Falling For Raine (Ch. 3)

Chapter 3. Erin

I look up. She’s waiting there, Savannah, a worried look still on her face. Her teeth catch the corner of her lips for a moment, drawing my focus there. It’s disconcerting. I hate that I worried her. I also should not be staring at her lips.

“Yeah. I’m doing… fine,” I lie. And not well. I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting here. I can’t even remember if I’m holding my third Summer in Côte d’Azur—SCA, Savannah called it—or if this still my second. I’m a little buzzed, but the alcohol isn’t what’s got me disoriented tonight.

“Okay,” Savannah says. “I brought you this. You hardly ate dinner, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have dessert, right?” With a smile that’s a little forced, she puts a plate of Torta di Cioccolata—which happens to be my favorite dessert—in front of me. I stare at it like she’s pulled a magic trick. How did she know? Or is she just a really good guesser? Am I that transparent?

Yeah, after the blowout with Maggie, I probably am. “Oh. I, ah… thanks.”

“This one’s on me.” Her tight smile twitches at the edges.

“Oh! Oh, that’s…” I look up and our eyes meet. “Why don’t you share it with me then? Can you?”

She scans the restaurant. “Sure. I can. I’ll just take a short break. Lemme grab a fork.”

Moments later, she’s back with a fork and I move the torte between us.

“This is incredibly nice of you,” I tell her, taking the first bite because she seems to want me to. It melts in creamy, chocolaty, brown buttery goodness all across my tongue. The pistachio and hints of dried plum… Heaven…

She shrugs and takes her own bite. “You looked like you could use it. That woman…” She cuts herself off with a flustered look. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I scrape a bit of cream off the top and lick my fork.

“Is she your… wife?”

So she noticed the ring. It is noticeable—not the most demure piece of jewelry. “Fiancée.”

“Oh…” Savannah lifts another bite to her mouth. “I don’t mean to overstep, but she seemed…”

“Volatile?”

The bite disappears between those plump pink lips. “Yeah. That’s a word for it.”

Now I shrug. “She is. She’ll… get over it.” God, I’m lying so much. No way are we getting over this. Maybe Savannah guesses that, but she doesn’t say anything immediately. We take a couple more bites before she replies.

“I just hate to see anyone treated like that. It’s so unfair.”

I wave my fork in a no-big-deal gesture. “She thinks I cheated on her. I guess she feels justified.”

“Ha!” Savannah snort-laughs. “You didn’t cheat on anyone.”

Her absolute confidence amuses me. She’s so young. We just met. “Y’think?”

“I know.” She pokes her fork at me. “If you’re a cheater, I’m a monkey’s uncle.” She giggles. “Or auntie, I guess.”

I can’t hold back a laugh. Thank God my mouth wasn’t full. “Wow. I haven’t heard that in, like… forever. My grandparents used to say that.”

“Mine too.” Savannah ducks her head and chuckles. “It’s worth keeping alive, don’t y’think?”

Out of nowhere, I’m grinning. It feels so good. “Oh, absolutely.”

We finish the torte together. The place is nearly empty now. It has to be almost closing. My grin fades. Time to face the music.

Savannah gets up to go back to her job. “That was awesome. Thanks.”

“Thank you.” I emphasize it with the best smile I can manage. Her company has been the best thing to happen to me in ages. But it’s over.

I keep the smile fixed on my features. “Do you think you could… I mean, could I get the check?”

“Sure.” Her smile appears a little fixed too. “I’ll be right back.”

She leaves and returns with the black leather folder. I retrieve my wallet from my purse, pull out my card and slip it inside along with some twenties without even looking at the bill. I hold it up for her. Our fingers almost touch as she takes it. So close, as they say, and yet so far…

Thanking me, she goes to run my card and when she brings it back, I realize I never introduced myself. “I’m Erin, by the way.”

“I know.” She pats the folder and winks. “I peeked.”

“Ah. Okay.” Naturally. “You’ve been amazing. You really have.”

She grins and it pops a little dimple in her left cheek I hadn’t seen until now. It’s heart-meltingly cute. “We aim to please.”

I smile and blush, thinking how well we could please each other.

No, no, no. She’s essentially a teenager.

