Falling (Fading Series)

  “I think I’m just stressed. That’s’ all.”

  “About what?” I ask.

  “School. Dance,” she says. Those seem to always be her go-to excuses for a lot of things, and I know she hides behind them. Uses them to distract her.

  “You wanna talk about it?”

  “Not really,” she responds as she weaves her legs with mine.

  Looking into her eyes, I encourage, “I want you to talk to me. I know something is bothering you, and I want you to talk to me about it.”

  She doesn’t speak. I can tell that she’s trying to think of something to say, but nothing comes, so I give her an out and tell her, “I just want you to try.”

  Nodding her head, she closes her eyes and after a while, she falls into another fit of sleep, keeping me up most of the night.

  When I wake up, Candace is sound asleep, so I slip out of bed and let her rest since I know she didn’t get much sleep last night. Looking down at her, she finally looks peaceful. Everything about her is soft and relaxed.

  I head downstairs to grab a cup of coffee as my phone begins to ring. It’s Sunday morning, so I know it’s my mom. We talk for a while until I hear Candace walking down the stairs.

  “Hey, Mom. Candace just woke up, so I’m gonna let you go.”

  “Let me say a quick hi,” she says, and I know she’s wanting to try to get to know her.

  “Hold on,” I tell her and then look up at Candace as I hold the phone out to her, mouthing, ‘My mom.’

  Probably feeling a little awkward, she takes the phone anyway, saying, “Hi, Donna.”

  I listen to Candace talking with my mom while I make her a cup of coffee. She talks about the solo that she’s been piecing together for her audition next month. Walking over to her sitting on my couch, I hand her the coffee. She seems comfortable talking with my mom, and I like that she can have this with her, even if it is a random phone call. Both of these women are important to me, and to see Candace laughing at something my mom must have just said makes me feel like whatever it is that Candace and I are moving towards could be something special.

  “What did she have to say?” I ask when she hangs up and hands me the phone.

  “Just wanted to know what I had been up to,” she says and then takes a sip of her coffee. “She’s really nice.”

  We sit back and get comfortable when she starts, “Ryan . . .”

  “Yeah?” I say as I slide my arm around her.

  “Nothing,” she mumbles, dismissing whatever was running through her head.

  “Don’t say ‘nothing,’” I tell her, and when I do, she wraps her hand behind my neck and moves me in for a kiss before she nuzzles her head under my chin. Her instinct to avoid is strong, and I try not to question it because I’ve spent my whole life avoiding. I think about what my mom told me about not trying to break down her walls. Taking her advice, I don’t pry. I’m gonna be what I think she needs so that she’ll want to open up to me. I need her to want to do that for me.

  Got out of class early. You home?

  Yeah. Door is unlocked.

  Classes at the university started back up this week, and I’m getting to see how busy Candace actually is with her dancing. She wasn’t kidding when she told me that she lives in the studio. With her busy schedule, I’ve been trying to get most of my work done while she’s in class so I can free up my time at night when she’s typically not busy, unless she’s working.

  “Ryan?” I hear Candace call out when she gets here.

  “Back in my office.”

  She taps on the door before walking in.

  “Hey, babe. Come here.”

  She walks around my desk, and I reach out to pull her onto my lap. Brushing the hair off her shoulder, I ask, “How were your classes today?”

  “Uneventful, but it’s only the first week,” she tells me. “Nothing but going over the syllabus for the most part.”

  “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve missed you,” I say and then bring her head down so I can kiss her. She looks good in her jeans and fitted sweater. She’s always so pulled together, even when she wears her old college t-shirts. She always has a polished look about her that I find really attractive.

  “So, don’t be mad, but . . .”

  “Oh, God,” I interrupt because it sounds like she’s up to something that I would be mad at.

  “Just listen,” she says as she pokes me in the ribs. “When I was on campus today I ran into Stacy Keets who works at the Henry Art Gallery. She was telling me that one of her pieces got picked up for a gallery show next month.”

  “So, you want to go?”

  “Yes, but I was thinking that you could submit one of your photos.”

  There’s the kicker. “Babe,” I say as I shake my head. “Those are just a hobby that I hardly even take seriously. I’m far from having them displayed in a gallery of all places.”

  She rolls her eyes at me, dismissing my words when she says, “Well, I happen to love the few photos I’ve seen. They’re a lot better than you think they are.”

  “You’re cute,” I tease. The fact that she can view those pictures as something worthy of being displayed as art is a bit far-fetched for me.

  “I’m serious, I think that you should at least submit something and see if it gets accepted. If not, nothing lost, right?”

  “And if they are?”

  A smile crosses her face as she says, “Then you can take me as your date for the showing.”

  “If I say I’ll think about it, will that suffice?” I ask, but truth is, I’d take this girl anywhere for a date, so if that means submitting a few pictures, I’ll do it.

  “Yep.” She looks like a kid who just convinced her parents to buy her an ice cream, and I can’t help myself when I bury my head in her neck and start playfully ravishing it, knowing how ticklish she is in the spot I’m nipping. She squirms, laughing hysterically as she tries to wriggle her way off of my lap, and when she finally manages, she catches her breath and says, “Show me all your photos so I can pick out the ones for you to consider submitting.”

