Learning to Fall Read online

  “Mo, are you ready yet? Come on! Hurry up.”

  I startled at the sound of Whitney’s voice, sharp with impatience and building excitement. When we were in college we had gone out nearly every weekend (or at least Whitney had), but since we’d moved to Camden we’d done little more than pop in for a quick drink before hurrying home. Understanding how important my new career was, Whitney had been more than patient with me leading up to the first day of classes.

  Now it was my turn to be patient with her.

  We came out of our bedrooms at the exact same time and stopped in the hallway. Whitney pursed her lips as she did a quick, thorough scan of my chunky green sweater and dark blue jeans I’d tucked into a pair of knee high leather boots. As was my habit, I had left my hair alone. It touched my shoulders, a thick, heavy mass of uninspiring brown. Over the years I had tried a few different styles, but nothing ever stuck. I dutifully went in for a trim every eight weeks, and even though I flipped through the magazines and earmarked half a dozen models who showcased cuts ranging from glossy layers to spiky pixies, I always found myself saying the exact same thing when my hairdresser asked what I wanted: just the split ends, please.

  My face received similar treatment. A few flicks of mascara, a sweep of blush, and a dab of lip gloss completed my entire makeup routine. Given that I didn’t exactly have a perfectly clear complexion I probably should have put on more, but I’d never understood the sense in drowning your pores in foundation. No matter what the commercials claimed, slathering a layer of thick goop on your face wasn’t good for your skin. In my experience the more foundation you put on, the worse the breakout. The worse the breakout, the more foundation you put on. And so the cycle went.

  I didn’t mind enhancing my features - mascara to make my lashes look a little darker, blush to make my cheeks a little rosier, gloss to make my lips a little shinier - but any more than that and I was seriously out of my depth.

  Much to Whitney’s everlasting dismay.

  “What the hell are you wearing?” she wailed, throwing her hands up in the air. Rings glittered on every finger. Gold hoops swung from her ears, half covered by her tousled mane of dark hair. She’d used liquid eyeliner to give herself cateyes, and even I could appreciate the effect was nothing short of sexy. Then again, Whitney never did anything in half measures. If I dared to show up at the bar wearing black leather leggings, ice pick heels, and a sheer red top I would have stuck out like a sore thumb, but somehow Whitney made her outfit look daring instead of desperate.

  She always did.

  “We’re going to a bar,” she said as we made our way to the front door. “Not a convent.”

  My fingers skimmed along the hem of my sweater before I grabbed my jacket - a practical L.L. Bean fleece - and shrugged it on. “I’m comfortable. Besides, this is Camden. Not New York City.”

  Forgoing a jacket despite the dropping temperature, Whitney wrapped a dark scarf around her neck and held open the door. “It is what you make it. Come on, Mother Teresa. Let’s go.”

  * * * *

  The walk to The Pier was a short one. A two-story bar with a cozy atmosphere and a great view of the harbor, it was the hotspot for locals. Which, I thought with a giddy surge of excitement as I sipped my wine, I officially was now. Maybe not born and bred, but a local nevertheless.

  I may have only just moved to Camden, but I already felt more comfortable in this small oceanside village than I ever had in Pennsylvania. Here the people were genuine. They didn’t know who my mother was, or who my father had been. For the first time in my life there was no one looking over my shoulder in silent judgement, and except for the pressure I put on myself to succeed there was no looming sense of expectation. I belonged here. I’d felt it in my bones from the first moment I stepped out of the car and tasted the ocean on my tongue. Unlike Massachusetts, Maine wasn’t somewhere I was staying while I prepared for the next big step in my life. Camden, Maine - Stonewall College - was the next big step. The most important one I’d ever taken…and the only one that had ever truly been mine.

  Lifting my wine glass, I used it disguise my smile as I watched Whitney parade boldly across the bar towards two guys playing pool. She always managed to fit in wherever she was, whether it be a college dorm or a tiny bar where she knew absolutely no one. I’d always envied her confidence, particularly around the opposite sex, and could only shake my head in silent amazement as she cut into the game and, within seconds, had a pool stick in one hand and a free drink in the other. The music pumping through the speakers - a combination of blues and old rock - muffled their conversation, but Whitney’s coy smile and the men’s answering grins spoke volumes.

