5. Jeb
Chapter five
Jeb
“Hello?” the woman snaps. “Oh, are you Corbin’s friend? He’s not here yet, but you can come on in.” Her tone swiftly changes from annoyance to congenial.
“No, I’m not.” I stumble on my words. My head droops toward the ground like a wilted sunflower. I realize the mistake of coming here, but it’s too late. The Easter service high has worn off too soon. Misjudgments love me. They’re my thing, apparently. “I see you’re busy, so I’ll go ahead and go.” I pirouette on the mini porch, willing my quads, hamstrings, and glutes to do their thing so I can walk without crumbling to the ground.
The sidewalk looks good. Recently power washed, I presume. I pretend to be anywhere other than Fallon McCann’s cement walkway.
“Wait,” she commands with authority, and I stop abruptly, wondering if she knows who I am. I’ve googled her. I’m sure she’s googled me, too. Probably stitched together a voodoo doll.
I pivot, ambling back to the porch, my own version of a walk of shame. I’d hurry to my truck if I was smart, but something about Fallon’s voice means business. Looking her in the eye might singlehandedly be the hardest thing I’ve had to do since the accident. I remind myself that I deserve for my life to be hard. I deserve every minute of this.
“Are you Fallon?” I ask, still not capable of meeting her gaze. I know what she looks like. I’ve stared at the pictures online. The ones attached to his obituary. Her blue eyes, piercing. Blond hair flowing, always one piece seemingly loose from her ponytail.
“I am.” I can tell by the way she lingers on the m that she doesn’t know who I am. “And you are?”
“I’m Jeb Baker, ma’am.” I finally look up, just to be sure I see the agony dull her shine when I say my name.
She’s beautiful.
I knew she would be. Rhett was a good-looking guy; I knew they were a gorgeous couple. But Fallon, in real life, is an angel.
I killed the fiancé of a literal angel on earth .
I wait for her eyes to glaze over, the door to slam in my face, a punch to the nose… anything.
“Jeb?” she asks, fiddling with her earring, then throwing her braided hair over her shoulder.
I hold my breath, waiting for Fallon’s reaction.
“I’m so sorry.” I break the silence, digging my hands in my pockets. “I’m sorry about the accident. And I’m sorry it took me so long to say I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”
A single tear falls from her right eye, and that’s all it takes for me to turn my head and vomit in the Hosta next to her porch. Of all the times I pondered this moment, being sick wasn’t on my radar.
Grieving someone you have never met is uncharted and wild.
I stand, wiping my mouth with the sleeve of my jacket before taking it off and draping it over my forearm.
“I’m sorry, Fallon. For everything.” I watch as her eyes track from the vomit to my face. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t make a move. “I’ll get the hose.”
“Wait, Jeb,” she says once again, this time gently.
“Give me a hug first.” She steps forward. Before I can replay her words to make sure I’m hearing correctly, she’s throwing an arm around my upper back, pulling my body into hers. It’s awkward. It’s stiff. I’m holding a jacket smeared with sick. I stop breathing for a second, half paralyzed by the whole interaction. I start to feel faint.
If vomiting in the front flowerbed wasn’t on my radar, Fallon engulfing me with her arms sends the radar to a whole new galaxy. It’s like people on social media who have a video go viral, then make a follow-up video saying I didn’t expect this to blow up .
Hesitantly, I reach around with my arm, the one that doesn’t have the vomit jacket tossed over it, patting Fallon between her shoulder blades. Not wanting to caress her but wanting to console her, I gently graze her upper back with my palm. Fallon’s free arm threads around me, squeezing.
“I’m sorry. More than you’ll ever know. I’m incredibly sorry,” I whisper close to her ear. Rhett should be the one hugging her right now. A long, cozy one. I shouldn’t be privileged and alive enough to put my hands on his girl, even if she initiated. I shake my head, feeling sick again, and for a brief second, I think my legs might give out.
Fallon starts to speak but falters. The pressure of her arm constricting around me says more than any of her words could. It’s okay. I don’t blame you. I know you’re sorry.
“Ahemm.” A deep voice from behind me, and the man it belongs to clears his throat. “Am I interrupting something?”
Fallon and I break free and look at each other, both with tears threatening to spill from our eyes. My chest clenches. I feel like I’m going to have a fucking panic attack after seeing the sadness in her eyes. I take deep breaths and search her face for any indication she wants me to leave.
“Corbin, this is Jeb. Jeb, my brother Corbin.” Fallon collects herself, adjusting the hem of her shirt while making the introductions.
“Jeb, as in the Jeb?” her brother— Corbin —asks, staring at me over the rim of his sunglasses. I can’t see his eyes, so I can’t tell if he’s indifferent to me or ready to throw fists. My stomach constricts along with my chest, waiting for a punch to the gut.
“Yes, the Jeb.” Fallon pats my forearm.
“Well, perfect timing, Jeb,” says Corbin. “My friend can’t make it, and we need to get Fallon’s shit moved to her new house. Why don’t you head in and grab a box.” He slaps me on the shoulder.