Falling | h.s

forty-four

JANIE'S POV

I'm humming along to an Otis Redding song as I stir the tomato sauce around in the pot. Dad hums along too from the other side of the kitchen, slicing up vegetables for a salad. Davis and Walker sit at the kitchen table, beginning to set up a game of poker. 

Walker is home for the weekend, choosing to spend a weekend at home rather than at his fraternity brother's mountain house. His homecoming called for my world-famous penne alla vodka, card games, and drinking one too many glasses of Dad's favorite red wine. We co-existed peacefully, all fulfilling the roles that had been enforced for years. 

From the look Walker had given me when he showed up here last night, I knew that his choice to return home wasn't based on needing a break from his friends or being homesick. I knew my brother, probably better than he knew himself. I also knew that Davis had a big mouth and that my brothers frequently discussed me when I wasn't around. Nevertheless, I was grateful to be surrounded by my family, no matter the circumstances. 

We weren't always this close, but after Mom left, it was impossible for us not to be. We could read each other like a book and were all almost too good at knowing exactly what the others needed. And right now, I needed this. I needed crappy red wine and betting too much money on poker and a hug from both of my brothers. 

"Smells amazing, Janes," Walker calls from the table, and I turn to shoot him a smile. 

"It's almost done," I respond as I dump the pasta into the sauce and stir. Dad moves to stand next to me, a bowl of shredded cheese in tow. After another minute, I call everyone to meal and wash my hands. 

"Is my phone on the table?" I ask after realizing the device wasn't in my back pocket. Davis shakes his head no as he dumps a large portion of pasta onto his plate. Realizing that it must be in my room, I add: "I'm going to go grab it really quick. I'll be right back down." 

I cross the kitchen and living room towards the stairs. As I start to walk up the stairs, I glance out the window next to the front door instinctively but freeze when I see a car parked in front of the house. I feel my mouth go dry when I notice the Uber sticker on the backseat window, and when I look a bit closer, I recognize the mop of curls on the man in the backseat. I walk down the stairs slowly and cautiously and feel my breathing increase rapidly. I look back at the kitchen, where my brothers and father obliviously continue to fill their plates. 

"I think I left it in the car," I lie and try to control the shakiness of my voice as the car door begins to open. "I'll be back in a minute, start without me!" I don't wait for a response before throwing my front door open and closing it quickly behind me. 

And there he was. 

He looks the same, inherently at least. His hair is maybe a little bit longer than the last time I saw him. The same rings live on the same fingers. He's wearing the same jeans I've seen him in a hundred times; the same ones he wore on the night he kissed me for the first time. I wonder if he wore them on purpose. His smile is different, though. It isn't as bright, as loving. His eyes fill with sadness as he looks at me for the first time in a month.

He looks shocked to see me as if he didn't realize what he was doing until he did it. His eyes rake up my body and eyes flicker across my face as he takes in my appearance. I haven't changed much either. I had just traded white sundresses and gold hoops for Dad's old band tee shirts and worn-in flip flops. 

"Hi," he breathes after a moment, and I feel as though I could burst into tears at the sound of his voice. 

"Hi," I choke out before clearing my throat. I cross my arms across my chest and chew at my lip as he stands on the sidewalk in front of my house. He takes two steps forward, two steps closer to where I stood on my front porch. I follow suit, walking down the stairs and taking a few steps towards him as well. We stare at each other in silence, neither one of us knowing what to say. There was too much to say, too much between us. You could write a hundred love songs about how we felt right now, staring at each other in front of my childhood home.