She sure doesn’t act like a teenager, though. As she walks off, I distract myself by putting my card away, finishing the last of my drink and then hunting in my purse for my phone so I can call a Lyft. When I find it, she’s on the far side of the restaurant, wiping down tables.

Fuck, that was a close one. I’d been this close to saying something that could’ve made Maggie’s delusion into something closer to reality. I need to get out of here. Taking a quick look around, I see that La Vita è Dolce is closed now, the last few customers gone and the sign over the door off.

Yep, definitely overstaying my welcome now.

Swiping my phone to wake it up, nothing but a blank screen greets me. I stare for a few seconds, equally blank, until it hits me. I hadn’t expected to be here nearly this long and it’s died. I don’t have a charger with me. Shit.

With a sigh, I stand up and walk over to where the bartender is stacking some glasses. “Hi?”

She looks back over her shoulder. “May I help you?”

“Yes, do you think you could call me a taxi? Dead phone.” I hold it up, as if I need to prove it to her.

“Of course.” She reaches for the bar’s landline.

“It’s okay, Jules. I got this.” We both turn at Savannah’s voice coming from the other side of the room. Jules snickers in a way that makes me wonder if there’s something between them and puts the phone back in its cradle as Savannah walks up to me.

“You need a ride?”

“Uh, yeah”—stumbling over my words. Where’s she get this confidence? Just the self-assurance of youth? I sure didn’t have any at her age. “But it’s a ways. I can take a taxi. No problem.”

She tosses her head like I’m being silly. “What’s a ways?”

“We’re—I’m—in Tacoma.”

“Me too!” She sounds delighted. “I’ll be done here in a few minutes. It’ll take forever to get you a cab at this time of night and for all the way to Tacoma, they’ll charge an arm and both legs.”

“If you’re sure…” Our place is about forty minutes away and being alone in Savannah’s company for that long… I’m not sure if I’m excited or suddenly terrified.

“Totally sure.” She shoots me a grin, that dimple prominently making itself known again. I can’t be sure, but behind me, Jules might huff a quiet laugh. “I’ll be with you in ten.”

“Alright…”

“Cool!” She goes back to wiping tables and flipping chairs, all the while giving me the feeling she’s suppressing the urge to skip as if she’s won something.

What’s up with that? This evening is giving “chaotic” a new meaning. Not knowing what else to do, I settle on a barstool to wait.

“Water?” I look back and Jules is offering me a glass. After those SCAs and one Negroni, despite my relative lack of buzz, water sounds like a good idea.

I accept it. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Jules returns a quiet little smile and goes back to tidying up.

Not just quiet, though. Had there been something odd in her smile, or am I more buzzed than I thought? My brain is certainly running open loop.

I sip the water and try to rein myself in while Savannah finishes up, then disappears into the back. A couple of minutes later, she steps out and my chin nearly hits the floor. I’d assumed she’d worn her uniform to work, but now she’s dressed in street clothes: tight jeans that hug her curves like a jealous lover, a worn leather jacket over a fitted crop top that shows off a span of deliciously firm abs and ankle boots that have seen a lot of use. You could put her on the cover of any top fashion magazine, although they wouldn’t deserve it.

I take in a slow breath through my nostrils. Maggie hates casual clothes. Everything she wore had to come from some famous label, half of which I couldn’t even remember. It went with the look—she was just a legal secretary, but she felt like she had to dress for the red carpet. Not that we had many red carpets—Tacoma isn’t LA or New York. I like nice clothes too, but comfortable nice clothes; ones that don’t cost half as much as our rent. I don’t know if she really spends that much—we kept our finances separate—but it wouldn’t surprise me.

“Ready?” Savannah’s voice startles me.

“Yeah. Yes.” I put the half-empty glass of water on the bar. “Thank you so much”—this to Jules.

She nods, her expression unreadable. “Don’t mention it.”

“Night, Jules!” carols Savannah. “See you tomorrow!”

“Night, babe. Be safe.”

Whoa. Babe? Be safe?

Savannah just laughs and sweeps an arm in a grandiose gesture. “This way, madam, your carriage awaits.”

What the actual… That’s the cheesiest thing I’d ever heard. You couldn’t get away with it in the cheesiest of cheesy romcom flicks. But somehow, she rocked it. I felt…

God knows how I feel. Special?

