The Upside of Falling

Brett? she wrote back.
How many fake boyfriends do you have? I typed back, laughing.
Very funny.
I asked about the ride again, then for her address. She agreed, writing back
the address for an apartment building and to meet her on the street. I told her I’d
see her tomorrow, and that we’d work out the details of . . . whatever this was.
An hour later, my mom was back from the airport. She stopped by my room
to say good night, then headed to bed. I heard the sound of the television playing
and the water running. Weird. I listened closer, called her name a few times. She
didn’t answer. When the water stopped some time later, I went to check on her.
She was lying in bed sleeping, dozens of tissues bunched up on the empty side of
the bed. My dad’s side. She cried sometimes when he left. I figured it was
because she missed him while he was gone. The next morning, she was always
better.
I grabbed a garbage can from the bathroom, cleaned up the tissues, turned off
the TV, then headed back to bed. I needed to get some sleep. Something told me
tomorrow would be crazy.

---

Becca
I STAYED UP LATE WRITING
in my notebook. It was 1:00 a.m.; my eyes were
strained and I couldn’t stop yawning. My mom had fallen asleep hours ago. I
could hear her snoring through the wall. The reason for my sudden lack of sleep
was a full-page pro-con list for continuing on with this fake relationship. “When
in doubt, list it out” was my go-to motto. At least in my head.
PROS: Brett’s cute (obvious? Yes. Superficial? Very), Mom will finally lay
off about me being single, Jenny’s snarky comments cease (sounds better than
saying it’s a revenge scheme), will gain secondhand popularity! (just kidding),
maybe finally attend a football game?
CONS: Brett’s cute, like, too cute (what do I say to him? What do we have in
common?), Mom will also be waaaaay too invested in this relationship (note:
keep this a secret from Mom), Jenny is scary, popularity means being social, I
know nothing about football.
Clearly, I was tied between the two.
When the clock showed it was nearly two, I decided to sleep on it. I’d see
how I was feeling the next morning, talk it over with Brett, and we could decide
together. I mean, he was as much a part of this as I was. I already had no idea
why he kissed me today; I ran away too quickly to ask. What did he plan on
getting out of this relationship anyway?
I wished I could shut my brain off.
I shut my eyes instead. This could be tomorrow’s problem.
The next morning my stomach was in knots. And those knots were tied into
another set of knots. Now that my frenzied excitement from that kiss had faded, I
was stuck staring straight into reality: that I had gotten myself into a fake
relationship with Brett Wells. No pro-con list could save me now.
I texted my best friend, Cassie, an SOS, then got ready for school. One look

---

in the mirror told me staying up late had not been a good idea (hello, eye bags),
and my hair was sticking up in every direction, like a flock of birds had built a
nest in there while I slept. Overall, not a good start to my day.
The morning got slightly better when I walked into a kitchen covered in
cupcakes. The counter, the table, and even the stovetop—all cupcakes. The
frosting dripped off the edges, leaving sugary globs everywhere. There was a
pink note with my name scrawled on it in the middle of the table. I plucked it up
and licked the frosting off my finger. A cupcake for my cupcake. Have a great
day at school. Love, Mom. I smiled at the note my mom left. It was how every
morning started since my father left. There had been hundreds of these notes
now.
At first, my mother’s baking was horrible. Like, inedible levels of horror.
She made frosting from salt instead of sugar. Her pancakes could dent a wall if
you threw one hard enough. But she didn’t stop. I think baking was her therapy.
It was all she did after he left. Like she had to be strong for me, so she bottled up
all the pain, and the only way she could release it was by mixing flour and eggs
into a bowl and whisking all her sadness away. That first summer, she’d drive us
to the bookstore and fill her bag with books about cakes, cookies, cupcakes, and
everything sweet. Once she got home, she’d flip to a page at random and spend
the rest of the night baking.
Eventually her skills improved. She became good enough to open her own
bakery in town. Her friend and business partner, Cara, handled the business and
my mom handled the baking. Her sadness was baked into cupcakes and served in
pink-and-silver wrappers.
The front door slammed open and Cassie whipped into the kitchen like a
hurricane, wearing her pastel-pink Hart’s Cupcakes uniform polo. Surprisingly,
Cara agreed to use our last name for the business. The first person employed was
Cassie, her daughter. I helped out during the summer when school was out.
Being a year older and having already graduated, Cassie was working full-time.
She was in it more for the free dessert than the money.
“Cupcakes this morning!” she yelled, grabbing one in each hand and taking a
bite. “Can you believe it’s been two years and I’m not sick of these yet?
“So,” she said, licking frosting off her finger, “you sent an SOS. What
happened?”
I explained the whole Brett situation. I told her about English class, Jenny,
the kiss, and my hasty getaway. By the time I finished, Cassie was speechless.
In two years of being friends, I’d never seen her speechless.
“Wow,” she finally said. “You need to tell your mom. She’s going to freak.”
“My mom doesn’t need to know her daughter’s first boyfriend is fake,” I

