The Moment We Fell Read online

  The Moment We Fell

  KELLI WARNER

  The Moment We Fell

  Copyright © 2019 by Kelli Warner

  Kindle Edition

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: Jenny Zemanek at Seedlings Design Studio

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author.

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  Facebook: fb.me/KelliWarnerAuthor

  Twitter: @KelliWarner_

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  KelliWarner.com

  Dedication

  To my parents, the best mom and dad on the planet. Thank you both for your encouragement and patience, for teaching me to value what’s most important in life, and to find laughter in each day. And Dad—thanks for humoring my obsession with Hallmark Channel movies and watching more than your fair share!

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Paige

  If someone had asked me a month ago how my life was going, I would have said great. Wonderful. Even excellent. If I were filling out a survey on the subject, I would have ticked the box labeled extremely satisfied without hesitation. Because a month ago, it was all that. Then life threw me a craptastic curveball I never saw coming, and now I’m stuck in a plane 30,000 feet in the air and on the verge of puking my guts out.

  The flight attendant stares down at me expectantly from behind her beverage cart. Wait. What was the question again?

  “Are you all right, miss?”

  I blink, trying to process what is, on the surface, a harmless inquiry. What this woman doesn’t know is that there’s a log of dread the size of a Pringles can spinning in my stomach, not to mention I’m carrying more emotional baggage than could possibly fit in my carry-on. Oh, and this plane I’m trapped on is doing some kind of shimmy-sway-bump thing every few seconds. So, no, I’m not all right. I’m a hot mess.

  Another unsettling jolt knocks a soft groan from my throat and propels the Pringles can to complete a few more twirls.

  “It’s just a few bumps, nothing to worry about. Would you like a Sprite or some ginger ale?” The flight attendant’s hands poise in midair, ready to pop the tab on a can of soda.

  Another thunderbolt rattles me in my seat, and I suck in a breath. Just a few bumps? I think this woman is out of her flippin’ mind and seriously needs to focus less on pimping me a beverage and take notice of the situation. I can already see our cataclysmic end splashed across the eleven o’clock news. Oh my gosh. Hot. Mess.

  The flight attendant’s thickly lined eyes narrow with sympathy. “There’s an air sickness bag in the seat pocket in case you need it.”

  I manage a shaky smile and wave a dismissive hand as my eyes lock on the blue bag peeking out from among the safety brochures and magazines. Thankfully, without another word, she rolls the metal cart forward to the next row of passengers.

  “Not a fan of flying?”

  I straighten. I’d forgotten about the woman in the window seat. Since takeoff, she’d been reading a book, nearly as quiet as the twentysomething guy sleeping to my left.

  “Is it that obvious?” I ask. Her eyes glance down to my fingers, which I now realize are twisting the leather band of my watch back and forth. I drop my hands into my lap.

  “Pretty watch,” she says. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  My hand slides over my wrist, shielding the crystal face from view. My mom gave it to me as a present on my last birthday, and I was disappointed when I unwrapped it. I’d never worn a watch in my life, and because I can check the time on my phone, it seemed impractical. It’s funny how things change. Not funny in a laugh-out-loud kind of way, more like ironically tragic. Ironic because the watch I hadn’t wanted I now refuse to take off. And tragic because this beautiful watch serves as a constant reminder of the moment my simple existence on this planet was permanently altered.

  Twenty-eight days, twelve hours and fourteen minutes ago, my life disintegrated. That was the moment when a man in navy surgical scrubs with sad, tired eyes, placed a gentle hand on my shoulder and told me he’d done everything he could to help my mom and that he was sorry for my loss. In that devastating wake-me-up-from-this-nightmare moment, my world had shattered into a million tiny pieces.

  “Turbulence is unnerving, but this isn’t bad,” the woman says. “Try to relax. Statistically speaking, the probability of a plane crashing is extremely rare.”

  Hold on. I’ve never flown before, but I’m pretty sure that talk of crashing is not an acceptable conversation starter. Like—ever.

  “The best thing to do is to keep your mind busy.” She holds up her book, and several silver bangles around her wrist jingle. The cover is tattered and worn, and I can’t make out the title before she returns it to her lap and flips it open again.

