Learning to Fall (4 page)

“No.” His expression softened, as though he found my question cute instead of offensive. “I’m not sick. Scout’s honor.”

“Were you in the Boy Scouts?” I asked as he held up three fingers.

“Only for three years. Turns out I had a problem with authority.”

I paused with the glass of beer halfway to my mouth. “Do you still have a problem with authority?”

Daniel’s grin was nothing short of wicked. “I think it depends on who you ask. Bottoms up, Imogen.”

I took a small, conservative sip. After drinking wine the beer tasted strong and somewhat bitter, albeit not wholly unpleasant. “It’s good,” I said, somewhat surprised as I’d never really liked any type of alcohol except for wine.

“It’s a Belgian ale. One of the better ones out there. Although I might be a little bit biased.” He took his beer back from me and drank, bottom lip touching the smudged imprint my mouth had left.

By accident, I wondered, or on purpose?

“So tell me about yourself, Imogen Finley. What do you like to do?” One brow, the color of it several shades darker than his hair, arched up. “Besides hang out at bars by yourself.”

“Oh, I’m not here by myself,” I said quickly. “I came with my friend.”

His second brow lifted. “And is this an invisible friend?”

“No, of course not.” I twisted around on my stool, searching for Whitney, but she had either stepped outside or was in the bathroom. “We’re roommates,” I explained, even though he hadn’t asked. “We went to college together. She’s from Florida.”

“And where are you from?”

I wasn’t accustomed to someone taking such a personal interest in me. Usually people asked the minimum amount of questions required to be polite, and quickly moved on. I understood why, and I didn’t blame them for it. I knew I was boring. Everyone thought so. Everyone except for Whitney…and now apparently Daniel. He could have gotten up and left at any moment, but he hadn’t. Despite my awkward silences and stammering he was, for reasons I couldn’t even begin to figure out, genuinely interested in me. I could tell by the way he studied me so intently and kept his body turned towards mine that his attention wasn’t feigned. Despite his large frame he sat comfortably on his small bar stool, long legs kicked out in front of him. The only movement emanating from his body came from his thumb as he tapped it against the side of his glass, the edge of his nail clicking out a slow, absent rhythm.

Doing my best to mimic his relaxed state, I shifted my shoulder back and propped my elbow on the bar. A chunk of bangs fell into my eyes and I shoved them behind my ear, wishing for once I’d thought to do something different with my hair. Something cool. Something impressive. Something that said ‘mysterious sexy nymph’ instead of ‘dowdy looking professor’. “Pennsylvania. I’m from Pennsylvania. A little town about an hour outside of Philadelphia.”

“What’s it called?”

“I’m sure you’ve never heard of it.”

“Try me,” he invited.

“Pipersville.”

Daniel’s mouth twisted into a rueful grin. “Never heard of it.”

Not many people had. Tucked away in the middle of Bucks County, Pipersville was a hidden gem of historic farmhouses and rolling countryside only the obnoxiously wealthy could afford. I had grown up in one of those historic farmhouses. I had galloped through the rolling countryside on a horse worth more than most people’s cars. In Pipersville, I had been given everything money could buy except for the one thing it couldn’t: my parent’s unconditional love.

“You look sad,” Daniel said softly. I started when he skimmed his hand across the top of mine, and looked up to find his grey eyes studying me with a quiet intensity that made me wonder if he was capable of seeing through my shy exterior to the secrets I kept so carefully hidden. Secrets I kept from Whitney. From my mother. Even from myself.  

“I’m not,” I said even as I forced myself to smile. “I was just thinking about home.”

Thankfully, Daniel didn’t press the issue. “What brought you to Camden?” he asked as he reached across the bar for the pitcher of beer and poured the rest of it into his glass. “I know lots of people who are leaving Maine, but I can’t say as I’ve met someone recently who’s moving in.”

“I am a-” I stopped short, biting back the
P
word just in time. Beneath my sensible green sweater my chest rose and fell as my heartbeat accelerated. I didn’t like to lie, but I also didn’t want to be labeled as what I so clearly was: a boring college professor whose entire life was devoted to her career. It may have been crazy, but for once I wanted to be the
exciting
girl. The adventurous girl. The girl who had a cool, out-of-box job that made people sit up and take notice. Not the girl who everyone wrote off as predictable and dull. “I’m a soccer coach.”

As far as jobs went it wasn’t exactly the most creative, but I’d never been very good at thinking on my feet. Given time, I could find out the answer to nearly any question or problem…but when given only a few seconds my brain bounced around like a ping pong ball, landing on the first thing it could think of. In this case, a soccer coach. Something I knew absolutely nothing about.

