Falling Water – Maggie Rogers
the rest of the night. She held my hair back when I’d woken up to somehow vomit some more, kept me hydrated, and overall just mothered me until my dad got home. The memory was hazy with the strong fog of exhaustion and fever, but I could recall him sitting at the end of my bed, like I was still just a school kid.
“I’d remind you of your language, but in your sorry state, I’ll let it slide.” He’d chuckled lightly when I swore in response to him asking how I was feeling. He pulled a blanket I recognised from my parents’ bedroom around me, and the floral scent of her perfume was unmistakable. At first, I wasn’t sure how to react, but as I slowly sank back into sleep, the scent of jasmine and rose surrounded me like a warm hug.
It was the closest I’d get to her, and I’d take whatever tiny piece I could get.
After spending the next day wrapped up in a blanket, unable to keep anything of real substance down that Dad tried to force feed me, he’d almost called into work so he could stay home and ‘watch me’. I’d kicked him out in the end, insisting I was far too close to thirty to have my dad missing work to look after me. I understood where the concern came from, the need to watch me like a hawk after Mom. But it did neither of us any good to have us both stuck at home feeling completely miserable.
I was about halfway through the fourth episode of the second season of Passion Paradise when there was a knock at the door. Groggily, I slowly raised my head up from where I’d been lying on the couch and stared at the door, as if to make sure I shouldn’t add hallucinations to my list of symptoms.
But then the doorbell rang, confirming the first noise.
It took me a few moments to pull myself together, gathering enough strength to my miserably weak muscles to push myself up from the couch. I battled against the urge to yell that the door was unlocked, but ultimately decided against possible ax murderers. I gave myself a moment to let the world stop spinning before rising to my feet. Pulling my blanket off the couch, I wrapped it around myself like a cape of illness, still unable to stop myself from shivering.
Stumbling over to the door, I reached out and pulled it open without even bothering to check who was on the other side.
Welcome to my home, ax murderer!
I tilted backwards as it swung open, nearly falling on my ass as I looked up at the towering male who was standing there, looking almost sheepish on the badly lit porch.
Even in the dim light, Ben Bennett looked wildly attractive. Was there even a light bad enough to make him look terrible? I was beginning to doubt it. He was the epitome of tall, dark, and extremely handsome. Those eyes, endless depths of chocolate hazel, rivers of gold running so vivid I could have swum in them. His hair, that always had me fighting the urge to playfully tussle, if only to annoy him slightly and elicit a gorgeous smirk; it all sent my heart into a backflipping frenzy. The facial structure of this man should be studied by plastic surgeons and DNA scientists and used as the template to create the world’s most gorgeous man, who might in fact, look a lot like Ben.
Okay, so maybe hallucination should’ve been added to my list of symptoms.
“Hey, I thought I should check on you after yesterday,” he said, those eyes scanning me. I was suddenly aware of how close to roadkill I must look. I’d barely slept, barely ate, barely looked in the mirror let alone in the direction of a hairbrush today, instead opting to lazily bunch the thick hair into a knotty bun. “You know, just to make sure you’re going to survive this long enough to keep helping with the clubs.”
The groan that escaped me sounded like something an injured animal might make moments before passing. “I’m alive, but barely. I swear, those kids are trying to murder me with this virus.”
“Well, I brought soup, if you’re feeling up to it.” He raised his arm up, bringing my attention to the grocery bag he was carrying. I blinked for a moment, making sure my virus affected brain was computing this right.
Ben Bennett, previous sworn enemy and apparently one night stand, had brought me soup. Because I was sick. And when exactly had I stepped into the twilight zone?
But whatever smell was wafting from the bag, it smelt good, familiar, and warm, and had my stomach grumbling hungrily at the idea of it.
“I have to warn you, I’ve not kept much down today. So, there’s every chance this doesn’t help.”
“Worth a shot,” he shrugged, a small, confident smile on his lips. “It’s an old family recipe. And besides, you’ll get my wonderful company in the meantime.”
I grimaced. “Sure you aren’t worried about getting sick?”
“Nah,” he said, with a wave of his free hand. “I’m around the kids as much as you are. And if I’ve not caught it yet, it’s probably because my immune system is so much stronger than yours.”