This is freaking me out. Did Savannah watch cheesy romcom movies? Was that her thing? What did she read? If she did read. Dripping hot Sapphic romance, maybe?

Shit, shit, SHIT! Why did my brain go there? Not because Savannah could be right out of one, of course.

No, obviously not.

Swallowing because my mouth is dry, I follow as she leads the way to a exit behind the kitchen.

Don’t watch her ass. Do NOT watch her ass…

Think of something else. Think of ANYTHING else…

Then she does something that stops me from thinking at all. She takes her hair down. And shakes it. Shimmering in the dim lights, it lashes her shoulders in glossy waves. I stumble. She glances back, flipping some silky strands out of her face.

“You alright?”

Fuck. She probably thinks I’m drunk. “I’m good,” I mumble. “Just a long day. And heels.” Yeah. So convincing.

Her look brims with sympathy. Whatever she’s thinking, she goes with my lame lie. “Totally with you on heels. Not my thing either.”

No surprise there. She’d look dynamite in heels, though.

I roll my eyes inwardly. She’d look dynamite in anything. Or noth–

“Here we are.” Savannah shoves open the exit and points to a jeep parked outside. “Your carriage.”

I smile a thank you that’s probably more of a tilted half-grin, and step around to the passenger’s side. Savannah unlocks the jeep with a key, hops up and lets me in. Starting the engine, she rests both hands on the wheel and beams over at me.

“So where to?”

“Point Ruston. You know where Dolce Si is?”

She gives me the most endearing smirk. “For sure! How could I not?”

Good point. Like there’d be an authentic Sicilian bakery/café here she wouldn’t know about.

“We’re right above it.”

“Sweet! And you’re right on the water, too!”

Does she have to sound so excited? Getting that apartment was the first big thing Maggie and I did together. I liked the building and I loved the view. Maggie wasn’t so much in love. She wanted a swankier place that was also slightly bigger. It rented for a chunk more and didn’t have a view. That was the first time I put my foot down and asserted myself. Was that where our problems started?

Savannah is talking. I missed it, just catching the end: y’know. “Huh? Sorry? What did you say?”

“I said…” she drawls, with a sly sideways look at me. “We’re practically neighbors, y’know.”

“We are?” I wonder if she’s kidding. Or maybe just exaggerating.

“Yep! I live in the Procter District. Off North 26th.”

Oh… She isn’t exaggerating. We are practically neighbors. Her place is less than two miles away. Is knowing she’s so close going to be like Heaven or Hell? And how would I be able to tell the difference?

I’m sure it’s going to be torture either way, given how this night is going. Because… is she flirting with me?

I can be pretty dense about the whole flirting thing. In college, I had the hugest crush on this girl in my calculus class, Ashley Monroe. We spent the whole semester together, studying, doing homework, quizzing each other. I never could work up the courage to ask her out. It was agony. That summer, she met someone and we didn’t see each other much after that. The next year, she transferred to another school and moved away.

After she moved, I met up with a mutual friend who asked what had happened between us. I had no idea what she was talking about. She was dumbfounded. “Ash was all over you for months! How did you two not get together!?”

Easy. Because I was totally oblivious. How could I be more humiliated? I convinced a girl I was stone in love with, and who was apparently throwing herself at me, I wasn’t even interested. After that, I tried to pay more attention, but mostly I only got more confused.

And, boy—am I super confused now.

I wish I knew what was going on between Savannah and Jules. She’s somebody I didn’t want to mess with. I suspect she’s older than me—maybe even Maggie’s age?—but she has that lean butch frame and ash-blond hair and hard-planed face that doesn’t give anything away, age-wise. She could be anywhere from thirty to fifty. She cares about Savannah, though—that much is clear—but was it as a friend or more? I had the feeling she was warning me off, or wanted to. It would completely suck if I got on the wrong side of the bartender at one of my favorite restaurants.

It bugs me so much, my eyes keep wandering to Savannah as we cruise down I5. Can I just ask her? Obviously, I can’t just ask her. I can’t pry into her private life that way. I absolutely can’t.

So when my silly mouth opens, sure enough, I say, “I… Look, um…” And now I’ve done it.