  My best friend flirted like she breathed: effortlessly and without thought. Wooing handsome men came as second nature to her as Shakespeare’s metaphors did to me. Over the years she’d had a handful of boyfriends, although none of them ever made it past the six month mark. By her own claim Whitney was a “love ‘em and leave ‘em” type of girl. No man, no matter their looks, status, or wealth, had the ability to keep her interest for long.

  As for myself, I’d only ever had one serious boyfriend. Justin and I had dated for three years during college. Our breakup perfectly summed up our entire relationship: amicable and predictable. I had no regrets, and even still thought of him from time to time. The last I heard he was CEO of a Fortune 500 company and lived in Connecticut with his wife and two-year-old daughter.

  Following Whitney’s urging, I’d tried dating again last summer. Tried… and failed miserably. I simply didn’t know what to say to men, and while awkward equaled charming in the land of sitcoms and romantic comedies, in real life it wasn't nearly as attractive.

  At some point I would tackle dating like I had every other obstacle in my life: with a cool, collected mind and a well orchestrated plan. I would find a man of higher education who I shared similar interests with. Perhaps we would meet online, or through mutual co-workers. He would be handsome but not hot, amusing but not outrageous, committed to working but not a workaholic. After approximately two years of dating we would become engaged. Whitney would be my maid-of-honor. We would buy a house within ten miles of Stonewall and together we’d work towards achieving a self-sustaining lifestyle that met both of our needs. When the time was right we would have two children, preferably one boy and one girl. Of course I wasn’t so foolish as to assume I had control over their gender, but as for the rest…

  Taking another sip of wine, I let my gaze slowly wander across the crowd. The Pier was surprisingly full for a Tuesday. Nearly every table was occupied and the only empty seat at the bar was the one next to mine. Men and women were smiling. Laughing. Flirting.

  They make it look so easy, I thought with a familiar twinge of jealousy.

  Whitney with her two boy-toys.

  The woman and her boyfriend/husband cuddled up in the corner.

  The group of friends giggling over a pitcher of amber colored beer.

  I may have held a master’s degree from Harvard, but social interaction was a life class I’d managed to fail time and time again. No matter the situation, no matter how hard I tried to blend in, I was always ‘that girl’. The one everyone felt a little bit sorry for. The one whose name was difficult to remember. The one who constantly lingered on the edge of a conversation, but was never a part of it. Not really.

  Even now, surrounded by three dozen people, I sat in complete seclusion, as though there was an invisible wall of ice separating me from everyone else.

  Ice Queen.

  The moniker that had followed me through high school and college whispered in my ear and I visibly flinched, nails digging tiny crescent moons into my palm as my hand tightened around the delicate stem of my wine glass.

  Ice Queen.

  Frigid.

  Prude.

  “Stop it,” I said aloud, causing the bartender to turn and raise an eyebrow. He walked over, a burly man in his fifties sporting a crew cut and carrying a dishrag. Slapping the
dishrag down, he braced his hands against the edge of the bar and leaned towards me.

  “Another?” he said, nodding towards my glass. “You look like you could use it.”

  “No, I still have some…” I trailed off as I glanced down and realized I’d finished my wine. “Sure. I was drinking the white-”

  “White Zin. Not hard to remember, given that nearly everyone else is drinking beer.” He whisked my empty glass away and replaced it with a clean one. Taking a bottle out of the mini fridge he poured the wine without looking, filling my glass exactly three quarters before popping the cork back in the bottle and returning it to the fridge. “You know, I had you pegged for a tourist but this is your third time here.”

  “Yes.” More pleased than I should have been that the bartender remembered me, I extended my right hand. “Imogen Finley. I moved to Camden two weeks ago. My roommate and I are renting a house on Fitch Lane.”