I shrugged at his answer, caving in so easily. “Enter at your own risk then, Bennett,”
I stepped aside, and watched him as he slowly took a step over the threshold, taking a moment to double check the choice to expose himself to a Petri dish of germs. I watched him as he looked around the room, his eyes dancing across each and every surface as if he had never seen a living room before; like he was an alien life form, finally seeing how humans actually lived their lives.
Once he was solidly in the room, I closed the door, taking a moment to turn my back to him and collect myself. I peered over at the small mirror that hung beside the door, flattening the hair that had escaped the bun and securing with a second hair tie from my wrist. There was nothing that could be done about the sickly pale skin, barring a full face of makeup but that felt too extra considering he’d already had more than enough time to commit this ‘close to death’ appearance to memory.
The living room was a little messy but in a cozy sort of way. Bookcases lined one wall, bursting full of novels and textbooks, sheet music, and various knickknacks and mementos collected up over the decades: a small porcelain sombrero painted yellow and red we’d bought on vacation when I was eight, a small model of the van my parents had rented and driven us around the country in during the summer I’d turned fifteen and endlessly moody, a framed pressed flower Mom had told me she’d saved from her wedding bouquet. Old family photos were hanging from every wall, smiling faces and old vacation pictures and photos that memorialized the goofy teenager I’d once been filling up any empty spaces.
I loved every inch of it, loved every memory, and I could only watch as he peered at every single item, analyzing it like it was a crime scene he had to find the answer to. I felt exposed, like a bare nerve, as though a gust of wind would be strong enough to knock me over.
“Is this you?” he asked, turning around with a delighted Cheshire cat grin plastered on his face as he pointed at a photo of an eight year old girl with her two front teeth missing.
I fought back a cringe. “I ran into a lamp post and knocked them out.”
I didn’t think his smile could widen, but it did as he turned around, taking a final look at the photo, before moving across the hall and taking in more of the photos.
“And this one?”
I was standing on the porch in that one: sixteen, beautiful pink puffy dress that would’ve made the tooth fairy jealous, hair curled to perfection. He looked over at me, the look of curiosity sending me reeling. His eyes were bright, and there was a genuine smile on his lips. For the first time in a while, I wanted to paint, capture exactly how he looked in this moment–how he looked at me. He was beautiful.
“Homecoming,” I answered simply, and he nodded. A puff of dark hair suddenly appeared at his feet as Meatball jumped up, tiny paws pressing into his jeans, and I went to yell at her to get down, but Ben started happily stroking her black fur, delight shining through as he looked away from the dog for a moment.
“I didn’t know you had a dog.” He was so gleeful, so excited, I had to fight the swell growing in my heart.
“She’s my parents’ dog; name’s Meatball.”
Immediately he started cooing over her. The dog, obviously loving the attention, started jumping up onto Ben. I smiled slightly, then retreated into the kitchen, needing a moment to myself.
I leaned against the cold counter, counting my breaths and fighting the feeling of overwhelm that threatened to crash into me. Why was he here? Why had I even let him in? Why was Ben Bennett of all people standing in my parent’s house, playing with my dead mom’s dog?
The thought had my lungs tightening, a deep breath feeling more and more impossible–and then I remembered his face from the other day. Those eyes on me when he found out about my mom.
“Hey, want me to get this set up?”
I jumped, pressing away from the counter as I found him leaning against the doorway, the bag lifted in his hand.
“Yeah, sure.” I didn’t dare look at him, instead turning around and looking randomly around the small kitchen. “Do you need help with any of it?”
He placed the bag on the counter. “No, if you sit down then you can tell me where everything is and I can get it heated up.”
I nodded, feeling too weak to argue otherwise and partially thankful for the opportunity to sit back down. I rewrapped my blanket around my body, remembering suddenly I was still dressed in my comfy pizza print pajamas, no bra included, and pulled out a seat from the small dining table.
He must’ve opened every single cupboard door, peering inside despite me trying to direct him otherwise, but apparently “no, not that one, the left one” and “on your right, no your other right” weren’t clear enough guidance. It felt frustratingly like forever, but finally he was diligently stirring the soup on the stove, refusing to leave the pot for a moment at the fear of it boiling over.
“Do you cook often?” I asked, trying to ignore how ridiculously cute he would look with a little apron wrapped around him. With his back turned, I had a rather good view of his ass. And let’s just say the man must’ve never skipped a squat.
“Does calling for take-out count?” He spared me a look, eyebrow lifted upwards.
“No, obviously not.”
“Then no, not often.”
