Page 11 of Falling Again

Ryan and I play catch for what feels like hours. We start close and then try to see how far we can be apart while still throwing and catching the ball. We make it from one mailbox to another, which is far, since all the houses up in the hills have at least an acre or two in between each other. Ryan and I have been friends since before we could talk. Our moms were pregnant at the same time, according to my mom. She said they met each other during a mommy-and-me yoga class. Ryan and I both play on our middle school’s baseball team, and we talk about going pro one day. I’m not sure how I’m going to run the ranch while being a professional baseball player, but I’m sure I’ll figure something out.

I do love our town, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like growing up somewhere else, like Portland or Seattle. Big cities where you don’t know everyone, and there are always new things going on. Auburn Hills couldn’t be any different from those places. I know everyone, and everyone knows me. Even in school, the same kids are in my classes each year. The Winter Parade is the same every year, too. The fire department strings lights around their trucks and drives through Main Street. Then it’s followed by the police cars and garbage trucks. Then local businesses will decorate trailers themed with different holiday characters and drive through. Don’t get me wrong, it’s always a fun time, and the coffee shop gives out hot cocoa, but it’s always the same. That reminds me, I gotta head back for dinner.

I throw the ball back to Ryan and jog over to him. He catches the ball and raises his hand in the air, meeting mine in our secret handshake.

“See ya at the parade?” he asks.

“Yep, we’ll head down after dinner,” I say. We hit mitts before I spin and go back to my house.

December is one of my favorite months in Auburn Hills. Mostly because of presents on Christmas, but also because the town decorates with lights everywhere. I’m talking every building on Main Street. Every window, door frame, and roof are lined with lights. It’s as close to magic I think any of us will ever get. Businesses start to put up lights in November and the town will start to decorate the light posts, but they don’t turn on anything until the Winter Parade the first week of December. Which is exactly where we are heading to tonight.

I’m sat in the middle of the bench seat of my dad’s pickup truck between my mom and dad as we roll down to the festival. We live up in the hills so it takes a bit to get into town, especially since it’s so crowded. We park at the high school and walk over a few blocks. Everyone shows up for this event and it’s clear as we walk toward the center of town, where everyone is gathering. I wave to some friends from school, and then the three of us find a spot on the side. My dad picks me up and I sit on his shoulders. I’m not sure how much longer I can get away from getting a boost up here but my dad is a big guy, so maybe a few more years at least.

“Ten! Nine! Eight! …” the crowd starts to chant, including my parents. My mom and dad are holding hands below me and I’m pumping my fist in the air. Anticipation bubbles in my chest. Main Street is not completely dark, because the businesses have their lights on inside but the street itself is very dim. We get to zero and there’s a pause. Everyone is quiet and waiting. Then, as if pixie dust is sprinkled over the scene, one by one, businesses turn their lights on, starting at one end of the street a few blocks away and up to the other, until the whole drag is illuminated. We all cheer and the parade starts, music plays, and the town is smiling and singing—pure magic.

“What did you get me?” I ask my mom, skidding to a stop on my knees beneath the Christmas tree. Somehow my mom is already curled up in a robe with a hot cup of coffee in her hand. My dad is in the kitchen getting cinnamon rolls ready. He may not be the best chef, but he sure can bake. And he only makes cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning.

“Open and find out,” my dad gravels as he joins my mom on the couch, reaching around her shoulders and giving her a kiss on her forehead. I look at my mom, who gives me a nod, and start to rip open the giant box with my name in huge letters on the side. My parents keep Christmas simple but special. I only get a couple of presents, but one of them is usually something extraordinary.

I rip open the top of the box and nearly jump through the roof.

“A Stratocaster guitar in electric lime! This was limited edition!” I gasp. I can barely contain my excitement and leap over to my parents giving them both a big hug still clutching the guitar neck in my hand.

“Hey, wait, let me put my coffee down,” my mom says, setting her mug on the side table and pulling me into a hug. “You deserve it, bud, you’ve had a great year. We are so proud of you.”

“Where did you even find this? I didn’t even think they made this color anymore.” I ask.

“I’m your mother, I can do anything.” My mom says with a wink.

“Oh shit, the cinnamon rolls,” my dad says, leaping off the couch and hurrying into the kitchen. I caress the guitar and try to pick at the strings. “And we got you some lessons at the music studio in town. You’ll be a rockstar in no time,” my dad shouts from the kitchen.

My cheeks start to hurt from the massive grin on my face. I lean against the couch, trying to play something that sounds like a song as my dad brings me a cinnamon roll. My parents talk about the ranch and how they want to start to build a guesthouse at the back of the property. The morning flows, as it does every Christmas. We open the rest of the presents and then spend the day watching movies. This is why December is my favorite month.