  The bartender’s grip was firm. He gave my hand two hard shakes before releasing it. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Finley. Name’s Richard Moore, but you just go ahead and call me Dick. Everyone does.” His grin deepened the laugh lines around the corners of his mouth and eyes. “Even when I don’t ask them to.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “Dick was first associated with Richard in the thirteenth century. Many people believe it originated from the penis given that Richard means hard ruler, but that correlation was not used until the eighteen nineties as a British army slang word. It actually came about through writing. Rhyming was quite common at the time, and eventually Richard was shortened to Rich, then Rick, and finally Dick. In the sixteenth century Dick became synonymous with ‘lad’ and ‘man’, and by the time Shakespeare wrote Henry IV it was quite firmly established as an every man’s name.”

  Dick blinked at me. “No shit.”

  Embarrassed by my impromptu lecture - something I tended to do when I felt nervous or out of place - I bit my lip and took a deep gulp of wine. “I’m sorry. I do that sometimes. I didn’t mean to bore you.”

  “Do I look bored? Hell, that’s the most fascinating thing I’ve heard all day. What are you, a history teacher or something?”

  “A professor, actually. An English professor at Stonewall.”

  Dick blinked again. “Now you really are shittin’ me. A professor?” He scratched the back of his neck. “You can’t be a year or two older than my daughter, and she’s still in college. Went out to California to study environmental science. Never been away from home for more than a weekend. My wife thought she’d move back before the end of the first semester, but she’s been there for three years now. We see her at Christmas and three weeks every summer. She just went back on Friday.”

  “She sounds very independent and motivated. You must be proud.” And sad, I thought as I noticed the faintest glint of moisture in Dick’s eyes. Just a little bit sad that his daughter is all grown up and living her own life two thousand miles away.

  Had my parents ever gotten a little teary eyed when they spoke about my accomplishments?

  I doubted it.

  “Mighty proud.” He glanced to the other end of the bar. “Have to go refill a few drinks before the natives get too restless. You need anything, Professor?”

  “Oh.” My cheeks flushed. “You don’t have to call me that. Imogen is perfectly fine.”

  “Seems to me if someone who looks they should be in college is teaching college, they ought to be called something other than their first name. Just holler on down if you need anything.” He closed and opened one eye in an exaggerated wink. “Professor.”

  I watched Dick walk over to a tiny redhead holding out an empty beer glass before I swiveled in my seat to scan the crowd for Whitney. I found her sitting on one of the pool guy’s laps, her arms wrapped around his neck and her lips pressed to his ear. As though she could sense my stare she looked suddenly in my direction and when our gazes met lifted a dark brow in silent question.

  Come over? she mouthed.

  I shook my head, and with a shrug of her shoulders Whitney went back to nibbling on her boy toy’s earlobe. Pushing the sleeve of my sweater back, I consulted my watch. Two hours down, one to go. The watch - an older leather Fossil found at the bottom of a thrift store bargain bin - had been a graduation gift from Whitney. Wear this as a reminder, she’d told me solemnly, that even when things aren’t perfect they can still work just fine.

  The sun was beginning to set off the back deck. In the summer I imagined the deck would be filled with tables and bright umbrellas and even an outside bar. Now it stood empty save for a lone smoker, his arm braced against the railing as he stared out across the harbor. The tip of his cigarette glowed orange when he brought it to his mouth and inhaled a puff of cancer causing smoke. Wrinkling my nose, I looked past him to the twenty or so boats ranging from tiny, nondescript dinghies to sleek, elegant yachts bobbing restlessly amidst the dark frothy waves.

  In another month or so plain looking lobster boats, beat up from weeks spent out at sea, would take the place of the yachts as Camden shut down for the winter. Most of the five star restaurants would close and the galleries would either follow suit or change over to weekend hours. For the next six months the village would be in full hibernation mode. Having never experienced a true New England winter, I was looking forward to the inevitable snow and ice with a mixture of excitement and dread.

