Somewhere Between Falling

Chapter One

It started with a green balloon.

I was sitting on a wooden park bench, clasping a to-go cup of coffee in my gloved hands. It was still too hot to drink, so I just sat there watching the steam mixing with my own breath. It smelled like snow, and I found myself staring up into the sky waiting for the first flakes to fall and change the color of the world.

I never figured out where the balloon came from. Probably a small child lost hold of the string and was in tears over losing his new toy. It floated up through the bare trees, catching just at the top of the branches. I watched the wind tug and pull on that green balloon until, finally, it made its second escape of the day. I continued watching it rise higher and higher in the early morning sky until it was no more than a pinprick in the distance.

At that moment, though it sounds crazy, I found myself envying that balloon.

I lowered my gaze to my still steaming cup of coffee and dared a small sip, letting the warm liquid slide down my throat. I opened the book I brought to keep me company and then I waited some more.

It seemed I was always waiting for him.

A stranger sat down on the bench beside me. It wasn’t unusual. After all, it was a public park. Usually, it was little old ladies who had come to feed the birds or knit a sweater. Sometimes it was a graying man taking a break from walking his yappy little dog to read the paper. Other times it was a young mother just needing a spot to rest after chasing her wildly rambunctious toddler, but today it was a guy with a book and a cup of coffee as well. He appeared to be about my age, maybe a year or two older, but, of course, looks can be deceiving and he very well could have been middle-aged. Wasn’t that a thing? Men growing older more gracefully than women? He had a mess of dark hair, and he obviously hadn’t shaved in at least a day or two. But I had always liked a bit of scruff, so I wasn’t put off by it. How funny that we both chose the same bench with our twin to-go cups and hardbound books today.

He caught me staring at him, so I quickly averted my eyes back to the open book on my lap.

“Harry Potter?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you reading Harry Potter?” he asked again, smiling crookedly at me. Definitely not middle-aged, I thought.

“Um, no. It’s Henry James.” I narrowed my eyes.

“Ah, close.” He chuckled quietly, and I couldn’t help but smile at the sound of it.

I checked my watch.

He was now thirty minutes late.

I wondered why I kept doing this to myself. Why I thought he was worth waiting for when he obviously didn’t consider me important enough to ever show up on time was completely beyond me.

“There’s a hole-in-the-wall bookstore a few blocks south from here. I always find my best treasures there. Once I found a first-edition copy of Leaves of Grass.”

“Oh captain, my captain,” I murmured.

“You know Walt Whitman?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Who doesn’t?”

“Who indeed,” he said with a pleased smile.

“I’ll have to check it out some time,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee and realizing it was now too cold to drink. Funny how quickly that can happen.

“I could show you now if you’d like,” he offered.

My first instinct was to say no, but I stopped and found myself considering it instead. It was a strange invitation, seeing as we didn’t know each other, but for some reason, the idea of leaving with this perfect stranger wasn’t all that unappealing. I couldn’t help but wonder if the only reason I felt comfortable talking to this man was that he was attractive. If he was a dirty, toothless old man covered in grime and bearing the distinct stench of alcohol and cigarette smoke, would I be as willing to consider his invitation? Of course not.

“So how about it?” he asked again, and I realized I hesitated too long.

I was supposed to meet him thirty minutes ago, but it wasn’t unusual for him to be late. He showed up when he showed up. But a part of me wondered, How would he react if he discovered that I wasn’t waiting for him like always? Would he worry about me? I could find out. All I had to do was say okay.

“Okay,” I answered simply, standing up. I tossed my cup in the nearby trashcan and looked up at this stranger who stood beside me. “Lead the way, sir.”

I knew then that this might be a huge mistake—in fact, the thought crossed my mind that perhaps this would be the last mistake that I’d ever make, but it was infinitely better than sitting on this park bench waiting for someone who might decide not to show up.

“I guess I should introduce myself. I’m Tamsin,” I told him, holding out my hand.