Savannah takes her eyes off the road for a second to glance at me. “Yeah?”

Stuck. So, so stuck… “I mean, it’s none of my business so I don’t want to pry, but… is there a… a thing between you and Jules?”

Another glance, her brow furrowing this time. “A thing? Oh!” Her eyes widen. “Like a together thing?” A peal of laughter rings through the cab. “Oh no! Not at all! I mean, she’s hot and all, for a…”

I know the words she paused for are older woman… Fuck.

Her laughter dies down. “But no. She’s… she’s more like a den mother, I guess? She looks after us. Kinda keeps us kids in line.”

“Oh.” Yeah. Us kids. In line. “Does it work?”

Savannah’s smile is pure mischief. “Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no.”

Great. Just… great.

♦ ♦ ♦

Our conversation dwindles after that and while Savannah doesn’t seem to mind, it makes me all the more aware of the elephant in the jeep with us that I’m trying to avoid. Okay, there’s more than one, but this particular elephant is that I really should call Maggie to tell her I’m on my way home. And I need to borrow Savannah’s phone for that.

Savannah has done me so many favors this evening, I simply don’t feel right asking for another one, even though, to be fair, I hadn’t asked for any of the others. It doesn’t matter. I’m benefiting from them regardless, in ways I don’t deserve. But there’s no help for it. Whether Maggie is sitting up waiting for me—either because she’s worried or because she can’t wait to lay into me again—or if she’s passed out, I should call. The fact I can’t be sure anymore she’d do the same for me only makes it more important.

And sooner rather than later. As much as I dislike—okay, hate—Maggie having Savannah’s number, she won’t know it’s Savannah’s and I certainly won’t tell her. I can lie about that. I’d have too.

Staring out the window at the darkness, broken here and there by spatters of acid-yellow light from the street lamps, I silently repeat “there’s no help for it” and “sooner rather than later” as I clear my throat.

“Yeah?” Savannah asks, grinning again. Damn that dimple…

“I… um, ah… wondered, uhhh…” Shit, why am I stuttering like a teenager? Savannah has the strangest effect on me. Alright, looking at her, maybe it isn’t all that strange.

“Yesss…?” she prompts, her tone expectant. I swear, it’s like any chance to help someone gets her excited.

I inhale and push the words out in one long rush. “I should call Maggie. I was wondering if I could use your phone.”

“Oh…” Her face falls.

Oh triple shit. She doesn’t want to let me—doesn’t want Maggie to have her number either. She’s witnessed how Maggie is; I can’t blame her in the slightest.

“It’s okay,” I add hastily. “I totally understand. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not that,” she replies, speaking softly. “It’s just that I don’t have a phone. I don’t own one.”

There must be enough light in the cab for her to see my shocked face, because she responds with a soft chuckle. “Weird, huh? I’m supposed to be glued to my screens 24/7, aren’t I?”

Ummm… yeah, pretty much. My generation loves our devices, but I’d thought hers was even more addicted. My silence is telling and it’s clearly told Savannah the truth because she goes on.

“I used to have a phone. I got rid of it three years ago. It started to feel like I had a leash up my butt. Oops!” That oops has to be in response to whatever my face just did. She puts a hand over her mouth, but her eyes twinkle. “Sorry for the visual.”

I both nod and shake my head in a complicated motion in an attempt to let her know it’s okay. Apparently it works, because she continues. “Anyway, when I dumped the phone, I felt so much better. I used to think if I didn’t respond to people in like five minutes, they’d hate me. I checked times on everything and if I’d missed a text by twenty minutes or—God!—an hour, I’d be so anxious until I heard back and knew they weren’t mad. It didn’t matter that some people wouldn’t respond to my texts for days. I had to respond, like instantly.”

She huffs out a breath as if just the memory is stressing her. I resist the urge to put my hand out and touch her. She didn’t seem like a person who could be stressed.

