CHAPTER FIFTEEN SAWYER
C HAPTER F IFTEEN
SAWYER
Fallon didn’t come back right away.
Nor did she come back within an hour.
We are treading close to two hours since she left, and all I can think about is how badly I want to check on her. And on Sully.
The look on his face, the pain, the disorientation—I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more devastating.
In a very short amount of time, Sully has clawed his way into my life and has settled right in my chest. I’ve never had the kind of relationship Fallon has with Sully, and I know I’m not strong enough to be in her position, the sole caregiver of someone with Alzheimer’s.
Just being this close to Sully—which, in reality, isn’t too close at all—is difficult.
Since Fallon never came back and there was still plenty for me to do, I picked up the paint gun—after tarping everything that shouldn’t be painted—and started painting cabin number one.
The spray easily transferred to the drywall, covering the worn-down beige.
Fallon and Sully wanted to preserve the exposed wood beams lining the cabin’s front wall, so I made sure to tarp those well—I’d hate to get any paint on the natural wood.
As the white hits the wall, I picture what the finished product will look like.
A natural cabin feel, but with floors that match the exposed wood, making the whole space bright and cheery.
The darkness that creeps into the cabin at night with the beige walls, olive-green carpet, and heavy natural wood furniture can be quite overwhelming—trust me, I know from experience—but these new plans will still give visitors a mountainy atmosphere while staying in a space that’s more modern and appealing.
Just as I’m finishing up the last wall, the plastic tarp shielding the doorway parts and Fallon steps into the cabin.
She’s no longer in her work clothes, but rather a pair of blue cotton shorts and a simple Canoodle, California shirt.
Her hair is wet and braided into two long french braids, and her face has a freshly scrubbed dewy glow.
She looks... cuddle-able.
Annnd I’ve never said that word before in my entire life.
“Sawyer, I’m so sorry,” she starts, anxiety written all over her face.
“Hey, no need to apologize.” I set the paint gun down.
“You didn’t have to keep working. I assumed once you finished the floor, you’d call it a night.”
“There was more time on the clock; figured I might as well keep moving forward. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course it’s okay.” But the look on her face tells me another story. She worries her lip as she takes in the freshly painted room, her arms folded across her chest.
I take a step forward and bend at the knees to look her in the eyes. “Are you okay, Fallon?”
When she looks up at me, tears fill her eyes. She shakes her head. “No, I’m not.”
Didn’t think so.
“You know what, let’s get out of here,” I say, taking her by the arm. “I can clean up in a little bit.”
“I can help—”
“What you can do is follow me.” I guide her gently and part the plastic for her.
When we step outside, I’m immediately hit by the stark darkness of being in the middle of the San Jacinto Mountains.
I’ve been so cooped up in these cabins with the lights on that I failed to recognize just how dark it’s gotten.
The trees have turned to deep shadows, wavering in the background, their branches barely bristling in the light breeze.
Solar lights line the pathway along the cabins, illuminating the sidewalk in a pale yellow.
And up above, in a clear night sky, stars shine impossibly large, as if trying to replace the missing sun as they glitter above us.
I bring her over to Sully’s bench, and we both take a seat.
I drape my arm along the back and turn toward her.
She brings her legs up to her chest and clutches them close as she stares out at the unmoving lake.
The demon ducks are most likely getting their beauty rest, so they’ll be refreshed when they wake up in the morning, ready to terrorize innocent people.
I doubt Fallon wants to talk about what happened back there with Sully. If I were her, I’d want a break, to escape for a second, so instead of asking her if she wants to talk about it, I take a different approach.
“I thought I was going to marry Annalisa,” I say. “I met her on my first Lovemark set. She was an extra at the time and very grounded. She had raptor tendencies, but I assumed they were normal.”
“Raptor tendencies?” Fallon chuckles and looks over at me. Just what I wanted: to extract her from her thoughts and focus on something other than Sully.
“Yeah. She could be very sweet, but when something went wrong, she’d turn into a different person.
Her jaw would unhinge, her teeth would grow into these fangs with bloody points, and then, when you weren’t expecting it, she’d strike like a raptor, going straight to the jugular, only to leave you bloodied and full of regret on the floor. ”
She studies me, her eyes searching me, then turns away with a laugh. “You sure do have that creative bone. The overexaggerating is spot on.”