“Really?” Daniel set his beer down. “That’s awesome. Where at?”

“Stonewall College. I just started this summer.”
Sorry Whitney
. Surely she wouldn’t mind me stealing her identity for one conversation. After all, it wasn’t as though I was ever going to see Daniel again. I would never be able to come out to The Pier after tonight, but it was a small price to pay when I considered the alternative: absolute and complete embarrassment when I was caught in my big fat lie.

“I played some soccer in high school.” 

Judging by Daniel’s physique, I couldn’t say I was surprised, even though I’d been secretly hoping he knew as much about the sport as I did. Beginning to feel more than a little bit ridiculous for telling such a senseless lie, I opened my mouth to come clean…only to abruptly shut it with a hard
snap
of my teeth as his hand brushed across my thigh a second time.

I actually gasped, a tiny hiccup of sound that drew Daniel’s gaze down to my mouth. He lingered on my lips far longer than he should have and even though he wasn’t touching me - even though there was a good eight inches of empty space between us - his unyielding stare was far more physical than any ‘accidental’ touch I’d felt so far.

“Sorry,” he said, even though the glint in his eyes said he was anything but when he finally lifted his head. “Lost my balance.”

“No you didn’t,” I said before I could stop myself.

His eyebrows pushed up against the brim of his black knit cap. “I didn’t?”

“No,” I said firmly. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing.”
And I think you’ve done it countless times before
. His movements were too perfect not to have been practiced on a dozen other unsuspecting girls just like me. “I think you do it all the time.”

Daniel studied me a moment longer, expression completely inscrutable, before in one smooth, perfectly balanced motion he stood up and pushed in his bar stool. “It was nice to meet you, Imogen Finley.”

He was leaving. I didn’t know why I felt so disappointed, not when he’d stayed and talked to me far longer than most men would have. “It was nice to meet you as well.” I looked away, training my gaze down at my lap where my fingers were linked in a tight knot. Oh well. What had I expected? That he would ask for my number? I may have taken Whitney’s job, but I wasn’t her.
She
was the one hot guys like Daniel asked out. Not me.

Never me.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself
, I ordered sternly.
He’s just a man you met in a bar. A man you’re never going to see again.

If only I knew how wrong I was.

CHAPTER THREE

Day Two

I woke up the next morning with a headache. Groaning, I rolled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom to stare blearily at my reflection in the mirror.

“Two glasses of wine,” I complained to the frizzy haired, red-eyed woman looking back at me. “Two glasses of wine, and this is what you look like which is why we don’t got out on a weeknight.”

“Are you talking to yourself again?” Looking equally the worse for wear, Whitney slipped in behind me and made a beeline for the toilet. “You know that’s weird, right?”

Turning on the cold water, I wet a washcloth and carefully dabbed at the circles under my eyes. “You know we have a second bathroom, right?”

“But it’s all the way downstairs.”

“You act as though it’s a mile away.”

“When I’m this hungover, it might as well be. Jesus Christ.” Finishing her business, Whitney flushed the toilet and came over to stand beside me. “We look like shit.”

Studying our faces in the mirror, I was forced to agree. “Going out last night was a bad idea.”

“Going out last night was a
great
idea.” Grabbing her toothbrush, Whitney applied a liberal amount of toothpaste and began briskly brushing her teeth. “I fink I fet my next foyfriend,” she said, her words coming out gargled as white suds leaked out of one side of her mouth. “His fame is Feorge.”

Stepping away from the spit zone, I pulled back the vinyl shower curtain and twisted the silver handle all the way to the left. After a brief hesitation water sputtered out, picking up momentum as force built in the pipes. I knew from experience the water was freezing cold and needed at least five minutes of run time before it started to warm up. Oblivious to the nuances of old houses, Whitney and I had called our poor landlord a dozen times before we figured it out.

“Do you mean George?” Selecting a beige towel from the shelf above the toilet, I hung it up on a tiny metal hook next to the shower and wondered how long my roommate planned on remaining in the bathroom. We may have been best friends, but I drew the line at stripping naked in front of her.   

“Yeah.” Pulling her hair back, Whitney spat in the sink and used the washcloth I’d dampened to wipe her mouth. “George. Can’t remember his last name.

“Clooney?” I suggested dryly. My roommate’s taste in older men was well known and, courtesy of the dating blog she wrote in her spare time, well documented. 

“Did you just make a joke? You did!” Whitney clapped her hands together. We both grimaced as the sound echoed in the tiny bathroom. “Hungover Mo is way funnier than normal Mo.”

