The Fall Risk: A Short Story

My video doorbell vibrated, letting me know there was movement outside my door, and for the first time in literally years, my stomach didn’t drop when I saw it. I opened the app to see Seth standing on a stool in his boot, hanging deck lights.

We’d hung out all day yesterday. All day.

We’d gotten tacos for lunch—his treat. A few hours later, we were starting to talk about dinner when our best friends showed up unannounced at the exact same time, bearing gifts. Gabe brought tamales from his mom, enough for both of us. Izzy brought pupusas.

They’d left together to go get drinks.

She liked that Gabe had brought us food, and apparently, Izzy’s brand of terrifying was Gabe’s type.

We’d brought out Seth’s coffee table to have somewhere to eat. I dragged out an area rug for underneath it, and then he carried out a floor lamp when it started to get dark. The landing was starting to look like a living room.

I smiled at my door camera app and turned on the speaker. “Hi, Seth.”

He stopped with his hand on the hook he was installing and grinned in the direction of my voice. “Good morning.”

“Whatcha doing?”

“Installing some lights. Ambiance matters.”

I laughed.

“I’m going to hop in the shower, I’ll be out in a bit,” I said. “Coffee?”

“Yes, definitely.”

I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. This time, I did put makeup on after my shower.

When I came out with iced coffees half an hour later, he was just finishing the lights. “It looks good,” I said, smiling up at them. “Like a patio at a really nice restaurant.”

“Thanks,” he said.

I let out a happy sigh. “I’m so glad I get to be outside. You know what I miss so much?”

“What?”

“Hanging out by the pool.”

This I wouldn’t do even with Izzy’s militia of girlfriends. Too open, too indefensible. And the thought of that creep seeing me in my bathing suit made me feel physically ill.

“We should bring some plants out here,” Seth said.

“Yours. You don’t want mine, trust me,” I said, putting my straw in my mouth.

“How do you know? Show me.”

“You want to see my balcony of death?”

“It’s that bad, huh?”

Two minutes later, we were out there.

“It actually is that bad,” he said, looking around in wonder.

“I told you.”

He crouched to examine a succulent. “Maybe this could be—oops. Nope. That’s dead.” He pivoted to look at me. “Thank you for inviting me to your rotunda of root rot and sadness. I think the razor wire on the railing really pulls it all together.”

I laughed. “So you have no advice for me then?”

“I do. Don’t buy any more plants.”

“Okay, I’m going to let that slide because I laughed really hard at the cousin thing yesterday, but this is the only freebie you get to make fun of me.”

He flashed a smile that creased his eyes and made something flutter in my stomach.

It had been so long since I’d felt like a woman. Since I’d flirted and blushed and felt safe having a man in my space. I didn’t think twice about walking him through my apartment just now. Seth was a man I wouldn’t mind meeting alone in the woods. He was warm and kind and sweet—and devastatingly handsome. Honestly, it was ridiculous. He looked like a brown-eyed Brandon Sklenar. Tan, tall. Strong. But funny and self-deprecating.

Imagine having this and picking your cousin.

“You know, if you want, I can hang some of these frames,” he said, closing the slider behind him and nodding at the stack of prints I’d left leaning against my gun safe.

“Well, if you feel you need a project.”

“Yeah, let’s do it. Unless you want to paint first.” He looked at me.

“I wasn’t planning on it. No point in losing my deposit for a few weeks of color if I have to move.”

He put his hands on his hips and studied my bare walls. “Let’s make a deal.” He looked back at me. “We paint your walls, and if you leave, I’ll paint them back to white and stucco the holes so you don’t lose your deposit.”

I eyed him. “Why would you do that?”

“Because this place is fucking depressing.”

I snorted.

“Seriously, what else do we have to do? John’s probably going to Home Depot today anyway. He could pick up supplies.”

I didn’t answer.

He peered at me gently. “Look, I know what it’s like to live in a place like this. And I get why you’re doing it. But then it also feels a little like he’s winning.”

I let out a breath.

He was winning. He’d been winning for a very long time.

Seth was right. I guess if I had to be backed into a corner, the corner should at least be the color I wanted it to be.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s paint.”

Seth texted John, who was, in fact, on his way to Home Depot. We sent colors I wanted matched down in the bucket; then we waited on our private balcony while we drank iced coffees and ate cereal Seth had in his apartment.

I didn’t bring the bear spray.

We were chatting about Persian Silk trees—I brought them up. They were my favorite with their wispy pink flowers—when a California Poppy Retirement Home transport bus pulled up to the carport.

Seth’s eyes went wide. “Shit . . .”

“What?” I said, looking back and forth between him and the bus. The door opened, and old ladies started trickling out.

He turned to me. “Look, I’m going to apologize in advance for anything you might hear right now.”

“Who are they?”

“I teach a bonsai class at their retirement home,” he said, getting up. “They are obsessed with me, and they have no filter. I won’t be offended if you go inside—actually, you should definitely go inside. Now. Right now.”

I shook my head. “No way.”

He stared at me. “What do you mean no?”

“Old ladies with no filter? No, I’m not going inside.”

“Please?”

“Uh-uh.”

He slumped. “Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

We stood as close to the edge as I was comfortable with, watching a dozen gray-haired old women with canes and walkers inch their way toward the location where our missing stairs were supposed to be.

The leader shielded her eyes from the sun and spotted us. “I see him! Hurry up, ladies, Jesus, we don’t have all day. Seth! We came as soon as we heard!”

