If You Fall

One

I knew Reed was home because roses in every color filled the house when I walked in. I didn't bother counting them. There would be 133, one for each day he'd been gone. He was never wrong.

My phone rang and I answered it, heart pounding. "I'm gonna kick your ass," I said conversationally.

"Miss me, chérie?" came his ebullient voice.

"You're a bad person," I chided, excitement making my words sound fake as hell.

"Come outside."

They were the words I'd hoped to hear next and I was on the porch practically before they were out of his mouth. He leaned on the railing, a broad smile on his face. Then he was lifting me and twirling me around and we almost fell off the porch.

"What the hell!" I said as he put me down, punching his arm. "Four and a half months!" I smoothed my light hair down on the left side of my face to hide it.

"Oui, I know, I know, it couldn't be helped." He gathered my hair behind my neck, purposely undoing my covering job, silver in his warm hands.

"Don't be bringing me flowers and jewelry and think it makes up for it," I scolded, but I reached up to hold the little pendant even as I shook my hair loose again. A tiny silver dragon held a teensy blue rock. It was painted to look like the earth. "But this is totally awesome. But I'm totally mad at you."

"I know," he said again easily, perching on the railing. "I'm sorry." His hair was black and he'd let it grow out some, the way I liked it. He usually kept it short "so no one can get a handful." 

"Mmm-hmm," I said, but I wasn't mad. How could I be? 

"You love me," he said happily, nudging me a little. "So. Show me what you're working on. I don't see any paint in your hair."

I raised a hand to it. "I haven't painted yet today. Let's go climb."

We ended up on top of the water tower, as it was the highest thing nearby. We had met climbing when I was eleven, back when life was normal. My dad had been his instructor.

It was nice in the October weather up there. During summer the tar was sticky, not that it had ever stopped us. We lounged as the wind whipped around, no railing or safety zone, our favorite way. Neither of us feared heights, or falling.

"You've been somewhere tropical," I said of his tanned arms. He wore only a tattered hemp vest and jeans and moccasins, numerous charms around his neck, tattoos all over. His teeth were white in the falling darkness and his eyes were warm and I hated that I'd missed him so much, damn him. "I could kick you," I added. I was beginning to grow cold because I never thought about a jacket before I needed one and was only wearing a long sleeved shirt. It said Weekend at Your Mom's. I'd found it at the thrift store.

"You're going to kick me for being somewhere tropical, chérie?" He pretended to be affronted. His accent was slightly French, as his birth mom had been not only a mentally ill prostitute but also French Polynesian, and he'd lived with her in Tahiti and then Los Angeles until her demise on his eighth birthday. 

He did speak fluent French . . . as well as Tahitian, Spanish, Portuguese, Japanese, Arabic, and Mandarin, because he was brilliant and just picked languages up. There were several others he was proficient in. 

He'd never known his father, who was Egyptian and also dead. 

Now he laughed at me. "Trust me, the bugs alone would have had you running away screaming."

The big question loomed over us and I dreaded asking it but the longer I waited the worse it was. "So?" I finally said, trying not to sound resentful.