“Har har,” I muttered. Sticking a hand under the showerhead, I felt the water. It was warm, and quickly on its way to becoming hot. “How long are planning on staying in here?”

“I’m on my way out. Leave the shower on. I’ll hop in after you.”

I waited until Whitney had shut the door behind her before I undressed and stepped over the edge of the tub. Facing away from the showerhead I closed my eyes as hot water sluiced down over my body, making quick work of my headache. As I shampooed my hair and worked conditioner into the ends, I went through my schedule, a silent recitation of the day’s events I’d been doing since I was thirteen and my mother coolly informed me it was time I ‘became responsible for my own affairs’. Most thirteen-year-olds probably would have balked at the idea of scheduling their own school pick-ups, but I hadn’t argued.

I never did.

6:00AM wake up, check

6:10AM shower, check

6:25AM hair, makeup, dress

7:00AM arrive at the college

7:15AM breakfast, review notes for first class

8:15AM history of english literature

10:45AM one hour prep period

11:45AM lunch

12:30PM american literature

3:00PM faculty meeting

4:00PM history of english literature

6:30PM review notes

8:00PM arrive home, eat dinner

8:30PM work on thesis paper

10:00PM bed

I ran through my schedule three separate times before I was satisfied every hour of the day was being properly utilized. Stepping out of the shower, I dried my hair, wrapped myself into the towel I’d hung up, and shouted to Whitney that the shower was free. Head bobbing to the loud music blasting out of her cell phone, she passed me in the hallway and slapped my butt, scooting inside the bathroom and slamming the door before I could retaliate.

Shaking my head, I padded barefoot into my room and opened the closet, revealing three rows of professionally tailored pants and shirts in muted colors hanging neatly on velvet lined hangers.

After college, most of my fellow graduates had gone out and purchased brand new wardrobes to match their brand new jobs at fancy law firms and prestigious schools and wealthy investment firms. I hadn’t needed to buy a thing. My taste in clothes had always run more on the traditional side. While my peers had worn everything from pajama pants to short shorts to class, I’d stuck with the classics: dark jeans, trousers, silk blouses, and button-ups. 

This morning I selected an outfit similar to the one I had worn yesterday: dove gray slacks and a pale blue cashmere sweater that felt heavenly against my skin.

After drying my hair I drew it back in a low ponytail and secured any stray wisps with a few strategically placed bobby pins. Small pearl studs, a few dabs of clear lipgloss, a sweep of mascara, a quick spritz of perfume, and I was ready to go.

Overall, I felt calmer today. There were still a few butterflies in my stomach, but now that I had established a routine they were resting quietly. 

Rhythm and repetition,
I told myself as I grabbed a banana out of the fruit bowl in the kitchen on the way out to Roo.
Rhythm and repetition are the keys to perfection
.

I knew some people (Whitney being a prime example) who thrived on disorder and chaos, but I wasn’t one of them. I liked - I
needed
- to know when and why things were going to happen. It was one of the reasons I’d wanted to be a teacher. With a syllabus, there were no surprises. No ‘what ifs’. Everything was clearly laid out. Everything was planned.

Exactly the way it should have been.

* * * * *

The faculty parking lot was all but empty when I arrived. I wasn’t surprised. As the newest professor on staff I’d been given the hours and the classes no one else wanted to teach. I didn’t mind. How could I, when I was finally doing what I’d always wanted to do? If they’d asked me to teach at two in the morning I would have done so gladly, although I doubted my students would have shared in my enthusiasm.

I looked left and right as I followed the main walking path into the heart of campus, admiring the beautiful landscape and classic New England architecture. Built on land donated by a wealthy benefactor in the eighteen hundreds, Stonewall was the oldest college in the entire state of Maine. Her age showed in the dorms built of plaster and the ancient oaks that were as much a part of the campus as the buildings themselves. All of the roofs were pitched and gabled. The gardens vast and wandering. The paths immaculately tended. 

Walking under a brick archway covered in ropy vines of dark green ivy, I used my brand new white plastic keycard to let myself into the Wilson English Center, so named for Jacob Wilson, the second president of Stonewall and a veteran of the Civil War. My sensible two-inch heels clicked sharply on marble tile as I made my way up to my office on the third floor. Someone - the custodian, perhaps - had left the windows open overnight and a cool breeze met me at the top of the stairs. In the summer months I imagined the third floor would be unbearably hot and stuffy, but with autumn right around the corner it was pleasantly cool and smelled faintly of flowers. Shedding my jacket, I greeted the secretary before unlocking my office and closing the door behind me.

