Page 15 of The Upside of Falling
Chuckling, he neglects to correct me.Oh Lord.I want—need—to record Colby chuckling, because I will play it every day.Manytimes. “What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Uh . . . what?” I know he asked a question, but I’m still replaying the chuckle.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Now that I understand English again, I am tempted to repeat what he said to me.If I did, I wouldn’t be up here with you.But I need to have a little fun here.
“Five actually.” I nod. “Five boyfriends that I rotate through during the week. Trying to get seven guys altogether—one guy a night. Want to live the dream, you know?”
He doesn’t say a word, just stares me down, eyes locked on mine, intimidating, as if reaching for the truth. And I give it to him because it seems impossible not to answer him when he stares at me like that. “No boyfriend. I had one in high school who turned out to be a real tool. I think he runs a pawnshop down south. And I had a few boyfriends here and there after high school but no one who stuck around.” Biting on my bottom lip, I say, “I kind of have a difficult family life, and it’s not meant for everyone.”
When I think he’s about to ask me about my family life, he slouches in his seat and presses his head against the back of the couch, the loss of his finger in my hair noticeable. “I can understand that.” He doesn’t elaborate, just keeps his understanding short and simple, sympathizing with me but only scraping the surface, never diving deep, a common reoccurrence I’m starting to notice about him.
Not wanting our conversation to end, I say, “Any pets?” It’s lame, it’s a horrible transition, but nothing else comes to mind.
“None, not even growing up.”
“Really? That’s kind of sad.”
He shrugs, his eyes closing as he speaks. “Didn’t need pets. I had my model airplanes, and they kept me busy enough. I sanded, built, re-built, and painted every airplane kit my gramps ever gave me. It was my sanctuary. No need for animals; I had everything I needed in my planes.”
My heart squeezes, images of a young version of Colby flash through my mind, his hardened features softened, his chocolate-brown hair ruffled, and his brown eyes wide and innocent, focused intently on his planes.
“That’s really sweet.”
“That’s the second time you’ve called me sweet tonight. I think I’m giving you the wrong impression.”
“Yeah? And what kind of impression do you wish you were giving me?”
He folds his hands over his stomach, eyes still trained on the stars above, staring into what seems to be his safe haven—the sky and open air. “A hard-ass, someone you should stay away from, someone you shouldn’t be sitting on a balcony with while there’s a party going on down below.”
“Yeah,” I drag out, “You’re doing a terrible job if that’s the kind of impression you want to be giving me. Sorry, but your soft side is showing.”
“I don’t have a soft side.”
I press my foot into his leg. Slowly, he rolls his head toward me, those sharp eyes connecting with mine. “I see it differently. I think you’re a softy inside, a truly sensitive guy, but try to hide it with this tough, impenetrable veneer.”
He scoffs at me and shakes his head, turning his attention back to the stars. “And why would you think that?”
Leaning forward, I hook my finger around his cheek and force him to turn his head toward me. When his eyes focus in on mine, I say, “For one, you could have easily told me to fuck off by now and walked away. Secondly, you brought me up here for a quiet place to talk and offered me a blanket to stay warm. And thirdly . . . even though your eyes seem to be weathered and worn at a young age, I can see a glimpse of joy in them when you joke around, like the little boy in you is trying to peek out.”
Studying me, his eyes searching mine back and forth, the wheels in that handsome head of his going a mile a minute, he pulls away and sits up on the couch, hands folded together. “You don’t know me, Rory. Sorry to say, but you’re wrong.”
Pushing off his legs with his hands, he stands, getting ready to leave. But I stand with him, snagging his hand in mine, keeping him firmly in place.
“Don’t leave.” It’s a simple request—just spend some more time with me—but from the distraught look on Colby’s face, my request is starting a war of indecision in his head.
There’s something holding him back, something preventing him from enjoying his time. I want to know what it is.
Tugging on his arm, I turn him toward me. His large hand runs down his face, his expression pained. He’s avoiding every opportunity to look me in the eyes.
“Why won’t you look at me?”
“Because,” he says, his voice terse, resembling the guy I met at the beginning of the evening.
“Because why?”
“Because you’re a distraction.” Stepping out of my grasp, he heads toward the bedroom.
A distraction?From what? From school?
