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He looks up, his eyes locking on mine, then nods just enough for me to notice.
My eyes and sinuses sting and I blink a few times. “What’s her name? I mean, that’s… that’s great.”
Shit. What is wrong with me?
He stares at the desk again, unsure how to respond to this. “Yeah, I guess. Um… Are you married?”
For some reason, I glance down at my hands where they rest on top of a stack of invoices on Jamie’s desk, as if I’ll suddenly find a wedding ring on my finger, too.
“No, I’m not married.” I draw in another breath and let it out slowly as I try to think of a new topic. “You’re still making beer?”
In college, Houston made his own line of homemade ale, which he called Barley Legal, since barely anyone who drank it was over twenty-one. It was very popular with the frats. I still remember the way our apartment would smell like yeast and alcohol after his weekend “tasting” parties. I’m surprised I still remember the name of the beer and the smell, considering I was pretty wasted through the last six months of my freshman year, the months we were together.
“Yep. And it’s still Barley Legal.”
“You kept the name?”
“Couldn’t let it go.”
My breath hitches at these words. They’re so similar to the last words he whispered in my ear five years ago as I lay in bed pretending to sleep. I love you, but we need to let it go.
He doesn’t seem to catch the similarity. Maybe he doesn’t even remember the last words he spoke to me. How can he be so different when he looks exactly the same? The shock of caramel-brown hair on his head still has the natural ribbons of sandy blond running through it. His blue eyes still sparkle when he talks about his homemade creations, though they’re probably not homemade anymore. He still looks like the guy who took my mind and body to places they’d never been. But there’s something very different about him. He seems subdued. Defeated.
“Rory,” he says, just loud enough to break through my thoughts. “How have you been?”
I don’t know why he’s asking this question ten minutes into our conversation, so I shrug. “Fine. I graduated two years ago. I changed my major after… Anyway, I got my degree in English—minor in creative writing. I’ve been working on a book in my spare time.”
His face lights up at this news. “A book? That’s awesome. You were always a great writer.”
“Well, probably not great, but I graduated.”
He smiles at my modesty. “You were great. I’m sure you’re even better now.”
My smile fades. Is it okay to accept praise from him now that he’s married? Is it okay to want his praise when I’ve lived without it for five years?
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out to see who it is. My mom’s cell number flashes on the screen. I usually send her calls to voicemail while I’m at work and check them on my lunch break, but I did ask her to check on Skippy today.
I contemplate answering her call, if only to escape the awkwardness of my conversation with Houston, but I hit the reject button. If it’s an emergency, she’ll send me a text. I’ve told her multiple times to text me in the case of an emergency, since I’m almost always with a customer when she gets the urge to call.
I look up and Houston’s jaw is clenched as he stares at the food-handling certificates hanging on the wall of the office.
“It was my mom,” I say, not sure why I feel the need to mention this. “Probably just wants to tell me I’m out of coffee or something.”
“You still live with your mom and dad?”
“No. God, no. My parents divorced two weeks after… we broke up. My mom and I moved to Portland two years ago. She has her own apartment now, but she checks on my dog while I’m at work.”
He smiles at my reaction and my stomach flutters. Then, I find myself wondering what shifted between us in the last minute or two, because I’m beginning to wish we could sit here talking like this forever. But any minute now Jamie is going to walk through that office door and relieve me of this meeting.
“How long have you worked here?” Houston asks as he leans back in his chair, getting a bit more comfortable.
He’s dressed in jeans and a brown T-shirt bearing the logo of his company. The shirt clings to his biceps and pectoral muscles. I try not to think of the nights I fell asleep with his arms around me and my cheek pressed against his solid chest. The fact that he wore a T-shirt and jeans to a pitch meeting proves he hasn’t changed. He’s still the laid-back guy everyone wants to share a beer with. And if he hasn’t changed, I should stop letting my mind wander to our past.
“I’ve worked here a little more than a year,” I reply. “I interned at the Oregonian for a while after graduation, but I got tired of living with my mom and never having money. I applied for this job on a whim, but it ended up working out. I’m union, so I make enough to live in a one-bedroom nearby and still feed myself and Skippy.”
“Skippy?”
“My dog.”
“Oh.”
The desk phone rings and I contemplate not answering it, but it could be Jamie calling me from somewhere else in the store. “Jamie Zucker’s office. How may I help you?”
“Rory! Skip passed out and I can’t wake him up.” My mom is frantic and I can tell by the thickness in her throat that she’s crying. My mom never cries, and the mere sound of it makes my heart race.
“What? What’s going on? What happened?” I stand suddenly and Houston’s smile disappears as he stands, too.
“I don’t know. The apartment was pretty warm when I came inside. I don’t think your air conditioner’s working. He was just lying there in the crate, so I put some ice in his water bowl and put it next to his face so he could drink. He drank the whole bowl, then he passed out! Oh, my God. Did I do something wrong? I was just trying to cool him down. I swear, I didn’t mean to do anything. I’m sorry, Rory. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, no. How long has he been out?”
“About twelve minutes now.”
“Is he breathing?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I hang up the desk phone and grab my cell off the stack of invoices. Then I scroll through my contacts searching for the number to Skip’s vet as Houston follows me out of the office.
“Shit! I rode my bike today. It will take me at least twenty-five minutes to get there.”
“I can take you,” Houston immediately volunteers.
I gaze into his eyes, knowing that every second I hesitate could mean the difference between life and death for my best friend.
Suddenly, the memories come flooding back to me from the day my world was turned upside down five and a half years ago. The day I found Houston standing outside my dorm refusing to let me inside. The day Houston became my protector and my downfall.
My finger hovers over the call button, then I grab Houston’s arm as he begins walking straight toward Grandpa John and Jamie, who are both standing at register three talking to Kenny, another cashier.
Houston glances down at his arm where my fingers are curled around his firm bicep. I quickly let it go.
“Sorry, but we can’t go that way. We have to go through the back. Hurry.”
He follows me into the warehouse and out through the back door.
“What about your meeting?” I mention as we skitter like mice along the back wall of the store.
“I’ll work it out,” he replies quickly.
We turn right at the back corner of the building into a small ser
vice alley that reeks of trash and stale beer.
“Where are you parked?” I ask.
“Right out front. Don’t you need to tell your boss you’re leaving?”
“I’ll call her after I call the vet.”
We make it to the end of the alley and Houston grabs my arm before I can walk out onto the sidewalk. “Rory, wait.”
I glance down at his fingers, which are curled around my forearm the same way mine were curled around his bicep a minute ago, and I instantly grow impatient. “What?”
He’s silent for a moment, then he lets go of me. “Nothing. Let’s go.”
I follow closely behind him as we approach his shiny, pearl-white SUV. The sight of it makes my stomach curdle. Not because it’s a gas-guzzler, but because his wife probably sat next to him inside this car, holding his hand, stroking his skin. Maybe they’ve even had sex in there.
I know I shouldn’t care. I haven’t seen or heard from Houston in five years and here he is going out of his way to help me—again. As if the past five years never happened.
He opens the passenger door for me and I grit my teeth as I climb inside, holding my breath to block out the heady scent of beige leather.
Shutting the door after me, he rounds the front of the car and smoothly climbs into the driver’s seat. “Where are we going?” he asks, unable to hide the hint of enthusiasm in his voice.
I stare straight ahead and think, I wish I knew.
Click here to continue reading The Way We Fall.
Also by Cassia Leo
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