16. Fallon
Chapter sixteen
Fallon
I grab my vibrating phone from the kitchen counter, checking the screen to see who’s calling before picking it up. It’s Dreya. Instantly, my heart sinks. Rhett’s parents’ designated calling day is Saturday, so I'm sure she’s calling because Cara had the baby. If my memory’s right, her due date was two days ago.
I wonder if they have a new little baby boy named Rhett.
I can admit part of me hopes they do. Rhett should have someone to carry his namesake, even if it’s not his own child.
“Hey,” I answer cautiously, my voice catching as I pick at the skin on the side of my thumbnail.
“Cara had the baby! He’s a healthy eight-pound, one-ounce boy. Mom and baby are doing well.” I smile knowing Dreya hasn’t sounded this vibrant and this peppy since before Rhett died. She will be a wonderful grandmother. Rhett always joked she’d be the favorite, sneaking candy and telling a million bedtime stories.
“Congratulations, Dee-Dee! I’m so happy for you guys.” My fingers and toes tingle with jitters as I use Dreya’s new grandmother name.
“He was born at two a.m. after almost three hours of pushing. Baby’s already stubborn like his uncle.” She laughs, but it’s just another reminder that Rhett won’t get to be an uncle or a daddy. Cara’s baby has been a tremendous trigger for me since Rhett’s death. Emotions are running rampant, and it’s hard to feel like I’m the only one without something to look forward to.
“Of course he’s stubborn,” I say without and infliction.
“They named him Luca Everett. Everett for Rhett.”
“That’s a beautiful name,” I say, and I mean it.
“Let me hop off here, and I’ll send you a picture. I haven’t met him yet, but I hope I get some snuggles soon.”
“All right, tell Cara and John I say congratulations! I can’t wait to meet baby Luca.” My voice cracks.
“Hang in there, Fallon. I feel the same as you. It’s a roller-coaster of emotions when you have a son die and a grandson born, all in less than a year. It’s okay to be happy for Luca and sad for Rhett at the same time. At least, that’s what my therapist has told me. I’ve cried so much over the past week with all of the family changes. You’re not alone.”
“I know. Thanks for calling me. Love you guys.” I wipe my eyes.
“Love you too, girlie.”
We hang up, and it surprises me that my first thought is to call Jeb. He seems to know how to make me feel better. I fear he’ll think I’m becoming too dependent on him, so I drop my phone on the couch and run a hot shower, letting the water scald me while I cry. Rhett would have loved little Luca. He knew about the pregnancy for almost a week before he died, and he referred to himself as Uncle Rhett the entire time. He talked about wearing a “Funcle” shirt to meet the baby at the hospital.
He would’ve been a fun uncle, too. A great husband. A fun dad.
Life is so unfair.
Eventually, the hot water turns cold, my fingers prune, and my tears run out. I finish the shower without even having soaped my body. You win some, you lose some.
The picture message from Dreya is going to have to wait. I can’t look at that now.
Eventually, the initial pain of what could have been subsides. Once I can get out of my head, I come to terms with the new baby. Cara needed this, Rhett’s parents needed this. New life is a blessing.
As much as I'm allowed to cry for the pain of the future, I don't want to. I take a look at the picture of little Luca and feel joy wash over me.
Baby Luca is cute as hell, too. He looks identical to John, Cara’s husband. Almost bald with a bit of peach fuzz on his head. Dark blue eyes that I’m sure will change color in a few weeks.
I don’t want to meet him or hold him yet, but I don’t think I’ll cry over pictures anymore. I text Cara and John, congratulating them on the baby, then tear up a little bit more when I wonder whether they plan on calling me Aunt Fallon.
It’s just a part of life, I guess. It can be simultaneously happy and sad. It’s a huge mindfuck, but it is what it is.
I throw my hair into a high pony, turn on Shania Twain, put a hot pink matching workout set on and get ready for my jog with Jeb. As an afterthought, I swipe on a glob of lip gloss. All the while remembering that I can do hard things.
“So, you saw pictures of the baby?” Jeb wheezes as he runs.
“Yeah, he’s cute. Looks just like his dad.”
“I’m pretty sure all babies look just like their dad until they’re six months old. Then they grow hair and smile. It was like that for my sister’s kids.”
“Oh, maybe that’s what it is.” We stop at a stop sign, and I reach to brush his forearm, pushing him slightly. “Would you hate me if I suggested we jog across that way and hit up Boma’s?”
“For ice cream?”
“Yeah.” We start to jog when the intersection is clear. “My treat,” I tell him as I glance in his direction, not getting any kind of visual feedback.
“I’m not hesitating because I want you to pay,” he huffs. “I’m hesitating because I might throw up if I eat dairy and then jog.”
“I thought you were done with the whole I might vomit thing. It’s getting old now.” I look in his direction, smiling. He makes it easy for me to tease him.
“We jog there, we walk back. How’s that?”
“That sounds good to me, but you’re the one who has a jogging routine, so if you want to skip the ice cream, I really am fine with that.”
“I wouldn’t skip ice cream with you to jog instead. I just don’t want you to think I can jog after ice cream. But if you want to jog back, I’ll—”
“You make things so complicated, Jeb. Just feed me sprinkles and keep me happy,” I joke when I cut him off.
“Hey, you said you were treating!” He laughs.
He laughs accidentally. I know that because as soon as he realizes he’s doing it, he stops abruptly, and we jog to Boma's.
“I admit this idea sounded better in my head,” I concede, my stomach churning, heavy from the cream and the cookie topping.
“Hit the spot, though. I haven’t had peach ice cream in forever.”
“Do you go to Boma’s often?” I ask.
