The Upside of Falling

Children and Divorce or something like that.”
“And? Did it work?”
“Apparently the bookworm trait is not genetic. She turned to baking instead.
But we got jelly bells out of it, so not complaining.”
Brett’s face took on this dreamy look, like he too was thinking about those
magnificent doughnuts. I should have brought him some. It would have been a
way better icebreaker than me shoving textbooks in his face. Speaking of his
face, it was so close. And his eyes were kind of hypnotic. I always thought I
liked his smile the most. But his eyes were something else.
“You’re staring at me.”
“I’m looking at your eyes,” I said quickly. “Before I knew you, that was the
one thing girls always talked about. Your eyes.”
He looked genuinely surprised. “My eyes? Not my amazing football talents
or hot bod?”
I stifled a laugh. “Nope. Just the eyes.”
“Well, tell me, Becca. What do they say about my eyes?”
“That they’re nice. Dreamy. Swoon-worthy.”
“Do they?” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “And what do you think about
my eyes?”
I swallowed this weird lump that rose in my throat and said, “Your eyes are
nice. They’re like the ocean. Calm.”
“Oceans can be deadly.”
I was starting to think Brett was too. Or at least the way he made me feel
was. Like I was standing on the edge of a cliff. Or riding a roller coaster that
only went up.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, “do you wanna get out of here?”
“But we have to finish your essay.”
“We can finish it later. This will only take an hour.”
It was kind of ridiculous that he expected me to say no. It had been so long
since I’d seen him like this, somewhat happy, that I would have said yes to
anything just to make him stay like that a little longer.
So when Brett held out his hand, I took it.
We ended up at Finch’s, the only bookstore in town. Brett paused in front of
the door and spread his arms out like ta-da!, with this larger-than-life smile on
his face.

---

“You . . . brought me to a bookstore?” I asked, looking between him and the
doors, not really catching on. “Do you need another book for your essay?”
“Noooo,” he said, stretching the word out and taking a step closer. “I thought
I should repay you, Becca. You helped me study, you came to my football
games and to the arcade. We’ve done so many things for me. It’s time we do
something that you like. Don’t you think?”
I mean, I couldn’t argue with that.
And I wanted to go inside. Badly.
“I’m having trouble deciding whether or not you like this,” Brett said.
I couldn’t help it anymore. I threw my arms around him and pressed my face
to his chest. “I love it, Brett. Thank you.” And what I loved the most was how
the space that had opened up between us seemed to be almost entirely gone.
We stood there for a second before Brett said, “You’re dying to go inside
and run through the aisles. Aren’t you?”
“Very much. Yes.”
He held open the door and gave me a little nudge. “Go crazy.”
I ran inside. The store was empty aside from Mr. Finch, who was standing
behind the counter, half asleep. He gave me a little wave—I was a regular here,
to say the least—and then I set off for the aisles with Brett hot on my trail. We
spent an hour huddled between rows and rows of books. It was dreamy, really.
Totally swoon-worthy, sort of like Brett’s eyes. I read the summary of every
book aloud, waiting for his approval. If he nodded, I added it to our bag. If he
scrunched his nose up (which he usually did) I put it back on the shelf before
trying another.
Apparently Brett was very picky. More so than me. I couldn’t be too picky
now. I needed new books to read after the mass paper-murder I committed on
the bridge. Which, looking back, may have been a smidge uncalled for.
“What’s the last book you read?” I asked Brett.
He plucked a book off the shelf, rolled his eyes, then placed it back. “Romeo