How to Keep Rolling After a Fall (10 page)

Suddenly disgusted, I push past Pax and dash from Expo Room A without telling him where I'm headed.

He finds me in the lobby a couple of minutes later, leaning against a vending machine, head resting against the side. “Not cool to run away from a guy in a wheelchair,” he scolds me with a grin. “Not cool.”

“I'm sorry,” I mumble. “I had to get out of there. Like, immediately.”

“What got to you?”

I nibble on my fingernail and then turn to face him. “Just saw something that made me sick.”

“That something being…?” he prompts.

I shake my head. “Not now. Not right here.” I still need to sort out why I'm so bothered about the whole thing.

I turn back toward the soda machine and notice something I didn't see at first—a poster advertising Ocean Isle High School's upcoming homecoming festivities is taped to the side of the machine. Homecoming at O.I. has always been a big deal because so many graduates have strong family ties to the area and tend to return to live here after college. There's an antique car parade, a carnival, and, of course, the crowning of the homecoming queen.

I definitely would've been on the court, although Lauren would probably have taken the crown. It's not going to turn out like that, though. Just this week, I saw an article in the community section of the newspaper about how the student body at O.I. is rallying to get Taylor elected as queen. It was a feel-good piece: kids making an effort to “turn the former bullying victim into a queen.”

“So … tell me again how long it takes before you stop wishing for your old life back?” I ask Pax. “Did you ever stop?”

His expression turns inscrutable. When he speaks, his voice is unnaturally quiet. “I guess sometimes I just think about some pretty good things in my current life I would've missed out on if I was still living my old life,” he says.

Why does he sound sort of hurt?

I stare at the stupid homecoming poster some more. “Let's just go.” I look down at my watch. “What time is the movie? Did we miss it?”

“Yeah, we're about a half hour too late. But we can watch a movie at my house if you want.”

My mom is probably working with Emma on her project, and my dad … It's not like he's counting the minutes until my return.

I decide at once. “Sure. Let's.”

Pax's house is on a quiet, tree-lined street in Breakwater. Immediately, I notice how immaculate it is, but I guess that's mostly because his family works really hard to give him clear, wide paths throughout the house. It's been adapted in other ways to meet his needs. Beyond the obvious ramp to the front door, light switches have been lowered to three feet off the floor, and none of the rooms are carpeted. Otherwise, it's just a normal home, with lots of family pictures and the smell of lemon cleaning product in the air.

“Madre!” Pax calls after wheeling though the door. “Where are ya?”

A moment later, his mom appears from the kitchen. “You're back! Hi.” She approaches the back of his chair, puts both hands on his shoulders, and leans forward to kiss his cheek. I bite my lip to keep from smiling, but Pax doesn't seem at all embarrassed, the way some guys might.

“This is my friend Nikki,” he introduces me.

His mom steps forward with a broad smile and shakes my hand. “Hey there, Nikki. It's so nice to meet you.”

She seems as approachable as her son, and I find myself relaxing in her presence. “Hi. It's nice to meet you, too.”

“How was the fair? Worthwhile?” Before Pax can even answer, she turns to me and winks. “Thanks for getting him there, by the way. I'm willing to be patient, but I don't want him to forget about college altogether.”

“Oh. Sure. No problem.”

“It was all right,” Pax says. “But we were gonna check out a movie now, so…” He smiles at her. “If maybe you want to make yourself scarce…”

She laughs. “I was just getting ready to go to Acme anyway.” She grabs her purse and heads back into the kitchen but pops her head back out a minute later. “Want me to make you some popcorn with burned butter before I head out?”

Pax looks at me and raises his eyebrows. “You want popcorn?”

“Sure. Thank you,” I tell his mom.

She sort of reminds me of my mom, back in the day when she used to be hospitable, showing up in the den with warm chocolate chip cookies. Back in the day when I thought I had friends.

Once his mom has produced a big bowl of popcorn and two bottles of root beer, Pax maneuvers himself onto the sofa and pushes a button so it reclines and a footrest pops out. I join him on the couch and hand him a soda. Ten seconds later, he groans. “Maaan…”

“What's wrong?”