“Hi, Agnes.” He sounded slightly defeated. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you missing bunco?”

“Screw bunco, we wanted to come give you our support. We thought you were dead when you didn’t show yesterday. I said, his divorce is final today, Valentine’s Day is on Sunday—he’s offed himself.”

I choked.

Seth rubbed his forehead. “Agnes, I have not offed myself, as you can see. I’m perfectly fine. We just had a little construction issue, I’ll be back on Tuesday to help you with your trees.”

“He’s not offing himself! For what?” a second woman said, edging her walker to the front of the crowd. “Divorcing a wife who never shoulda had him to begin with—serves her right that you divorced her, she was a whore.”

Seth glanced at me with an “I told you so” look. “Okay, Dorothy? I don’t like that language, remember? We said we weren’t calling her that anymore.”

“Well, she is a whore.”

“She’s a cousin fucker is what she is,” someone volunteered.

I leaned in. “Wow, you just told them aaaaaaalllll the business,” I whispered, trying not to laugh.

“Well, in my defense, they are very good listeners with not-so-great memories? Or so I thought,” he said quietly.

I sucked air through my teeth. “Cousin fucker really stays with you . . . ,” I said.

“Who is that up there with you?” Agnes said.

“This is my neighbor, Charlotte,” Seth said.

Agnes took the glasses off her head and put them on to squint up at me. “Oh, she’s pretty.”

“She is pretty,” someone parroted.

“Have you seen his six-pack thingy yet, hon?” someone asked.

Dorothy twisted to look at her. “What thingy?”

“The muscles on his stomach.”

“When did you see that?” a tiny woman from the back asked.

“When he was lifting up Betty’s tree to put it on that shelf? His shirt went up.”

“Ohhhh, I saw that. I counted eight, though, not six.”

Seth coughed into his fist.

“Well, have you?” Dorothy asked me. “Seen it?”

“Not yet,” I called. “It’s on my list.”

“Is it?” he whispered out of the side of his mouth.

“It is now,” I whispered back.

“We baked you Valentine’s Day cookies,” Agnes said. “Except Blanche, who couldn’t follow directions if her life depended on it, she brought Nadia Cakes cupcakes instead. You can share them with your lady friend.”

“Thank you,” Seth said.

We lowered the bucket. A few minutes later, we had more desserts than we could eat in a year, and Seth’s guests were leaving. Once the bus was loaded, the driver came over.

Seth crossed his arms. “Marco.”

“Hey, man. Sorry, I had to bring ’em.”

“Did you, though?”

“They were worried about you. We all are. Bro, you don’t have stairs. We started a GoFundMe.”

That did it. I was laughing so hard I had to walk away.

Seth talked over his shoulder. “You keep laughing and I’m not sharing my cookies with you.”

I wheezed.

“I don’t need the GoFundMe,” Seth said. “And please text me next time you’re bringing the girls over. I would have liked to mentally prepare.”

“You got it, bud.” He gave Seth finger guns. “We’re all praying for you!”

“Okay. Thank you.”

Marco left.

I was still cracking up even after the bus was gone. I’d taken the top plate out of the bucket. Pink heart-shaped sugar cookies with the word Whore piped on them in a circle with a slash through it. I died. I held one up, and Seth stood there with his arms crossed, trying to look serious and failing miserably. “That’s Ruth’s blue ribbon recipe,” he said. “She makes them for her church bake sales.”

“Of course she does. Did you see this one?” I asked, showing him a cookie with eight-pack abs piped onto it. “The Seth lore goes deep over there at California Poppy.”

“Those women are sexually objectifying me, and you think it’s funny?”

“What are they like when you’re on the ground?” I asked.

“Very grabby.”

“Ha!”

He held in a laugh.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Is there really eight, though? Is that possible?”

“I’m not telling you. My carefully sculpted washboard abs are none of your business.”

I bit my lip and closed the gap between us until I was looking up at him with just inches to spare. “Okay,” I said. “I won’t ask about your smoking hot bod anymore.”

“Good.”

“You’re not a piece of meat.”

“No, I’m not,” he agreed.

“And I want you to feel safe hanging out with me.”

“I don’t feel safe,” he said with mock seriousness. “Not at all.”

“Awww. What can I do?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Can I have the bear spray?”

“You really want to keep me off you?”

“Come to think of it? No.”

We smiled at each other.

We were so close I could feel the heat from his body.

I liked the heat.

He smelled good. I liked the hint of a beard he had, the way his forearms flexed when he was pulling up the bucket, his broad smile, and his deep-brown eyes.

I liked that little old ladies baked him cookies and he had a rescue fish and he talked about trees.

Seth was my type.

Seth was probably everyone’s type.

I wondered if I was his . . .

His eyes dropped to my lips. Mine dropped to his.

Someone cleared their throat from below. We broke eye contact and peered over the side.

“Uh, I’ve got the paint?” John said, looking uncomfortable.

We stepped back from each other, instantly embarrassed. At least I was.

“Thanks,” Seth said, running a hand through his hair. “Uh, we gotta empty the bucket, give us a second.”

We transferred the cookies, somehow managing to not look at each other. When we were done, he lowered it down to John, and I stood there, not sure what to do with myself. I had to fan my face because my cheeks were getting hot.

“Do you want me to help you pull it all up?” I asked.

“No, I got it, you don’t like the ledge,” he said.

“Okay.” I put a thumb over my shoulder. “I’ll just start taking off the light switch covers?”

“Good idea,” he said.

And I fled into my apartment.