---

said. It was a bit embarrassing.
“Then leave out the whole fake part. It’ll be nice to have someone, don’t you
think? Like, to be with at school? You’ve been a hermit ever since I graduated
last year.”
“Not a hermit,” I added.
“A hermit,” she repeated. “The only person you hang out with is me and
those books.”
“Then doesn’t that make you a hermit too?”
Cassie shrugged, unwrapping her second cupcake. “You may have a point.
You’re a hermit by choice, though. It’s different. You choose to isolate yourself
from other people. I, on the other hand, don’t choose to. People, for some reason,
don’t like me.”
“Maybe it’s because you barge into their apartment and eat all their food.”
When she smiled, there was chocolate stuck between her front teeth.
“Definitely not that.” Cassie stood up, washed her hands, then followed me into
the hallway.
“Maybe it was the speech you gave at graduation?” I asked, watching the
smile stretch across her face.
“You mean when I told my entire class I hated them?”
“That’s the one.”
“My dad always said to go out with a bang.” We both laughed. It was too
ridiculous not to. Our moms always said we were an odd pairing. I tried hard to
go unnoticed while Cassie went out of her way to stand out. But when we met
two years ago when the bakery opened, we clicked.
“Today’s going to be weird. Read any books on fake dating?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I wish.”
My phone buzzed. Cassie squealed. Goodbye, three years of living life under
the high school radar. I had mastered the art in sophomore year: eat lunch alone,
always have headphones or a book on hand, don’t make eye contact longer than
one second, place your bag on empty chairs to avoid people sitting beside you—
the list went on. I was a pro. And all that ended today.
Now there were butterflies living on the knots in my stomach.
“Is it him?” Cassie yelled, staring at my phone.
It was. The message said: Here.
The butterflies multiplied.
“He’s here,” I repeated. Cassie’s hands were on my back, pushing me out the
door and into the hall.
“Have fun,” she said. “Text me hourly updates and the names of any student
that gives you a hard time.”

---

“Why? So you can fight them with your noodle arms?”
“Violence is not my weapon of choice, dear Becca. Cupcakes are.” I raised
an eyebrow. “Sometimes students stop by Hart’s Cupcakes after class. I’ll admit,
it’s another reason I don’t enjoy working there, but now it’ll prove useful. So
send me some names and I’ll spit in their frosting.”
“You’re disgusting.”
Cassie blew me a kiss, yelled, “Have fun with your boyfriend!” then shut the
door to my apartment in my own face. I made a mental note to tell my mom to
change the locks—or ask her why Cassie even had a key—and stepped into the
elevator. My heart lurched into my throat. Not so much from the elevator ride,
but rather because of the boy waiting for me downstairs, whose hand I’d have to
hold and face I’d have to kiss to sell some lie I never should have even told.
God. What had I done? And what was Brett possibly getting out of this
arrangement? It wasn’t like his popularity status needed a boost. Come to think
of it, it would probably take a steep hit.
By the time I was standing outside, I was sweating. Partly from the sun,
which, of course, was placed strategically behind Brett’s car, making him glow.
And of course he drove a freaking convertible. And of course he was leaning
against it with his arms crossed, like some magazine ad come to life. Why
couldn’t he drive something normal? Less cool? Like a minivan? The ones with
the trunk that opens when you kick it?
Our eyes met and he grinned. “Morning, girlfriend,” he said. When he leaned
in to kiss my cheek, I mentally reminded my brain to tell my heart to continue
beating.
“I brought you something,” I said, reaching into my bag.
His grin grew until it took up his entire face. “You did?”
I handed him the cupcake I’d snuck when Cassie wasn’t looking. “My mom
baked it,” I explained.
His gaze traveled from the cupcake to my eyes, then back again. He was
looking at me like I’d just handed him a million dollars instead of a half-
squished cupcake.
“Thanks, Becca.” He then proceeded to shove the entire thing into his mouth
in that way guys do. “This is really good,” he said, crumbs falling onto his shirt.
I got into the car, shrieked when my legs touched the burning hot leather
seat, then silently reprimanded myself when Brett started laughing. We were
driving through the streets, and I was racking my brain for something to say,
when Brett asked, “Your mom bakes a lot?”
I’d thought we’d dive right into the so-what-the-hell-is-going-on-with-us
conversation and skip the small talk, but guess not.