“Then there was TikTok.” She shakes her head. “At first, I was all over TikTok. I was on it all the time. Facebook and Instagram too and I was a total tweet-friend, but TikTok hooked me. I had like no attention span. I’d watch vids over and over—I’d watch them at double speed if they were too long. It was so freaky. And I was so mad, all the time.” Her fingers tighten on the wheel as she says it. “I mean, I was always ragey. Then, after I ditched my phone and felt so much better, I looked it up. It’s real. There are legit studies on it. These apps do that to people—there’s the whole dopamine thing and they mess with your brain in a way that makes you just primed to be pissed off and overreact. Insta’s bad that way. But what TikTok did to me was truly the worst. I started calling it the T-Cubed—Terrible Toxic TikTok.” She exhales like she’s setting down a weight. “I’m so much calmer without them.” Then laughs. “Or maybe not. Since I just totally dumped on you. Sorry.”

“No,” I murmur. “It makes a lot of sense.” I know about addictive technologies. I don’t work on them but I know about them: attentional capture methods and automaticity triggers you can use to grab anyone’s attention and hold it. Plus all the privacy and moderation issues—TikTok especially has been hostile to queer users—and banning people for any made-up reason. I limit my time on social media because the rampant negativity affects me a lot, and I avoid TikTok for being homophobic, so I do get it.

“Did you… experience a lot of fallout?” I know I’m prying again but she’s opened up to me—shared something personal and clearly important to her—even though we’d only just met. I can’t help it.

One shoulder lifts in a half-shrug. “Some. I lost touch with a few people, but most of my friends were fine with it. They got it. Because seriously, if you’re only connection is through a device, are you really connected at all or are you just a friend-utility? If everything you have with them depends on an app? If they won’t take time to talk to you face to face or have lunch or sit in a park with you or even answer the phone, that’s not a relationship. I want to be more than a screen to someone.”

I hear what she says about being more than a screen to people, but how do you get by when everyone expects you to use your phone to do everything, even ordering in restaurants that don’t provide real menus anymore. “You don’t find it inconvenient though? Everybody assumes we have a smartphone now.”

Her jaw clenches and I feel guilty for touching a nerve. It’s gone in a moment but I detect its shadow in her answer. “Isn’t ‘convenience’ just another word for ‘spoiled’? I dunno, maybe I’m weird that way. Convenience isn’t always a bad thing. But I had a phone, it was an iPhone—cuz, y’know, everybody had an iPhone, like it’s a rule—and after I ditched mine, I found out more about them and no way could I support Apple now.”

Interesting. Most people seem to adore Apple.

“So not an Apple fan, then.” I try to keep my question neutral and not overly cautious.

She scrunches up that shoulder again, not letting go of the wheel. “No, they’re corporate greed personified. I don’t like how they treat people and their employment practices overseas are awful. Oops…” She has that sweet little self-deprecating look back. “There I go again. It’s okay if you like them. I know a lotta people love Apple. I guess their stuff makes people happy or they wouldn’t be so successful. I oughta learn to keep my mouth shut.”

“It’s alright”—wanting to reassure her. “I’m not a fan either.” I’ve dealt with Apple more than a little in my career and yeah, they’re far from my favorite people. To be honest, the rest of us aren’t a lot better, but I’m not okay with how they say they’re “committed to leaving the world better than we found it” while exploiting workers in China and getting away with it because they’re so super cool. “You’re free to say what you feel.”

Crap. That sounded better in my head. My attempt at reassurance is falling flat, but there’s nothing new about that.

“Really?” Her sideways glance does nothing to ease my self-consciousness. “Have you told anyone they’re being unhealthy lately? I used to do that all the time. I thought I was helping. I mean, I meant to help. All it did was make me really unpopular.”

Her? Unpopular? She must’ve been hanging with the wrong crowd. “They’re loss.”

She chuckles. “You’re sweet. But I am sorry. I don’t want you to think I’m a ranty person. I’m not.” Her head tilts, and she puts a finger playfully to her chin. “Or maybe the jury’s still out on that one.”

“No, no. It’s really okay.” I badly want her to believe me. “You’re making total sense. You are. I… I appreciate it.” I truly do. What she was saying does resonate with me. Strongly.

“Thank you. I’m glad. I like that.”

Me too. I think I like it way, way too much.

We exit I5 onto 705 in downtown Tacoma. From here, it’s a straight shot to our apartment. We’ll be there in less than fifteen minutes and my stomach starts trying to turn itself inside out, forcing bile up my throat.