  Clearly I don’t get any input in her little mission. Sliding the door to my credenza open, I pull out the stack of mattes and hand them to her.

  “Here, boss,” I say with a wink.

  When she turns to head out into the living room, I follow and offer, “Want something to drink?”

  “Yeah, anything hot.”

  I begin to heat up some water and pull down the tea she likes. She’s been spending more time here, so we took a trip to the store, that way I could have some of her staples here at the loft. I love seeing pieces of her in my home, even if it’s as simple as a canister of her Harrods Ceylon tea that she brought over the other day. As I dip the tea bag in the mug, I look up, and she has the mattes lying facedown on the coffee table.

  “I’ll be right back,” she mumbles before rushing off to the bathroom.

  Shit. She hadn’t seen all the photos before, and I can only assume that she didn’t like what she saw. They’re mostly nudes, but she had to have known that by the few she had already seen.

  I give her a few minutes, but when she doesn’t come back out, I give the door a light knock.

  “What are you doing?” I ask suspiciously, even though I have a pretty solid idea as I step into the bathroom with her. When I take a step toward her, she takes a step back, keeping the distance, and the gesture irritates me. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She’s being evasive, and I wish she would just be honest with me.

  I drop my head and let out a deep breath, trying to control my frustration with her.

  “Is it the photos?” I ask, already knowing the answer, but I feel like I need to spell it out for her because I know how much she likes to avoid talking when she’s uncomfortable.

  She doesn’t answer, but her brows are scrunched with worry, and it’s all the confirmation I need.

  “Candace, you asked to see them. You knew what they would be of.”
>
  “I know,” she admits as she lowers her head and looks at the floor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think they would all be like that.”

  Leaning against the sink, I cross my arms around my chest. I hate that I feel like I have to explain myself when I’ve been nothing but open with her, but I do it anyway. “They’re just pictures, that’s all.”

  She takes a seat on top of the toilet lid and says, “But . . . they just seem so intimate.”

  “Babe, don’t.” I drop my arms, hating that she feels this way because she’s got it reversed. There was nothing intimate when I took those photos. I have no connection to them.

  She looks up at me, and I see the hesitation in her eyes when she quietly asks, “Did you sleep with them?”

  “Yes.” I respond immediately, not wanting to bullshit her. Wanting to be completely transparent with her the way I wish she would be with me.

  “How many have you . . .?”

  “A lot.”

  “And you photograph them?” Her words are laced with disbelief, and she’s got it all wrong, so I try to explain it to her.

  “No. I’ve only photographed a couple of women. Most of those photos are the same person.”

  “Oh.” Dropping her head, she tries hiding her insecurities that I can see right through. She’s so opposite of what I know she is comparing herself to. She’s modest and private. It’s been three weeks since Christmas and she’s never let me touch her, see her, anything.

  Kneeling down in front of her, I grip her thighs and speak firmly when I say, “I know what you’re doing, and you can stop. None of them meant what you mean to me. I never had or wanted a relationship with them.”

  “Then why?” she tries to argue, and I can’t stand seeing her doubt herself, doubt me.

  I take her hands in mine, holding them, when I look into her eyes and give her another piece of me that only she gets to have. “Because for most of my life I’ve been lost,” I confess. “I dealt with a lot of shit growing up, and I used women as a way to escape. But when I met you . . . you’re just different. I wanted to know you, really know you. You’re nothing like those women. Nothing. I’ve never looked at them or wanted them the way I do you.”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she says, unsure of herself, but I feel the same way, so I tell her.

  “I don’t either.”

  “I mean . . . I haven’t . . .”

  “Been with anyone?” I ask, my words slipping out, wondering if that’s why she’s moving so slowly with me.

  I know I’ve embarrassed her when she covers her face and doesn’t say anything, but I’m not appeasing her this time by letting her avoid me. I need her to start talking and stop being afraid that I’m gonna judge her.

  Grabbing on to her hips, I pull her down onto my lap, taking her hands away from her face.

  “Talk to me.”

  She takes a moment before she finally exposes a part of herself to me. “Only once, but he was really drunk and it . . . well, it was pretty much over before it began.”

  God, this chick is practically a virgin, and the thought of some guy using her gets under my skin. Shit, just the thought of any guy, other than me, touching her makes me jealous as hell.

  “Sounds like an asshole.”

  “He was,” she responds. “But it kept my parents off my back. They really liked him and his family, so we would go out every now and then, but that was about it. So, I can’t help but sometimes wonder what you’re doing with me.”

  “Look at me,” I demand because I hate that she would belittle herself for even a second. “I don’t give a shit how inexperienced you are. In fact, I prefer that because the thought of another guy touching you pisses me off. That guy was a dick for treating you like you were disposable. But don’t devalue yourself because of that. I won’t rush you into anything. You know that, right?”

  When she nods her head, I try to make it even clearer when I add, “You’re what I want. No one else, okay?”