The smile that broke out on my lips was completely involuntary.
He turned again. “What about you?”
“I didn’t before, but Dad’s been forcing me to help him make dinner recently. He says he wants to spend time with me, but he always gets so annoyed at the way I chop things.”
“How difficult can chopping be that you could get it wrong?”
“That’s what I said,” I exploded, the memory of my dad’s angry face still clear in my memory. It had been kind of hilarious, watching him lose it over the simple chopping of an onion. From the first slice of the knife, it had gone from bad to worse. “Apparently, there’s one way to chop an onion and the way I do it is unacceptable.”
He laughed, the sound pure joy before a comfortable silence fell over us.
“So, what kind of soup is it?” I asked, looking away from him.
He didn’t look at me, instead focusing on stirring the pot that simmered in front of him.
“Chicken noodle.” His answer was casual, so throwaway that he missed the way my spine stiffened against the back of the chair. I stared at his back as he went on, his sole focus being not boiling the soup, not realizing for a moment what–what that meant to me. The familiar smell now clicked into place.
“Chicken noodle?” I repeated in disbelief, and he nodded slowly, looking at me all strange.
“Yeah, it’s an old family recipe. You aren’t allergic or anything?” He added, and I was aware enough to shake my head. “My grandma used to make this for me, but I don’t think I’ve followed the recipe quite right.”
Silence fell where I was supposed to respond, too dazed to think up the right words to say–too lost in the warm, soothing feeling that had overcome me. I didn’t know how, maybe I didn’t want to know how, but he had shown up, literally on my doorstep, with the one thing I had wanted. The one thing I had been craving all day.
I watched him as he scooped the broth and noodles into two separate bowls, with what looked like freshly baked bread on the side. My heart squeezed softly in anticipation. I stood up, swaying gently.
“We can eat in the living room, it’s more comfortable there.”
He shrugged in response and followed me through. We sat down together, side by side, hot bowls on our laps.
I inhaled the hot steam, the smell of the fragrant peppery chicken broth instantly filling me up. I let the memories wash over me as I took a mouthful, the flavors of the soup maybe a little off balance, not quite heavy enough on the ginger for my tastes, but I wouldn’t have asked for it any other way. Because that’s the way she had done it: not quite right. Mostly because she couldn’t cook to save her life, but she made it with love nonetheless.
And for once, it wasn’t overwhelming. It didn’t make my heart swell until the pain felt unbearable, until the missing her twisted like a sharp knife.
I missed her, but it was manageable.
I missed her, but I had a piece of her, and it was enough to soothe the constant yearning in my heart and soul and mind.
“How is it?” he asked,, and I smiled at him, knowing he’d never understand any of this, what this had meant.
“It’s great.” The words were choked, but if he noticed he never gave it away. Instead, he smiled back, and shifted on the couch, directing his attention to the TV
“So, what are we watching?”
“I hope you’re a fan of reality TV.”
“Not even in the slightest,” he smiled. “But I’ll give it a go.”
I pressed play, beginning to explain the ongoing drama between the contestants spliced with mouthfuls of the delicious bread he’d brought. He listened, nodding along as I tried to explain the complex background and layers to the argument.
“But that just doesn’t make sense.”
“I know, but –” I started, but he cut me off, clearly enthralled with the trashy drama. It was addictive like that; you’d think you’d never be interested, never fall for the bad story lines and silly drama, but I always ended up getting caught up in it all.
“But what? They were on a break, and they were never official. He’s allowed to go make out with Tasha.” His brows were furrowed, confusion twisted on his face, and I almost chuckled at the expression, enjoying this a little too much.
“But Tasha and Gemma were friends.”
“Oh.” The realization dawned on his face. “She broke the girl code.”
Simply put, but not any less true.
I nodded. “And then when Tasha moved on with Andrew.”
“She didn’t!”
“Oh, but she did!”
“No way.” His mouth was agape, his attention back to the two now wrestling women as producers tried to pull them back from each other. Suddenly, Gemma was thrown dramatically in the way of the camera operator, who stumbled backwards, crashing into the pool lit by romantic fairy lights overhead.
“This show is what has been missing from my life,” Ben said.
I smiled, rather pleased with myself.
“It’s a great source of comfort for me,” I said, watching him as he watched the unfolding drama. “Knowing my life isn’t nearly this dramatic.”