“Tamsin,” he repeated softly, more to himself than to me. I’ve never liked my name much—it always sounded more suitable for a heroine in some fantasy novel, not a name someone actually had in real life—but the way he said it made it sound kind of beautiful.

“I’m Tobias,” he continued, which I thought suited him well, as his hand grasped my own.

“Nice to meet you, Tobias.”

“Same to you.”

No last names were exchanged, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like this was going anywhere but a few blocks south of here.

It began on a park bench but would end in a bookstore.

No strings.

No expectations.

Just me, a stranger named Tobias, and the smell of old leather, coffee, and paper.

“So which story are you reading?” he asked.

“Daisy Miller. Again.” I chuckled to myself. “I tend to reread my favorites.”

“Why is it your favorite?” he inquired. I sighed and tried to put into words exactly what it was about the story I liked so much.

“I guess I like it because it doesn’t have the standard happily ever after. I mean, Daisy dies at the end, which is more realistic,” I explained.

“Um, spoiler alert,” he said.

“Oh sorry,” I said as my cheeks warmed in embarrassment.

“I’m only teasing. I’ve read it before.”

As we walked, we continued to talk effortlessly. Those who read never struggle to converse with fellow readers. One of you mentions a book you loved and the other either has read it too, which begins a thorough literary dissection of the storyline, characters, and theme which then continues on and on until you begin discussing similar books you loved or hated. Or the other person hasn’t read the novel, which prompts the first person to go on and on about how the book in question demands to be read at once for one reason or another. This can go on for hours, back and forth, because of the endless supply of worlds to explore and characters to love.

This guy was a reader, and thus I found myself totally at ease making conversation with him. I hadn’t talked that much in ages, but it was nice having someone like-minded to talk to and even nicer to have someone to listen to what I had to say as though they cared and were interested in learning my thoughts. It was oddly freeing not having any expectations. I realized I could be anyone I wanted to be right now, and he wouldn’t know the difference. Of course, the same applied to him, but I didn’t mind that at the moment.

The bookshop would have been easy to miss had Tobias not pointed it out. There was a faded green-and-pink-striped awning over a solid oak door. There were no windows giving passersby a peek of what lay inside. Other than the petite sign with the words “The Book Shop” painted in gold script lettering that was barely visible from the road, there was nothing calling attention to this charming little shop.

A bell chimed as we entered, and we were immediately greeted by a fluffy, black cat and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves so thick with books that it was impossible to know where to start.

Tobias seemed to know exactly what I was thinking because, with a crooked smile, he said, “Should we start where I last left off?”

With a nod, I followed him to the far left-hand side of the room. “You’ve looked at all of these?” I asked, gesturing to the countless piles of books we just walked past.

“I have a lot of free time these days.”

“What do you do when you aren’t browsing used book stores?” I asked.

“Browsing libraries, I guess,” he said with an easy smile.

“Is there anything in your life that doesn’t revolve around books?”

“Not really,” he said with a chuckle. “Not at the moment anyway.”

“Job?”

“Professional student. You?”

“Same. Field of study?”

“Russian language and literature.”

“And just what do you plan on doing with that degree?” I teased.

“Probably work in a coffee shop for the rest of my life spouting off pretentious nonsense to unsuspecting customers as they wait for their morning lattes,” he replied with a self-deprecating air.

“At least you have a plan.” I couldn’t help but smile.

“What about you?”

“Currently undecided,” I said with a sigh. It was partly true. While I was undecided, the decision had been made for me a long time ago. I would have loved to explore more literature courses, maybe throw in a couple art classes—if it was completely up to me. But that wasn’t going to happen. My mom didn’t want me wasting my time and talent taking classes that interested me, so instead I was on a very strict course schedule that would have me graduating next spring with a pre-law degree because, according to her, there was no other option.

I had a different idea of what I wanted my life to look like, though. And it didn’t revolve around being stuck in a musty old courtroom for the rest of my life defending people who I knew damn well weren’t innocent. I pushed the thought aside, not wanting to put a damper on things. Today I was just a girl browsing a bookstore with a boy.