---

“Yeah. Every morning I wake up and my kitchen is covered in cupcakes,
pancakes—pretty much any type of cake. She’s obsessed.”
He nodded. “That’s really cool. My mom never bakes. She’s more of the
wine-and-cheese-tray type.”
I wasn’t really sure how to respond to that so I just nodded.
We reached a red light. Brett turned in his seat to face me. “As your
boyfriend, do I get a cupcake every morning?” I must’ve looked surprised,
because he said, “What?”
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted to . . . continue this.”
The light turned green.
“Do you?” he asked.
“I’m not completely against it.”
Brett laughed. It was contagious. It felt good to laugh with him, like some of
the awkwardness had lifted.
“First you run away when I kiss you. Now you want to break up with me
when we haven’t even been dating for a day. Way to break a guy’s heart, Hart.”
He poked my leg. “See what I did there?”
I was beginning to understand why so many people wanted to be around him.
Maybe the rumors were true: Brett really was just a nice guy. Was that why he’d
helped me yesterday?
“So you want to go through with this?” I asked. “Pretend to be dating? Fool
everyone at school?”
“If I get more cupcakes out of it, sure.” He winked at me. His eyes were
clear in the sunlight. I wanted to ask what else he was getting out of this
relationship. I mean, my mom’s cupcakes were good. But they weren’t that good
to warrant this entire mess. But then we pulled into the school parking lot, and
the butterflies in my stomach I momentarily forgot about were back. Trillions
now.
I gulped. Opened the window. Closed the window. Breathe, lungs. Breathe.
“Um,” I said, completely stalling. “We should, like, figure out the rules to all
of this.”
“Can we do that later? I don’t think you want to be late to first period.”
I glanced at the time. Class started in five minutes and I still had to stop at
my locker. Just picturing Miss Copper’s glare had me hopping out of the car at
full speed. Brett ran around to my side, grabbed my shoulder. I think he could
see how panicked I felt.
“It’ll be okay,” he said.
“Miss Copper scares me,” I said. “I don’t want to be late.”
“Right. That’s why you’re freaking out.”

---

I sighed. From the way Brett was standing and how close he was, the parking
lot was entirely blocked from my view. If people were staring, I couldn’t see
them. But I knew they could see me. See us. What would they say? What would
they think? Would they even believe that Brett Wells would date me? I was
completely overwhelmed. It took every ounce of determination to throw my
backpack over my shoulders and take a step toward the door.
“I know you might be used to all this attention, Brett. But I’m not. This is
new for me, and it’s terrifying. I just . . . need a minute.”
“That’s cool. We can wait. Miss C doesn’t scare me,” he added.
I breathed through my nose, then through my mouth. I counted to ten, closed
my eyes, and focused on my feet planted on the ground. When I opened them,
Brett was watching me. He didn’t look annoyed, though. He was just standing
there, waiting, that hopeful look on his face.
“Ready?” he asked, holding out his hand.
“No,” I said, taking it anyway.
Then he was tugging me to the front door.
“I don’t really like the attention either,” he said while we walked, probably
trying to distract me from the students. I stared directly in front of me, not letting
my eyes wander. “That was the one reason I wasn’t sure I wanted to go through
with this. I don’t like people talking about my dating life. It’s none of their
business.”
“Yeah,” I said, half paying attention. “That makes sense.”
He was chuckling, literally dragging me through the hall.
The first person I saw was Jenny, standing beside the office with her
cheerleading squad. I quickly looked away, following the first rule in how-to-
live-life-under-the-radar. Brett was oblivious, towing me behind him as he
moved through the halls. A personal human shield. It took me a minute to stop
staring at my feet and realize we were standing in front of my locker. I grabbed
my books in record speed and made a dash for English class. At this point, Brett
probably thought I was insane, which, for the record, may be partially true.
Class wasn’t as bad as I expected. We made it in time, so no glaring today.
Brett tried to sit at the empty desk beside mine, but it turns out not even his
charms were exempt from the horror of assigned seating. Brett lasted a whole
two minutes before Miss Copper yelled for him to return to his seat. The class
laughed, and it felt a little easier to breathe after that. Aside from Jenny turning
to stare at me every once in a while, there were no disturbances. No one
commented on yesterday’s conversation. No one grilled me about Brett. It was
just another day in English class.
Talk about anticlimactic.

---

The first half of the day was smooth sailing, until lunch came around. I used
to sit in the cafeteria with Jenny, just the two of us. We’d each buy something
different to eat and share it. For sophomore and junior year, I ate with Cassie.
After she graduated, I started eating outside alone. There were a few dozen
picnic tables scattered across the yard. You had to get there pretty early to grab a
good spot, which was why I opted to bring a lunch instead of waiting in the
cafeteria line. There was one table hidden under a tree that was my favorite. I
was planning on eating there today until Brett texted, saying he saved me a spot
inside.
I mean, my expectations weren’t even that high. I figured he saved the two
of us a table, probably in the corner so we could talk this all over without
someone hearing. Instead, I walked into the cafeteria to find him sitting smack in
the center. It was the jock table, lined with every member of the football team.
The cheerleading squad sat at the next table over. Jenny et al.
I lasted all of one second before dashing toward the exit doors. I mean, come
on! Did Brett really expect me to sit with his teammates, listen to them debate
football game plays and talk about how we supposedly started dating in the
summer? Maintaining the facade of our relationship was not worth that level of
torture.
I took a seat at my usual table, pulled out my sandwich and book, and started
to read. I wasn’t even through the first page when Brett texted.