  Keeping my mind busy isn’t my problem. It’s practically spinning senseless with all my jumbled thoughts.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” the woman asks, leaning slightly forward in her seat, studying me as if there’s a complicated mathematics equation etched across my face. She’s younger than I first thought, with short, spiky hair the color of a melted Milky Way bar. “Should I call back the flight attendant?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, refusing to confess that my insides are tied in more knots than the plot of her paperback.

  “The first time I flew, I was an absolute wreck,” she says. Her words deflect off my distracted thoughts, dissolving into white noise in my ears, and I focus instead on the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign illuminated above me. Will it stay lit the entire flight? More importantly, will this flimsy strap of canvas cinched across my waist actually save me if the plane tumbles out of the sky? Not likely. And how in the world is the guy next to me actually sleeping through this? The air in the plane’s confined cabin suddenly feels a little too thick in my lungs.

  “Sorry. My husband says I tend to ramble
. Am I rambling?”

  Yes. Definitely, yes. I shake my head no.

  “Once I became more comfortable with flying and accepted the fact that, really, everything happens for a reason, I stopped worrying.”

  Everything happens for a reason. That might be the most ridiculous thing a human being can say to make someone feel better. I want to inform this woman that I’ve heard more people say that to me in the last month than I care to count, and that I don’t think it’s fair to say that everything happens for a reason when no one is able to explain what that reason is. Instead, I purse my lips and nod. Because there’s no point in it.

  Her thoughtful expression smooths into a smile, and she relaxes back into her seat. Finally.

  “Do you live in Oregon, or are you visiting?”

  For the love of Pete! What part of my I’m-about-to-hurl body language makes her think I want to have a conversation? And why do they make these seats so small?

  “Visiting.” I reach for the Hemispheres magazine behind the barf bag in front of me.

  “Oh, you’re in luck! The Pacific Northwest is beautiful this time of year. The colors are incredible. God’s artwork, I always say.” She sighs as I flip through the magazine’s pages, seeing nothing but a blur of color and smears of black ink. “Although, if I had to choose my favorite season—hmmm. I think it would definitely be summer.”

  If I have my way, I won’t be around Oregon long enough to experience fall, summer or anything else for that matter. If I could magically turn this plane around right now, or parachute out the emergency exit, I would do it in a heartbeat. Strap a pack on me and let ’er rip. But because that’s not an option, I take my cue from the unconscious guy in the aisle seat and unzip my hoodie, adjust the air nozzle in the panel above me and close my eyes, regretting that I did not snag a cold can of soda when I had the chance.

  Breath, Paige. Just. Breathe.

  A familiar aching claws its way into my chest. I haven’t cried since the funeral, and I know that’s not normal. It’s like something inside me closed up and nothing works right. That’s probably why people look at me the way they do, like they expect me to crack at any moment. Even Aunt Faye had gently suggested that I see a therapist. We were sitting in her kitchen a couple of weeks after the funeral when she brought it up. I asked her flat-out if she thought I was going crazy, because sometimes it feels like maybe I am. Aunt Faye was quick to say no but suggested that talking to someone might be helpful. I disagree. Sharing my problems with a stranger won’t fix anything. It will only make things worse.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve begun our descent into Portland.” My eyelids flutter open as the pilot’s deep voice crackles from the overhead speakers, and it takes me a moment to remember where I am. A quick assessment confirms I’m still strapped into my seat. I swallow, my ears popping against the cabin pressure as I check my watch.

  “We should be on the ground in about twenty minutes,” the pilot says. “It’s currently sixty-eight degrees with a light wind.”

  I shiver.

  “Everything’s good. No more turbulence,” my seatmate assures me. Her book has disappeared, and instead, she’s thumbing through the pages of a People magazine. “Landing can be a little bumpy, but it’ll be over before you know it.”

  In no time at all, and much to my horror, there’s a ginormous jolt—ohhhh crap!—wrapped in a heavy thud as the landing gear wheels meet the hard, concrete runway. My palms splay against the seat in front of me as the powerful momentum that took this plane into the air in San Diego reverses itself, and we go from what feels like a billion miles an hour to a calm Sunday drive. Note to self: No more flying, at least not for the time being.