Boasting white walls and a single window overlooking the quad, my office was small and plain with barely enough room for the mahogany desk I’d had shipped up from Pennsylvania.
But
, I thought with the same tiny thrill of excitement I’d experienced yesterday when I first walked through the door,
it’s mine
.

Built in shelves painted a bright, robin’s egg blue covered the back wall from floor to ceiling. Pleased with the rapidly growing reference section I had started from scratch, I added two more books I’d brought from home before sitting down behind my desk and booting up the computer that had come with the office: a wheezing old desktop that had the tendency to freeze up at the most inopportune times. It really needed to be replaced, but I wasn’t about to start making demands during my very first week.

Glancing up at the black plastic clock I’d hung above the door, I noted the time (7:16, right on schedule) and got to work reviewing the lecture notes I’d spent all summer preparing. I was so consumed with the formative years of Shakespeare I didn’t hear the first knock on my door, or the second. When the third coincided with the door being opened I finally looked up, squinting a bit as my eyes transitioned from computer screen to natural light.

“Can I help you?” I asked, mouth hovering in a polite smile as I studied the man standing in the doorway. Tall and broad shouldered, he was well dressed in an oxford blue shirt and maroon tie. He looked vaguely familiar, but with his brown hair and brown eyes he could have easily met the description of three dozen people I’d glimpsed walking around campus yesterday.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, gesturing at my computer. “I just wanted to pop in and officially introduce myself. John Hainsworth.”

I may not have recognized his face, but his name certainly rang a bell. John Hainsworth was the director chair of the entire English department. We’d spoke on the phone and corresponded through email, but had never met face to face. In my mind I’d imagined him to be much older.

“Imogen Finley. It’s very nice to meet you, sir.” I stood up and crossed the room to shake his hand. His grip was firm, his skin warm and slightly dry.

“Call me John,” he said with a warm smile. “I can’t say how excited I am to have a scholar of your caliber on staff. I know you must have received job offers from all over the country, and just wanted to say on behalf of the entire English department how thrilled we are that you chose Stonewall.”

There was a very specific reason I’d chosen Stonewall. A reason I’d moved to Maine. A reason I’d turned down Harvard and Brown and Yale for a private liberal arts college in the middle of nowhere. But those reasons were my own, not to be shared with anyone else, least of all my new boss.

“Thank you very much,” I said. “Stonewall is a beautiful campus.”  

“I know it’s probably a lot smaller than you’re used to, but I like to think it has its own unique charm. I’m a transfer myself, you know. Born and bred Kentuckian.” He sighed and raked a hand through his short, neatly trimmed hair. “My mom still hasn’t forgiven me for becoming a Yankee.”

As I recalled the last words my mother had spoken to me, my smile became strained and brittle. Thankfully, John didn’t seem to notice. “We have something in common, then.”

He propped a shoulder against the doorframe and rubbed his chin. “Are you settling in well so far? Is there anything you need? How was your first day?”

“I’m settling in quite well. Everyone has been very welcoming and kind.” By far, the biggest struggle had been my first class with the football players, but since then everything had gone surprisingly well and I was looking forward to meeting more of my students.

“I would hope so.” John grinned, revealing an immaculate smile that must have made his orthodontist very proud. Staring at his perfect teeth I couldn’t help but compare him to another man I’d met recently. A man with a slightly crooked incisor and the most captivating grey eyes I had ever seen. 

Daniel Logan.

He’d left so abruptly last night I never had time to ask him what he did, where he lived, who he was. The entire experience had been so surreal I almost would have thought he was something my mind had conjured up to counter the stress of the past few weeks, except I still remembered, in vivid detail, what his hand had felt like on my thigh and the bright spark of attraction that had jolted through my body when his arm brushed against mine.

It was nice to meet you, Imogen Finley.

As his parting words echoed in my mind I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d meant them.
Probably not
, I decided with an inward shake of my head. After all, men like Daniel Logan weren’t exactly lacking for female companionship. I sincerely doubted I’d been anything more than a novelty to him; someone to pass the time between the charming and beautiful women he usually hit on. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he didn’t even remember my name. So why was I remembering his?

“...after your last class today?” John’s expectant smile jolted me out of my thoughts. Chagrined to realize the entire time John had been talking to me I’d been daydreaming about Daniel like some insipid schoolgirl lusting after a boyhood crush, I bit the inside of my cheek and waited for him to say something else. When he didn’t, I knew there was only one thing I could do in an attempt to save face.