“All the movies are in my room.”

I see the obvious problem.

He looks so comfortable, and what a pain in the butt it must be to have to get back into the chair. I stand up. “I can go get it.”

“My room's the first one on the right,” he says, pointing to the hallway behind the living room. “You'll see the stack of DVDs in the corner.” He smirks at me. “So no snooping.”

But when I open the door to his room and walk inside, even though I see the movies right away, my attention is drawn to the back corner of his room. A tall bookshelf is filled with trophies, and I walk toward it to take a look. There are trophies from every sport, dating back to Little League and including swim team and wrestling, too. At the top are trophies and awards from water polo. Multiple “most valuable player” awards and team captain recognition certificates.

There are lots of pictures, too. Pictures of Pax with his teammates, looking happy and rowdy. Pictures of Pax with girls. Lots of different girls, hanging on him or planting kisses on his cheek. Seems like he was popular. Especially with those girls.

Then I notice one last picture, on the bottom shelf, and inhale a quick, sharp breath as I kneel to look at it up close. It's an eight-by-ten that must have been taken just before his accident. In it, Pax is posing poolside, in nothing but a pair of black swim trunks. His hair is much shorter than it is now, but his face is the same, and his eyes sparkle as he grins cockily at the camera, with his muscular arms folded across his chest. His torso is perfectly defined, and that sexy little guy
V
is clearly visible above the spot where the swimsuit hugs his hips.

The shot was taken from far enough away that his legs are included in the frame. They look just as strong and solid as the rest of him. I stare for a minute, thinking that Pax was probably one of the hottest guys I've ever known in real life.

Feeling flushed, I grab a movie from the top of the pile and head back to the living room. I stare at Pax. He's wearing a faded gray-and-red plaid shirt open over a T-shirt and a pair of worn-looking jeans. It's one of the few times I haven't seen him in shorts. Out of his chair, relaxing on the couch, he looks just like any other guy. And the fact of the matter is, he's every bit as attractive as the guy in the picture.

My heart rate kicks up a little. I toss the DVD onto the coffee table and grin at him. “That's a pretty impressive trophy collection you've got in there. And I see what you mean about why I'd rather have a picture of you hanging above my bed than skinny little Justin Bieber,” I say, trying to make it a joke.

“Yeah, too bad I'm not that Adonis anymore.”

There's something off in his voice, and his words don't come out sounding as light as I think he means them to.

“Seems like you were quite the MVP.”

“Yeah, the pool used to be my second home. Maybe my first home, considering how much time I spent there.” He shrugs. “At least I have rugby, but it's not the same.”

It's not fair
, I think. Suddenly, I'm remembering what happened at the college fair, and I realize why I'm so upset about it.

“It seems unfair that you had to lose out on your dream when other people … still get to have theirs.… People who don't deserve it.”

“Hmm?” Pax looks at me, confused.

I take a deep breath and slowly exhale it. “That girl who was talking to the Syracuse coach at the fair. Her name's Haley. She used to be one of my friends. Turns out she's not really that nice of a person. And I'm pretty sure she's still going to end up getting a full scholarship to a Division One school. And it's not right.”

I pause for a few seconds, and then I tell Pax something I've never told a single other soul. “She was one of the girls who was at my house when the pictures of Taylor got posted to Facebook. She was the one who uploaded them to my computer.” I take another deep breath. “She was the one who posted them.”

Pax sits up straight. “Are you serious?”

I nod, remembering. At first, I made a weak attempt to stop her.

“Seriously, Nikki? Shut. Up. She totally deserves it! She made her bed. It's only fair that now she has to lie in it.”

When I didn't look convinced, she really laid it on thick.

“Don't you think it's important that we stand up for Kaitlyn? Taylor totally thinks she can just hook up with Kaitlyn's boyfriend of last week like that? What about Kaitlyn's feelings? We're not doing this to be mean to Taylor—we're doing this to stand up for our friend. Get a backbone.”