  Without warning, a gust of cold autumn air lifted my hair off my shoulders as the door to the outside deck abruptly swung open and the smoker stepped through. He stopped in the doorway to remove his bulky jacket, revealing the plain black t-shirt he wore underneath. The cotton fabric clung to his body, outlining a muscular chest that tapered down to a lean waist and dark blue jeans. He had the broad, rugged build of an athlete, but when he took a step forward he moved with the sinuous grace of a lion. His hair - what I could see of it curling out beneath a snug black beanie - was the color of wheat, and his eyes… his eyes were a restless, storm filled sky seconds before the heavens opened and the rain came pouring down. His chin lifted as he scanned the crowd before he suddenly turned his head to the right and caught me gaping.

  Our eyes met and for a moment, a moment so surreal it felt as though time itself slowed and twisted into something tangible, I forgot to breathe. I’d never been someone who judged other people based solely on their appearance, but this man - this man with his chiseled jaw and brooding stare - demanded to be judged. It was as though the deck door had opened and a movie star had stepped through, a movie star from a time when men didn’t wax their eyebrows or get botox injections or spend more money on facials than I did on rent.

  Without invitation or even asking if it was empty, he took the seat next mine and his elbow accidentally jostled my chair as he got himself situated.

  “Sorry,” he said in a low, husky voice that stirred something deep inside of me. Something primitive. Something sensual. Something I didn’t know if I had ever felt before.

  “It’s… it’s fine.” I knew I was still staring, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. Whitney was the one who consistently made a fool of herself over men, not me, and yet here I was, all but drooling into my wine. It was ridiculous. It was embarrassing. It was absurd. And yet there was nothing I could do to stop it. For the first time in my life, I was completely transfixed by a member of the opposite sex. Unfortunately, my unblinking eye contact wasn’t exactly subtle.

  “Do I know you?” The stranger braced his forearm against the edge of the bar as he turned to face me. His expression was passive, but a hint of interest glimmered in his piercing gray eyes. At least, I thought it was interest. I hoped it was interest even though there was no reason on earth why a guy like him would be interested in a girl like me.

  “No.” Say something else, my brain demanded. Your name. Just say your name! Im-o-gen. Say it! But my mouth wouldn’t move, and the awkward silence that followed was painfully familiar.

  It was the same silence that had invaded every date I’d ever been on. The
same silence that had sabotaged any attempt I’d ever made to talk to a man I found vaguely attractive. The same silence that never failed to turn me into a blushing, stammering imbecile.

  Say something.

  “I saw you outside,” I blurted. “On the deck. You were smoking.” Not the best opening line, but it beat remaining silent.

  “Yes.” His eyes narrowed and he rubbed his chin, drawing my eye down to the scruff of beard that clung to his strong, angular jaw. “I was. If you’re going to tell me smoking causes cancer you should save your breath. I’ve heard it before.”

  Oh he had, had he?

  “Smoking was first used in shamanistic rituals, although it wasn’t until the sixteenth century that tobacco was widely consumed and distributed, mostly by the Europeans who regarded opium smoking as beneficial to their health. What we know today as the cigarette is thought to have originated in South America. In 1803 it became popular in France where it was first manufactured on a massive scale.” Why was it that five seconds ago I could barely manage a single word, and now I couldn’t seem to close my mouth? What was wrong with me? “After the Crimean War cigarettes spread to many English speaking countries, including the United States, but it was German doctors who first connected smoking to lung cancer. Since then smoking has been commonly known to cause emphysema, chronic bronchitis, cardiovascular disease, and a plethora of other cancers including but not limited to esophagus cancer, kidney cancer, and cervical cancer.”

  The stranger sat back in his chair as the faintest hint of a grin lifted one side of his mouth, revealing a dimple in the middle of his right cheek and a slightly crooked incisor, the only physical imperfection I’d witnessed so far. “Well then I guess it’s a good thing I don’t have a cervix.”

  It was a small miracle that I hadn’t chosen that exact moment to take a sip of wine, because I definitely would have spit it all over the bar. “I’m sorry,” I said in a strained voice. “But I don’t know if you’re joking or not.”