Fall to You (Here and Now 2)

She nods. “I know. It’s okay. It will be worth it.”

I take another step closer, trace her jaw with my fingertips, slide my hand into her hair. She tilts her head back. Parts her lips. “I’ll be using every moment of that time to win you back,” I warn. “And I’ll insist that you hold on to that ring until September. It might be pretend for you, but for me…” I dip my head until my lips are a breath away from hers. “For me, it will be a second chance.”

It doesn’t take much to close the distance between us, and when my lips touch hers, she sighs against my mouth. I want to kiss her hard and deep and long. What if I press her against the wall and remind her just how much passion there is between us? I could wrap her legs around my waist until she’s cradling my hard-on and forced to understand that there’s nothing pretend about my attraction to her.

But I keep it soft. Light. I let her take the lead and set the pace. She opens under me and slides her hand into my hair. When she arches her back and her breasts press against my chest, I have to pull back and end the kiss before I ask for more than she’s willing to give.

She brings her fingertips to her mouth as she opens her eyes to look at me. “That was a mistake.”

“No,” I whisper against her mouth. “That was everything that’s good in the world. Meredith was the mistake.”

“Don’t confuse me, Max. This is hard enough.”

I brush my knuckles across her cheek, and all I can think is, Three months. I have three months to win her back.

Present Day

SHE ISN’T dead. She isn’t dead.

These are the words I’ve repeated to myself over and over again on the drive from the airport to the hospital. Lizzy was waiting for me at baggage claim when I got off the plane, her face sheet white. I could hardly register her words. Mom. Chest pain. Hospital.

We drove back to New Hope in silence, terror choking the words before they could slip past our lips.

What was there to say, anyway? Is this a nightmare? Will we lose Mom like we lost Dad?

“She’s down here,” Nix says when we step off the elevators and onto the second floor.

“Is she conscious? Is she in pain?” Lizzy asks. She was pulling into the parking garage at the airport when she got the call from Nix.

“She’s conscious and she’s in no immediate danger,” Nix says. “We did an EKG and are running some blood tests. We’ll keep her overnight for observation.” Her gaze drops to my naked left hand.

“Ohmigod!” Liz squeaks. “Your ring, Han.”

My breath catches. “It’s in my suitcase.”

“It’s okay,” Nix says. “I think she has more important things to worry about than your jewelry. Come on.” She leads us into Mom’s room.

I’m not sure what I expected to see, but Mom doesn’t look like a woman who just suffered a heart attack. A little pale maybe, but otherwise she looks almost serene propped up in her hospital bed, flipping through a house and garden magazine.

She sees Nix first and greets her with a smile. Then Liz gets the same. But when she spots me, her smile falls away. “Where have you been, Hanna?” The disapproval on her face is the windshield and I am the bug. Story of my life.

“I… Well…” She just had a heart attack and she wants to talk about my spur-of-the-moment trip to LA?

“She had some business to take care of out of town,” Liz says. “How do you feel?”

Mom adjusts her hospital gown and straightens her necklace. She’s so vain; this is probably hell for her. “I’m embarrassed, mostly.” Again, she looks at me. As if I’m somehow the cause of her embarrassment. “I had no idea I was at risk for a heart attack. I’m a healthy weight. I eat right, exercise, never smoked a day in my life.”

“Some of heart health has less to do with your choices and more to do with your genetics,” Nix explains. “But let’s wait and see what the cardiac cath shows us in the morning.”

Mom waves away her explanation. “I’m fine now, just a little tired,” she assures us, fidgeting with her bracelets. Does the woman ever lose the accessories?

I nod and stare awkwardly at Mom, unsure what to do or say.

We were sixteen when Daddy died of a heart attack in our backyard. I found him—hand clutched to his chest, an ugly scowl on his face. I called 911. Attempted CPR. At the funeral several days later, Mom made a comment about my outfit not flattering my “unique shape,” and for a moment, I wished it had been her in the casket and not my father. It had been a fleeting thought, the ugly, angry sister of grief rearing her head when I was weak. I dismissed it a split second after I’d thought it. Of course I didn’t want that. All I wanted was for both of my parents to be healthy.

But I’ve never forgotten that moment. Those moments of weakness have a way of defining our relationships, and I’ve always felt guilty for wishing—even for a moment—that I could trade my mother’s life for my father’s.

Mom’s studying me, eyes narrow, calculating. “The timing couldn’t be worse. What with the wedding so close.” She drops her gaze to my hand—to my naked ring finger. “There is still going to be a wedding, isn’t there, Hanna?”