Then Came the Fall

1. Present

Chapter one

Present

First things first: None of this is an accident.

Snowflakes drift from a blanket of gray clouds as I absently watch the windshield wipers of my warm Subaru make rainbow shapes across the glass.

I stare at the house, a fixer-upper at best, stuck like an impacted baby tooth in this hollowed-out neighborhood.

Three teenagers walk briskly down the main road carrying brown paper bags, laughing too loud to be up to any good.

A recycling bin has been tipped over next to the house; its contents litter the street.

Getting here was easy. Too easy, considering the stakes.

I took a variety of Long Island parkways east and south before merging onto a road busy with trucks and commercial vans.

I passed a cemetery, a diner, and an abandoned Christmas tree lot, finally turning on a side street marked by an understated thrift store on the corner.

At the end of the block, I found the small house with old, faded cedar-shingles.

A cracked stoop illuminated by a single bulb.

A gravel driveway, occupied by a sporty, red coupe—his girlfriend’s—and a pickup truck whose license plate number I memorized years ago.

I’ve been parked under a streetlamp a few doors down for the past 20 minutes, surveying the modest high-ranch that Matt Thompson now calls home.

It should have been harder. The drive should have been a barefoot cross-country bicycle ride through an ice storm for how badly it gutted me.

It’s easy to get lost in the memory of the last time I saw Matt.

I’d found him cleaning up the Cliff House.

Steeling myself, I bravely walked in ready to deliver a decision I had made for both of us.

Every child deserves a father—if anyone knows that, it’s me.

Matt couldn’t understand the implications of leaving a child behind because he’d never experienced it.

He never had to agonize over the absence of a role model, never had to feel like the emptiness was his fault, like he wasn’t enough.

Matt’s parents rarely missed a soccer game or track meet.

They celebrated birthdays with big parties where relatives showed up and brought gifts.

They attended his graduations and gleefully sat through hours of speeches in the early summer heat.

Matt lived a charmed, sheltered life until that summer, when he made his first real mistake and had to accept the consequences of his actions.

I found him that day intending to say goodbye, giving him the freedom he needed to face the next chapter of his life.

Doing the right thing can be absolutely brutal.

Matt fought me on it, which only made the choice harder.

He was manic in his insistence that we could make things work.

Desperate. Contesting the timing, the circumstances, the twisted irony of our situation, he conjured up plans.

“Workarounds,” he called them. As if the introduction of a baby in his life was akin to an obstacle course on the Rec Field.

I knew more about real life than he did. I understood that sometimes getting out of the way was in everyone’s best interest.

Right before I left, unspoken words filling the space between us made my legs go numb, convincing me there was no way I’d be able to walk out of the Cliff House and back to my car.

My mental Polaroid froze on the details of his face, the resolve, the way his eyes filled with sorrow masquerading as hope.

I remember diverting my gaze to the window behind him, unable to watch him hurt.

I could only offer him a hug and a few carefully chosen words.

He was so sure of himself that he couldn’t even consider the idea that I was capable of choosing to leave.

But I did.

I climbed into my dilapidated Taurus and drove out of his life for the next seven years.

Only to find myself here now.

Truth? No man since then could even hold a candle to Matt Thompson.

Turns out, I’ve got a knack for attracting arrogant men like my father.

Guys who use words like love and forever, only to shrug and apologize at some later point in time, after egregiously sleeping with someone else or borrowing money from me with no intention of returning it.

I’ve learned the hard way that real love is what I once shared with the brown-haired boy from summer camp, and it’s built on a firm foundation of friendship, trust, and ultimately, sacrifice.

Can he forgive me now? That’s the real question, the ominous force that keeps me glued to the safety of my SUV.

One bold moment will give me an answer I’m not ready for.

I stare down at the envelope in my lap, fidgeting with its corners.

For years, I’ve held fragments of Matt in my heart.

He’s been alive and well in the back of my mind, his memory getting sweeter with age.

But now time has become the enemy, and I need to tell him the truth: how much he means to me, that I never wanted to leave, that the worst parts of me wished Leyla would have handled everything herself so we could have had the happily-ever-after we deserved.

I’m an awful, selfish person. He’s sick now, and I want him back.

I want back the seven years I wasted. Terrifying thoughts of being too late flood my chest.

I clear my throat. Relax.

Glancing up into the rearview mirror, I check my face.

The bags under my eyes and worry lines on my forehead remind me of my mom.

A memory strikes me. It’s the three of us—me, Mom, and Matt—playing Monopoly at the kitchen table after I had my wisdom teeth removed in high school.

Matt and my mom joked about me looking like a chipmunk, and we laughed and ate rainbow sherbet while he built up an empire along Park Place and Boardwalk.

She would have wanted this.

I open the car door, step out onto the asphalt and zip my coat up to the very top.

My gloved hands clutch the envelope. Snowflakes land on my cheeks and melt into drops that run like tears.

I approach the front door and distract myself from the gravity of this moment by fixing my eyes on the peeling blue paint along the doorframe.

A crescent moon-shaped window is covered by a curtain.

Shivering from the chill of the air coupled with false courage, I ring the bell.

Will he even recognize me? On the opposite side of the door, distant footsteps make their way closer. Worse, what if I don’t recognize him?

The lock clicks, and an orange glow illuminates the stoop as the door slowly opens.

It’s Matt.

My Matt.

My chest might implode.

In slow motion, his face contorts from curious to hopeful to annoyed before finally settling on deeply wounded.

He looks older, winter pale and thinner than I remember, with new lines penetrating the corners of his eyes.

The air around him is painfully familiar.

Whispers of my oldest friend and the only man I’ve ever loved dance in the faded scent of pine and hide in the furrow of his brow.

I shuffle from one foot to the other, feeling cold and foolish in my tight jeans and untied Dr. Martens boots.

“Daddy?” I hear from a room behind him. “Who is it?” The tiny voice packs the largest punch of all.

We lock eyes.

“Nobody, honey,” he calls. “Go back to bed. I’ll be right there to tuck you in.”

“Hi,” I whisper.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t do this, Taylor.”

“Take this.” I push the envelope into his hand.

“You have to go.”

“Just take it.” My voice cracks when I say it.

“Fine.” Reluctantly accepting the envelope, he steps back and rests his free hand on the doorknob. “Please go. I don’t want—”

“I was hoping—”

“I can’t.” Unblinking, he silently pleads for me to leave.

I nod, swallowing a sob that threatens to strangle me.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter.

“Me too.” He begins to close the door, but I place my hand on it to stop him.

“Just one thing.”

“What?”

“If you need anything, I’ll be here.”

“Okay,” he says. I remove my hand. Matt takes one last look, then turns away as he retreats inside.

The stoop is dark again, and I am alone in the frigid winter air. Somehow, I make it back to the car. Only when I turn on the engine and sink into the still-warm seat do I finally give myself permission to fall apart.