  “I just get scared, and I feel like you might start thinking you’re wasting your time with me. I know you’d prefer that I stay here with you every night, but that’s what scares me. I just need to move slow with this.”

  “You’re not a waste of my time. You’re worth every second.”

  If she only knew how I take in every moment with her, she wouldn’t have to even question this. So when I see her nodding and letting out a sigh, almost in relief at my words, I take her face in my hands and kiss her. Slow. Because time doesn’t matter to me with her. I don’t even move; I just rest my lips on hers. It’s only when she slips out a giggle that I pull back, and with a smirk, ask, “What?”

  “Can we get off your bathroom floor now?” she says with a smile, and I have to laugh at her, happy to see that she’s feeling better about this situation. At least I hope she is.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I suggest and stand to help her up off the floor.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Let’s go hang out at Zoca’s and get some coffee.”

  “Perfect.”

  Yesterday, after Candace got upset about seeing the photos, I took her to a local coffee shop where we ran into Gavin. I was nervous having Candace meet him, someone who knows way too much of my past, after she had just gotten a glimpse of it. Oddly, he wasn’t as brash as he normally is, and the two of them seemed to get along for what small talk they wound up having, which wasn’t much.

  I’ve definitely put space between us, but I’ve known him for nearly ten years, and it’s strange not having him be more of a presence. He stops by the bar on occasion to listen to bands and grab a drink, but it’s not like it used to be.

  I turn around from my desk, sliding the credenza open to take out a few files that I need to run up to the bar, when I see the mattes that I had thrown in here last night. I hate that Candace had to see those. I didn’t consider her reaction then, but now, I regret ever showing her. I don’t blame her for being so upset, having to see images of women from my past, knowing that I had slept with them. It’s something we haven’t done with each other, haven’t even come close, and I tossed those images out there for her without thinking about how hard it would be for her to see.

  I don’t even want to think about her kissing another guy, touching another guy, but to see images like that . . . I know I would have lost my shit, so I can’t hold her reaction against her. She has every right.

  These photos are my past, a past where I never considered meeting a girl like Candace. A past full of masks, trying to hide from the person I was scared to be. A person that I am now realizing I might be able to be—because of her. Because she is the one I want to take care of—protect. No girl has ever made me feel that way, but she does, and wanting to love her is so much more powerful than my fear of loving her.

  Grabbing the mattes, I head downstairs to my garage and don’t give it a second thought when I toss them in the trash. They have no meaning to me, and she doesn’t need reminders of my past lying around my home. I don’t need the reminders either.

  When I go back upstairs, I grab the files and my keys and head over to the bar. When I get there, I run into Max out in the parking lot, and he follows me up to my office.

  “How’s everything with Traci?” I ask as he shuts the door, and I sit down at my desk.

  “I’m freaking the hell out, man,” he says, running his hand over his head.

  I chuckle under my breath. I’ve never seen him this tense. “You’ve gotta relax.”

  “Relax? Dude, we’re talking about a fuckin’ baby.”

  “You asked her to move in with you. You were all ready to have her there to share your life with, so what the hell?”

  “Yeah, we shared all of, what, five months?” he says.

  “But you guys have been together longer than that.”

  “Yeah, but I never really considered the whole kid thing,” he says and pauses before adding, “We went to a doctor’s appointment this morning.”

&
nbsp; “How’d that go?” I ask as I watch him lean back into the chair, fully stressed.

  “She’s fourteen weeks pregnant.”

  “I don’t know what the hell that means.”

  “Don’t you have like twenty nieces and nephews?” he overstates, and I laugh at this guy’s jest.

  “Dude, that doesn’t mean I know shit about pregnancy.”

  He sits up and rests his elbows on his knees when he states, “Baby will be here in June.”

  “It’s so weird to think about,” I say. “You with a baby. You spend your days barking and intimidating people.” We both laugh, and I know he sees the same image I see in my head.

  “Ugh,” he groans. “Can we talk about something else, like you and your very unpregnant girlfriend?”

  I shake my head when he continues, and asks, “When am I ever gonna meet this chick? You should bring her up here.”

  “I tried.”

  “What does that mean, ‘I tried’?”

  I’ve always been honest with Max about Candace, but I also know how private she is, so I just tell him what she’s told me, which isn’t much. “She has a thing with crowds. They make her uncomfortable. She tried coming, but it was too much for her.”

  “What’s up with the crowds?”

  Shrugging my shoulders, I admit, “I don’t know. She doesn’t say anything beyond the fact that she doesn’t like them.”

  “Have you asked?”

  “I don’t feel like I can.”

  “I don’t get it,” he says, but I feel like I’m saying too much at this point, so I cut it off.

  “She’s doesn’t like crowds; it’s probably as simple as that.”

  He catches my intent and backs off, not saying anything else about it.

  Hey! You home?

  On way now. Leaving gym.

  Mind if I stop by?

  Not at all. Be there in 10.

  See ya!

  After I left work the other night, Candace came over and she spent yesterday here as well. I didn’t want her to leave my bed this morning, but she had to go into work since one of the guys quit unexpectedly, so I decided to hit the gym with Jase and Mark to kill some time.