“No, not even before the accident. We’d get it here and there at the firehouse, but my go-to is a chocolate soft serve from the gas station.”
“Gas station ice cream sounds terrible.”
“It’s just regular soft serve at half the price because they assume you’re filling up your tank, too.”
“You like cheap gas station soft-serve, and I love the greasy breakfasts at Boone’s.”
“Boone’s Pub?” He turns toward me, flipping his sunglasses up.
“They serve food, too!” I exclaim. “The microwave dings when they reheat the sausage. That’s when you know it’s almost ready.”
“It just so happens that breakfast is my specialty at the firehouse. I make a hashbrown casserole with crispy bacon on the blacktop. Do you like dippy eggs? I have them down to a science. Perfect every time.”
A group of people pass us on the sidewalk. Jeb slows to let me in front of him. When the group passes, he returns to my left side.
“So you’re saying you cook better than the hungover teens at Boone’s?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out. I think that means you owe me breakfast one day.” I leap over a small stick on the sidewalk. “And gas station soft-serve, too.”
“I can do that.” His voice, gravelly, has my insides twisting.
The store-lined sidewalks fade into neighborhood sidewalks as we zigzag through the town of Jubilee, talking about life. We avoid walking past Jeb’s house in favor of checking to see if the geese at Jubilee Park’s pond had any goslings this spring. She did—nine of them.
It’s funny how Jeb and I both grew up with memories of feeding bread to the geese, even though we didn’t know each other since he’s a couple of years older than me. Now, they have a gumball machine full of nutritional goose feed, but back then, we fed them bread. For twenty-five cents, you get a palmful of nutritious feed to sprinkle on the ground. Every once in a while, the females will eat from your hand.
“Once, when I was in high school, a few of my buddies and I skipped school and found the male in the pair of geese here at the time, lying on the bank, barely moving. I took off my hoodie and wrapped him in it, then walked him down to Chadwest Vet since my buddy didn’t want the goose in his car,” Jeb says.
“Really! What happened to the poor guy?” I ask as he bends over, parting blades of grass with his fingertips, revealing a shiny quarter.
“They gave him fluids, and he was fine in a few days. The vet said he probably ate something bad. Anyway, all was fine for the goose, but I froze my ass off and never saw that sweatshirt again. And we were suspended for skipping school. It turns out our English teacher’s husband was the vet.”
Jeb hands me the quarter, nodding toward the goose-feed machine.
“I’ve always thought being suspended for skipping school sounded like an oxymoron, doesn’t it?” I put the quarter in, twisting the lever with my hand underneath to catch the feed.
“My mom was so mad. The fact that our teacher was Mrs. Chadwest should’ve been our first red flag.”
“I bet she was! At least you saved the goose.” I hold my hand toward him, “Here, take half.”
Jeb closes in on my space, pinching half of the cracked corn and dried peas, his fingertips inadvertently ticking my palm. Unhurriedly, Jeb maneuvers around the pond to get closer to the goslings. Something I would never in a million years attempt after watching countless videos of wildlife attacking people. We all know how mamas protect their young.
I watch from afar as Jeb drops to sit in the grass a short distance from the family of geese. The goslings are fuzzy and lacking stability. Jeb clicks his tongue like he’s calling a horse and gets the attention of the mama goose. With one leg out in front of him and one knee in the air, Jeb holds the feed in the palm of his hand, lazily.
Seconds later, the whole flock surrounds him, and the goslings eat from his hand while their mama watches Jeb. I keep my distance and take a picture of him surrounded by wild geese. Once the feed runs out, the mom and her offspring waddle back toward the water, plopping into the pond one at a time.
Jeb stands, brushing his hands on his shorts and he walks back my way. I scatter the remaining feed in the grass and we walk side by side on the path.
“Jeb, what the hell was that?” I finally speak up, looking toward him. “Are you an animal whisperer or something?”
“What do you mean?” he says, more clueless than Cher Horowitz.
“You fed the goslings out of your palm with the mom right there!” My eyes widen in amusement. Our eyes latch.
“I always do that. Well, I did… before.”
“I guess you have the touch.” I bump my shoulder into his bicep as we walk on the sidewalk toward my house.
“I never really thought about it. I’ve been feeding the geese for so long. But now that you mention it, it probably is kind of rare to be trusted by a wild animal.”
“It’s not ‘kind of rare,’ it’s basically impossible. Especially with a mom and her babies.”
The two of us walk a few more blocks before the concrete sidewalk along the paved road abruptly ends, and the dusty gravel road starts. Mrs. Montgomery’s house sits right on the outskirts of town. Mr. Montgomery built the house in the ’60s, an oasis where he could feel like he was on vacation all year round but could still walk to his dental office in town if the weather allowed.
There’s no foot traffic down this way, and barely any cars unless you’re trying to purposely avoid the highway or if you want to take a shady ride winding along the river’s edge.
“Thanks for the company,” I say as we approach my driveway.
“Thanks for the peach ice cream. I forgot how creamy and rich the homemade stuff is.”
“No problem. Next time, it’s your treat at the gas station.” I crack a smile thinking about next time.
Jeb awkwardly touches my shoulder, tapping it a few times before telling me to call him if I need anything.
I wait until I’m in bed surrounded by darkness to let my mind replay how Jeb fed the wild goslings from his hand. So gentle. So calm. The way his hand held steady while they rubbed their little beaks in his palm, gathering food.
I bet those steady and gentle hands would feel good if they touched my body in places I shouldn’t be thinking about. Thankfully, only I can hear my inner monologue, and right now, I’m not so sure it’s headed in a safe direction. I close my eyes, willing sleep to take over.
Jeb will make a woman very happy one day.
I just know it can’t be me.