She coerced me in the name of friendship, and what a joke that turned out to be.

“A lot of us were involved, yes, and I didn't stop her, but in terms of who actually pulled the trigger … it was Haley.”

“Why didn't you tell anyone?” he asks, incredulous.

I don't answer at first because the irony is actually embarrassing. “I wasn't going to rat out a friend like that. Then later, after everyone was perfectly willing to point the finger at me, I tried to tell my parents. But they were so upset—mortified and furious and shocked—they weren't interested in hearing excuses, which is what they thought it was.” I shake my head. “Eventually I stopped bothering. Wouldn't have ended up changing anything for me, anyway. As long as Haley wouldn't admit what she did, it was her story against mine. And ultimately it was my Facebook account.”

I was so stupid.

And I feel stupid about being so stupid. Every day.

I hang my head, hands on both sides of the brim of my hat. Acknowledging it out loud was harder than I thought, and I'm shaken.

“Nicole?”

His voice is soft and gentle, and I bring myself to lift my head. With his index finger, he beckons me closer to his spot on the couch. I scoot closer, until I'm right beside him.

Pax stares at me for a minute, then reaches up and slowly pulls the hat off my head. “Take off that stupid hat,” he murmurs. His eyes hold mine—they're alight with a frustration that borders on anger. He sets down the hat, reaches up, and gently touches one side of my face. His hand lingers there, cupping my jaw. “You have no reason to hide your face away. Certainly not with me.”

Unexpected tears fill my eyes.

The community at large, my oldest friends, and even my own parents … they've made me hate the sight of my face. I've made me hate the sight of my face. And here sits this person who wants to look at me, who makes me feel as if there's still something worthwhile to be found there.

My hand finds his, and I lace our fingers together. His eyes tell me it's okay, so I keep going.

I close my eyes. I lean forward, ever so slightly, toward him.

I'm close enough to smell the scent of his soap, to hear the catch in his breathing as my lips come close to his.

And then I hear him clear his throat.

“Nikki … um … I meant what I said, about just wanting to be friends.”

My eyes snap open. I back up, cheeks on fire. And suddenly I wish I still had my hat on.

“I'm sorry,” I mumble. “I thought…”

“I mean, I like you. A lot. Have from the first day I met you.”

I finally look at him, saying it with my eyes.
Yeah. I know. So why'd you just pull away?

“If I thought I could be with a girl right now … you're the girl I'd want to be with, all right? But it's like … It's the same way I feel about college. Until I get myself recalibrated, until I'm totally right with my personal situation … it's not good to get involved with someone.”

I watch him and decide I don't believe him. Pax is one of the most well-adjusted people I've ever met, chair or no chair. And I didn't imagine the chemistry between us—I didn't. I think of how naturally our conversation flows and the way it makes him smile and laugh. I remember the text he sent me at the end of Saturday night, how my happiness sparked his. And I certainly remember the look in his eyes when he just took off my hat, the look that told me he feels the same way about me as I feel about him. Because if you feel angry when someone's hurting, it's because you care about them. A lot.

Unless …

Unless I'm still an idiot when it comes to understanding other people. Maybe I'm so desperate to believe that someone can like me, truly like me, again that I've been reading more into it than I should be.

I quickly untangle my fingers from his. “I understand.”

“I mean, I just really think I need to—”

“I understand,” I say, louder this time, cutting him off. “You don't have to give me a little speech. I get it.”

Pax keeps looking at me, lips a thin line, eyes conflicted. “Nikki…” He tries to find my hand again.

But I busy myself, reaching for the DVD case, and stand up to put it in the player. I'm hurt, and I feel some bitter satisfaction in knowing he can't follow me. “Forget about it. Let's just watch the movie.” I glance over my shoulder and give him the first fake smile I've ever given him. “We're friends. And that's okay.”

I put the movie in the DVR player, but I don't actually see a single minute of it. I felt so comfortable when we first entered his house, and now I feel anything but.