Free Falling Harder by W. H. Vega

released back into the world. I hurry down to the front of
the school, breathless and giddy at the prospect of my date. Part of me wishes
I could have gone home and changed, but that's a bit ridiculous isn’t it? Trace
lives with me, already. He knows what I look like when I’m tired, without
makeup, grumpy. I’ve never really been in a relationship with a guy before, but
even I can tell that this is a bit of an unconventional way to do things.
    Trace is waiting
on the hood of his car when I slip out of the school’s front doors. In a plain
black tee-shirt and perfectly fitted blue jeans, he’s the epitome of effortless
cool. He runs a hand through his sandy blonde hair as I approach, his green
eyes gleaming brightly in the gathering dusk.
    I wonder if he
can possibly be as nervous as I am. For my part, I’ve never even been on a date
in my life. There’s just never really been an opportunity. But I don’t feel
vulnerable in Trace’s hands—if anything, I feel far more safe.
    “Hello again,” I
grin, stepping up to the car.
    “Fancy meeting
you here,” he replies, hopping off the hood. Trace takes a step toward me,
closing the space between us. For a mad moment, I think that he’s going to
embrace me—press me up against the car and kiss me. But instead, he reaches
around and opens the passenger side door.
    “After you,” he
says with a smile. I fight to quiet my hammering heart and sink into the car.
It’s one of the only times I’ve gotten to ride shotgun, and certainly the first
time Trace has taken this whole “gentleman” thing for a spin. I know he thinks
it’s dashing, but really it’s more adorable than anything else. Not that I’d
ever say so to his face.
    “So,” I say, as
Trace starts the car, “Where are we off to? The movies? The mall?”
    “Nah,” he says,
“I sort of forgot, but you actually need money for those things.”
    “Ah. Right,” I say,
“So...where are we going?”
    “You’ll see,” he
tells me, and pulls out of the high school parking lot.
    As we cruise
along, Trace produces something from the glove compartment. I glance his way
and feel my insides seize up. He’s got a joint clenched between his lips and is
searching around for a lighter. My pulse starts to quicken as he lights up the
smoke, sucking in a big lung full. I can feel panic pulling at the corners of
my mind as Trace offers the joint to me.
    “I don’t think
so,” I tell him quietly.
    “Really?” he
says, “You sure?”
    “Is that safe?”
I ask, “Getting high behind the wheel?”
    “Totally,” he
insists, filling his lungs again. “It’s not like being drunk, you know. Your
concentration actually gets better. Ask anyone.”
    “I don’t
know...”
    “Trust me,
Nadia,” Trace says, his face softening with every pull of the joint, “I
wouldn’t put you in harm’s way.”
    “My parents were
killed in a car crash,” I tell him, my voice barely above a whisper.
    That cuts
through his burgeoning high. “Oh...” he breathes, “Oh, shit.”
    “They think that
the driver who hit them was drunk,” I press on, “Not that they ever caught the
asshole. I’m sure it’s punishment enough for him, though. Living with that.”
    “I get it,”
Trace says, “I’m sorry.”
    I stare at him
as he stubs out the joint. “I don’t understand how you can put all that into
your body,” I say, knowing that I sound judgmental. “I mean, after your
parents—”
    “What about my
parents?” he demands, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
    “Shit...” I
mutter, “That...That was too far. I didn’t mean to bring them into it.”
    “But you did,”
he says, “So, say what you want to say.”
    “It just doesn’t
make sense to me,” I admit, “If they fucked up their lives with drugs and
booze, why are you following in their footsteps, Trace? Don’t you want a different
ending for yourself?”
    “Like what?” he
asks, uninhibited under the influence, “Go to college? Become a doctor?