“So can I ask you a question?” Her words come almost out of the blue.

“Yes. Of course.” I could use the distraction, if nothing else.

“What do you do?”

Ah. It figures she’d want to know that. “I’m a project manager at a tech startup.”

“Really? That’s so totally cool!” There she goes, being all excited again. Our conversation has made me feel like a complete hypocrite. I am a complete hypocrite, hoping to make a fortune off software designed to dissect people’s private lives and splay them out for money. If she only knew…

“How long have you been doing it?”

Urk. Why does it always come to this? “Since I graduated.” Maybe she’ll let me keep it vague.

“College?”

“Yeah.”

“And how long ago was that?”

That’s what I get for keeping it vague. I should’ve known she wouldn’t be put off. “Fifteen years.”

“Oh, no way!” She slaps the steering wheel. “What were you then, thirteen?”

“No!” I blurt. “I’m thirty-six!” Crap! She’d shocked the truth out of me. I stifle a groan.

Her laugh is loud and bright. “Are you shitting me?”

“No.” Now that was a groan. “I am thirty-six. How old did you think I was?”

“I dunno.” She shrugs elaborately. “Twenty-eight? Maybe twenty-nine, but I’d’ve guessed twenty- eight.”

I roll my eyes. This is too much. “Look, you don’t have to do this to make me feel better. It’s sweet and everything, but you really don’t.”

Her expression goes semi-horrified. “I’m serious. You don’t look thirty-six at all. Um… Not that there’s anything wrong with looking thirty-six. You just don’t.”

“Thanks…” I think she might be blushing but it’s impossible to tell in the darkened cab. “So how old are you?”

“I’m twenty-four. Twenty-five next month.” Then she turns and gives me that dimple-enhanced grin. “Do I look twenty-five yet?”

No, you look freaking gorgeous…

“Umm… I’d say you’re getting there.”

Her laugh lights up the interior of the jeep again. It has to be so wrong how good that makes me feel.

But it also feels so right.

♦ ♦ ♦

We pull up in front of my apartment building. The trip is over, my time with Savannah is done, and my insides have gone from turning themselves inside out to feeling like an army of rabid rodents are trying to gnaw their way through my ribcage. Time to start my breathing exercises…

I turn to Savannah as she puts the jeep in park. “Thanks for the ride. I appreciate it more than I can say.”

Her eyes roam my face as her smile soothes my insides more than a bit. “I enjoyed it.”

Take that, rodents.

“Y’know, I come here pretty often. Cool places to eat and I like to shop at Rebels and Lovers, too.” That makes perfect sense, both the name—of course, the name—and the clothes they carry. They’re just down the block. “Maybe we’ll run into each other.”

I can’t gauge how much she means it or if she’s just trying to keep things light, the way people do when they say goodbye. Either way, I don’t have the heart to tell her I’m hardly ever here during business hours, even on weekends. Frankly, I have no idea when—or if—I’ll see her again. Somehow, that seems almost as bad as whatever Maggie has waiting for me.

I force a smile and fight to keep my voice from sounding strangled. “Maybe.”

“I hope all this hasn’t put you off La Vita è Dolce, either.”

I’m on firmer ground with this one. My smile feels less fake too. “No, nothing could do that.”

“Oh good! See ya, then.”

“Bye, Savannah.” I want so much to reach for her, but it’s too dangerous. Looking away, I open the door and slide out. At the last moment, her hand catches mine. There isn’t the jolt, the surge of electricity you read about in romance books. Somehow it’s more than that, deeper and harder to define. It radiates through me and settles in my chest, where it feels warm. Warm and tight.

“Good luck.”

Her voice makes the tightness tighter. I jerk a nod. Our hands slip apart. The connection breaks with a little pop, like a bubble on a fountain. I close the jeep’s door and trudge to the garage entrance between the bakery and a dentist’s office.

Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

Swiping my card and entering my PIN, I let myself in and continue my trudge to the stairs. We’re on the fourth floor of apartments, right under the penthouses, which means six flights of stairs because of the shops on the lower level. I don’t want to take the elevators though—the idea of a steel box lifting me to my doom makes me feel sick.

I don’t need that. If I’m going up to Hell, I’ll climb.