FIVE

TYLER

NOW

Auburn Hills is divided by a big grid, with Main Street running through the center and two rail lines bookending it. On either side of Main Street are two ranges of rolling hills. It takes less than an hour to go from one hill across Main Street to the other. My ranch is up in the North Hills, while Reid lives at the base we call “Newtown.” It’s filled with mostly new-development apartments and townhouses. Just parallel to Newtown is the Arts Quarter, where his uncle lives. Annika’s photo studio, Golden Hour Studios, is the landmark at the corner leading the way to a side street of art studios and galleries. Across Main Street is the Historic District, where Annika and Chloe live, and the Business District, parallel. Schools, doctor offices, town halls, and other businesses tend to clutter this corner of the town. Just last year, the city built a parking garage because it had been a nightmare to find any street parking while you were there.

When I say this is a small town, I mean it. The population is barely twenty thousand, so even if you don’t know someone, you probably know their uncle or neighbor. Or you both have the same doctor, or both had the same third-grade teacher. Everyone is connected in some way. When I was leaving for college, this felt suffocating and was partly why I wanted to get out of here. Even when I returned several years later, it felt like too much. It felt like I couldn’t get a moment of peace to myself. Everyone knew what happened to my parents and swarmed me. Or the opposite—they avoided the subject all together. I couldn’t tell if people cared or if it was the newest gossip around town that brought them around. Either way, I didn’t want to be involved in it. I’d walk into a store and the face of the cashier would morph into something that resembled a melting snowman. It was awkward and painful.

It’s been a few years since the accident, so the buzz has quieted. Though if I thought people avoiding the subject of my parents was bad, several years later, it’s as if they never existed. I feel like I can’t bring them up to anyone or feel bad about their absence because it’s been so long. That’s why I’m so glad I opened up to Chloe. It felt liberating to keep their memory alive during our little hike. It’s as if she brought me back from the dead, too. In fact, being with her and talking about them, I haven’t felt that sense of joy in a long while. It felt like they were never gone.

Reid’s parents are moving to Auburn Hills to be closer to him and his uncle Martin. His dad and stepmom, Pam, are moving to the same neighborhood as Martin, the far west corner of the Arts District. Not that many houses are typically on the market here. So, when a cozy Craftsman a couple of blocks from Main Street went on the market, Sean and Pam Parker did not hesitate to scoop it up. It didn’t hurt that Martin has an ongoing flirtation with the agent that listed the house. He was able to send the info to Sean before the “For Sale” sign was hammered into the lawn. I’ve known the Parkers almost as long as I’ve known Reid, and they’ve always been incredibly welcoming, which makes sense, considering the type of guy Reid is. Since he’s moved up here, his parents visited almost every other month. A five hour drive from the San Francisco Bay Area doesn’t keep them from visiting their son.

A prime example of Reid’s character is the cup of hot coffee that’s always waiting for me in the staff room at work. Parker Wellness has become Auburn Hills’s one-stop wellness shop. Reid and I work as physical therapists, but I also offer massage therapy to some clients who need more restorative healing. In college, my buddy Griff dared me to take a massage therapy class, and a few months later, I had my license. At the time, I wanted to be a physical therapist for athletes, but massage therapy proved to be meaningful work. I suppose I still would love to be a PT for athletes, but the thought of leaving Auburn Hills gives me intense anxiety. I helped Griff after college when he got into pro climbing, but stopped once he started touring to avoid being away from home. He made me an offer to be his official personal PT earlier this year, but I declined.

I grab the cup that has my name scribbled on the side and take a sip to shake the nerves that have climbed up my spine since remembering Griff’s offer. I walk through the hall to my office and get it set up for my first client. Since I joined Parker Wellness a few years ago, Martin has added float tanks, an acupuncturist, and even a Zen room. Clients who pay for any of the services have an hour to use the Zen room. It’s a dimly lit room with reclining lounge chairs and ambient sound playing. Snacks and water are provided for folks to relax and unwind. Just recently, he opened the room for anyone to use at an hourly rate. It’s a brilliant business strategy. Regulars to the Zen room are teachers and the staff at Town Hall who just want a little peace and quiet. I can imagine a little serenity goes a long way for them.

“Hey, man, what flavor did Veronica give you today?” Reid knocks on the open door to my office. He’s wearing a polo embroidered with the company logo, as I am. Veronica is the barista at the Human Bean, the coffee shop across the street. Reid always tells her to surprise me when he gets coffee.

I take another sip. “I think it’s a hazelnut latte. It’s a little sweet and nutty.”

“Just like you.” He winks and I chuckle. “I think she has a thing for you,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“If anything, you are the sweet and nutty one. And who has a thing for me?”