That had been true once, but now? Now I was sitting, sick as a dog, on my family’s couch with the man I’d sworn was a one night stand, but was now bringing me soup and had me doing things like noticing how delicious his ass looked in his jeans and smiling too widely at his jokes.
“So, you live with your dad?” he asked, voice uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask personal questions. But since he’d brought me something I was apparently able to actually keep down, I decided to indulge him.
“It’s only temporary, but it’s nice being close to him again. I moved over the summer. My dad needed somebody closer, and I’m an only child.”
He nodded understandingly, but I knew the words were going unspoken between us, the tension rising and the space between us gaping open further and further.
With a deep breath, I knew it was time to talk about it.
“She died in May.” I played with my ring on my right hand, the familiar feel of the jewel helping to keep me grounded.
I hated telling people. The words always felt like a lie, like I was making it up. I wasn’t sure it would ever feel true, but at the same time, maybe I never wanted it to feel true. It hurt, this gray cloud casting its shadow over me. It hurt in a way that some days felt too heavy to breathe properly.
But it was a reminder of her. That I loved her. That she was here.
If I stopped feeling that pain, did it mean I had forgotten her? Would it mean I loved her less?
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” By the way he was looking at me, he really was. His gaze was filled with sympathy, flicking over me, trying to read me.
I closed my eyes, unable to look at him anymore, and took a deep breath to escape the intensity of the moment for a second. His hand fell over mine and squeezed reassuringly, the feel of his skin on my hands a welcome distraction.
“It’s…” I cut myself off before I could finish that automatic reaction. It was not okay. “It was sudden and hard and that’s why I moved back here, to look after Dad. And I guess to be closer to him and… her too.”
“That must’ve been difficult.” His voice was soft, caring and comforting–like the heavy blanket wrapped around me, like the soup he’d brought, like the touch of his hand on mine. But none of that made the twist in my gut any less painful, made me feel any less nauseous. Would this always hold this grip over me? Would it be worse if it didn’t?
“Does anybody else at school know?”
“Hanna and Rob, but I don’t really talk about it with people.”
“I wish you could’ve told me sooner,” he said gently, like it was an escaped thought he didn’t mean to say out loud. I shrugged, ready to answer him but he went on. “I know why you didn’t, or couldn’t, but I’ve been worried.”
“Why?”
“You’ve been different since we got back after summer. I couldn’t explain it–you were quieter, even the way you were with students was different.”
I knew what he was talking about. I’d seen it, the shift in myself. It was like I couldn’t connect with this anymore, with my work, with my art, and my students. I was blocked emotionally and creatively and with no way to vent this feeling, this sadness, I was empty, a vast pit of nothing and everything at the same time.
“I didn’t know anyone had noticed.” My voice came out so small I barely heard myself saying them.
“I noticed.”
I finally looked at him again, and the way he was looking at me wasn’t the way you look at your enemy, wasn’t the way you looked at the co-worker you worked closely with. It wasn’t even the way you looked at a one night stand. It was something else entirely.
“You’ve been different too.” The words stumbled out of my mouth, taking him by surprise as he moved suddenly, his eyes narrowing.
“Really?”
I laughed at his expression. “Don’t get me wrong, you can still be a dick.”
He smirked. “Hmm, I’m not sure that’s completely fair.”
“And you might be the worst driver I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“Also not fair.”
“The amount of time you’ve cut me off–and when you dropped me off? I was fearing for my life, Ben.” He huffed in response. “But you’ve also had moments where you were definitely easier to work with.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Keep that up, and I might invite you round for more food.”
“And until then, I can keep showing up and annoying you.”
A bright smile crept to my lips. “Well, it certainly is effective.”
My words buzzed in the air for a moment, before melting away as the shift in the air became more palpable, something new but familiar hanging between us as all the ways we were tied together tangled up and pulled us closer.
One look and I knew he felt it too; those eyes showed every single emotion he felt so clearly.
A second glance at his lips was definitely more dangerous, so obvious, and there was no way he missed it.
There was a pause in time, the earth’s rotation grinding to a halt when his eyes flickered to mine as well.
It felt so sure, so certain he was about to lean in, despite all the reasons why he shouldn’t. So sure I’d close the gap, and press my lips to his again and find myself lost in the feeling, the softness, and him.
And then Meatball jumped up between us, crashing into discarded bowls, sending scraps of uneaten bread and soup all over the place, and the world started up again, the moment passing us as it did.