“You can’t be a writer and not overexaggerate,” I say. “In order to portray a mood, a feeling, an action, you have to be able to draw up a picture of intensity inside the reader’s mind. Overexaggeration is key.”
“You say that as if you write books.”
“I’ve dabbled,” I say with a shrug. “But I have a problem painting a pretty picture.”
“You just painted a beautifully bloody picture in my head.”
I chuckle. “When I was trying to be a screenwriter, I took this creative writing class to help me expand my knowledge, offer me a different perspective. It was helpful but infuriating at the same time, because all I wanted to do was write dialogue, but my teacher was adamant about me slowing down and really visualizing the story for the reader. ‘Set the scene... set the scene,’ she’d constantly say.
Drove me fucking nuts. At one point, when reading her notes—she wrote ‘Set the scene’ one too many times, and I threw my paper across the room and screamed, ‘ You set the scene!’” I chuckle again, remembering how it felt to want to pull my hair out.
“It was not my finest moment, especially since when I threw the paper, it knocked over a cup of coffee and spilled all over my floor.”
“See what happens when you throw temper tantrums?”
“I’d like to say I learned my lesson, but... well, my latest temper tantrum is trending still.”
“At least this temper tantrum had more finesse than throwing a piece of paper. A well-executed bitch fit.”
“Bitch fit?” I raise my brows. “How dare you accuse me of acting bitchy.”
“Have you watched the video?”
The humor in her voice tells me my strategy is working.
Self-deprecation: always a winner when trying to pull someone out of a funk.
Because they don’t think about how dreadfully horrible their life is, and for just a moment, they only focus on your lack of ability to function like a normal human.
It can be entertaining and boost morale sky high.
Hey, at least I’m not as bad as that guy.
I might be suffering, but check out the baggage he’s carrying. Woof.
“Does it look like I’d spend my time lying on my stomach across my bed, legs kicked up in the air, enjoying a video of me acting like an ass on repeat?”
She scrunches her fingers together. “Maybe a little.”
“Clearly you don’t know me at all...” I look her in the eyes. “I wouldn’t kick my feet up in the air.”
She laughs and turns toward me.
Yup, I’m killing it at this whole “helping her forget her sorrows” thing.
I’m also finding it quite hard not to get lost in her expressive eyes.
Even in the semidarkness, they suck me in, clawing at me, begging to stare, especially when they’re full of tears, because all I want to do is help remove the anguish lacing them.
I want to bring a smile to her eyes. I want to show her that even though she’s wading through muddied waters, she still can laugh, she still can enjoy the small things like sitting on a bench, under the stars with a nonfriend. .. laughing at his expense.
“You say that, but how am I supposed to know for sure?” she asks.
“Do I need to show you how I’d watch a video of me throwing a temper tantrum?”
“It would be preferred.” She smirks.
For that little kick up of her lip, I’d do just about anything at this point. A smile from her feels like the soft opening of a brilliant sunset, sending a breath of renewed air into your lungs.
So, I slither from the bench and onto the grass, draining out of my seat like molasses, which makes her laugh out loud. I reach out a hand to her. “May I use your phone as a prop?”
“Of course.”
I take her phone and lie flat on my back before spreading my legs as far as they will go—this boy needs some yoga in his life because the hips are tight—and holding the phone up above my head.
With my free hand, I cover my eyes and then part my middle and index fingers, offering a small window to my demise. I wince and then... freeze.
Fallon’s laugh is probably one of the most beautiful sounds I’ve ever heard as it rings through the silent night, filling me with an undeniable joy.
“Why are your legs spread like that?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I do,” she says, staring down at me.
I sit up on my elbows and look her in the eyes. “I easily get sweaty, so proper air flow is important when watching degrading videos of myself.”
“Oh my God,” she says, cringing.
“Told you, you didn’t want to know.”
From her reaction, I think I can guarantee she’ll never forget that comment.
Any possible chance that things would be romantic between us—in an alternate reality where she didn’t have a boyfriend, wasn’t attached to a buff man named Peter—just flew out the window.
She’d never be able to look at my crotch the same.
For the record, I’m not an overly sweaty person.
I sweat the normal amount.