This Is Falling(95)

“I’m picking a major when we get back. I’m meeting with my advisor,” I say, actually excited about my future.

“Astrophysicist?” he asks, turning my chin to look at him so I can see his serious face, just before half of his mouth curls into a sarcastic smile and he winks.

“Yes, I totally want to work on rockets, despite my absolute detestation for math. And science. And fear of being lost in space,” I say, and Nate laughs but then stops quickly.

“Fear…of…being…lost in space?” His eyebrows pinch.

“Yeah, I can’t watch those movies. Like Apollo 13? I get all freaked out,” I say, and he laughs. Hard.

“That’s…a strange fear,” he says, still sporting his perfect grin—dimples and all. “And, you know Apollo 13, that…that really happened.”

“I know, but I like to pretend it was just a movie. Swear to god, freaks me out. Lost in space?” I snuggle back into his arms and relish the low rumble of the chuckle in his chest.

“So what do you want to be then? When you grow up,” he asks.

“A curator. Like in a museum. I’m going to be one of those art-history nerds,” I say, the smile on my face one of excitement. Nate is quiet for several long seconds, and I start to wonder why, so I turn in his arms so I’m facing him, and he smiles, fast. “What do you think?” I ask, really wanting his acceptance.

“Sorry, was just thinking of funny art-history jokes.” He looks proud of himself, so I nod my head toward him, encouraging him to let me have it. “Okay, so…how do you get an art-history major off your doorstep?”

“I don’t know. How?”

“Pay her for the pizza,” he says, with a loud blurt of laughter afterward.

“Nice, Nate. Real nice.”

“Wait, I have one more. I was trying to decide which is better,” he says, and I sigh into him. “What are the first two Italian words an art-history major learns?”

I sigh again before I respond. “What?”

“Venti cappuccino,” he laughs, and I roll my eyes in response. “Get it? You know, because you’ll be working at Starbucks…”

“Yeah, got it. Thanks,” I say, not really liking the jokes.

“Oh, come on Thirty-three…I was kidding. Honestly? I think that’s the perfect thing for you to do. You seem to really love art. And my mom would totally help you, you know.”

I stare at him, then finally speak. “I love it when you call me Thirty-three. You pretty much had my heart the first time you called me that,” I admit.

“Good. That’s the first time I wanted it. And I like getting what I want,” he says, pulling me into a deep kiss that lasts until the old grandfather clock propped up on the mantle begins to ring out twelve times for midnight.

The fire is starting to spark less and less, but I don’t want to leave this spot. For some reason, looking at the flames has me in a trance. And after a few silent minutes, I get an idea—more of an urge really—and I squirm out of Nate’s hold, getting to my feet. He looks up at me and starts to push himself up, too, thinking I’m ready for bed, but I hold up a finger; he sits back down. “Be right back,” I say, rushing to my purse in the guest room.

It doesn’t take me long to find the pictures of Josh, because I stuffed them in my purse when I packed for this trip. I wanted to explain them to Nate more, and then I wanted to get rid of them because I was tired of holding on. But for some reason, being here—with Nate, in this perfect moment—has put things in fast-forward for me, and I’m prepared to fully let go…of everything.

When I come back to the living room, Nate is sitting with his elbows propped on his bent knees, and when I come close, he leans back, welcoming me back into his embrace. “Does this gate thingy open?” I ask, pulling on the small wire frame that covers the front of the fireplace.

“Sure. Why, you want me to throw another log in?” He crawls up on his knees and opens the gate a little, but before he reaches for another log, I stop him.

“No, actually…I kind of wanted to throw something in?” The few photos I’ve kept, I now hold in front of me like a poker hand; when I do, Nate stumbles back on his legs.

“Your pictures…of you and Josh,” Nate says, and I nod slowly to confirm. He pulls them from my hands, flipping through them slowly, pausing for long seconds while he looks at each one, until he’s seen them all at least twice. Then he piles them into a neat stack, but keeps them grasped firmly in his hand. “I don’t know, Rowe. I think you should hang on to these.”