  It doesn’t take long for the plane to taxi to the gate. Once the seat belt light dings and turns off, people all around me begin retrieving their belongings from the overhead bins and waiting patiently for the flight crew to open the doors. I stay right where I am while the guy to my left, without a word or a nod in my direction, bolts out of his seat at the first break in the aisle traffic and joins the mass exodus. Twisting, I hike my knees to my chest and rest my feet in the now-empty aisle seat to let my other seatmate squeeze by.

  “See? Safe and sound.” She smiles and pats my knee. I notice that the silver bangles on her wrist are adorned with small moons. “Take care.”

  I don’t think I can do this after all. I’m not ready. If only there were a way to disappear into the seat cushion. I mean, if it can serve as a flotation device, why not a cloaking mechanism as well? Stalling, I dig out my cell phone from my messenger bag beneath the seat in front of me and hit the Power button. When it comes to life, it alerts me that I have eleven text messages. Three are from Aunt Faye.

  Call me when you can.

  Have you landed? Call me soon.

  Are you OK? Please call me. Love you!

  I don’t bother listening to the voice messages because I can’t handle that right now. Faye had wanted to fly with me, but I’d insisted on doing this solo. The truth is I’m not sure I could have done this at all if she were with me. How could I possibly let her deliver me to this strange place and then watch her walk away? She’s already made plans to visit me next month for Thanksgiving. It will be the first family holiday without my mom, and I can’t even imagine it. Everything I do now will be the first time I’ve done it without her. That realization buries itself deep inside me, and loneliness sprouts from every cell in my body.

  When the flight attendant asks me if she can help me “deplane,” I take that as code for “get a move on,” regardless of whether I’m ready or not. Slinging my bag over my shoulder and retrieving my duffel from the now-empty overhead bin, I trudge up the aisle as the rational portion of my brain tries to calmly coax the rest of my cerebral cortex off the emotional ledge it’s currently squatting on.

  Somehow, my legs manage to carry me across the upper concourse to the escalator, and as it descends, I immediately spot him. The imaginary Pringles can in my stomach does another high-velocity barrel roll.

  Is that a forced smile? I fight the urge to climb my way back up to the floor above me and make a run for it. Instead, I’m frozen, watching him watching me as the mechanical staircase floats closer to him and the distance between us shrinks to mere feet.

  This is a pinnacle moment. If I were in a movie, I’d be enveloped in the deep swells of an Academy Award-worthy score. I should feel something, a connection or a longing for this missing piece of my life—anything—but I don’t. Instead, I’m swallowed whole by complete and utter hopelessness. I’ve lost so much and this man, whose eyes are glued to me beneath furrowed brows, cannot possibly make it better. Until three weeks ago, I never even knew he existed. But here he is. My father.

  And as I stare at him, all I can think is—this is what happens when people you love keep secrets.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Paige

  On the outside, Jay Chapman doesn’t look like a man who would abandon his family. And he swears that’s not what he did. The jury’s still out on that one.

  Jay’s tall, well over six feet; tall enough to dwarf my five-foot, six-inch frame. He radiates a commanding presence, which I suppose you need when you’re a high school principal. That’s one of only a handful of things I know about him. What’s impossible to ignore is how much I look like him; same sandy brown hair and gray-green eyes. It’s strange to suddenly be able to identify the source of the genes that give me my most-defined features.

  We met for the first time just a couple of weeks ago, and Jay’d had a hard time finding his words. He’d held my birth certificate in his hands and stared at it like it was written in some foreign language he couldn’t quite translate, while I waited for an explanation. I have no clue why my mother never mentioned him by name but felt so moved by this man that she’d arranged to hand me over to him in the event of her death. It makes no sense, and Jay, who’d appeared to be lost in the confusion of old memories, couldn’t offer any answers to this shocking tur
n of events.

  Now, here he is, standing in the airport wearing the same confused expression. When the crowd shifts around him, the rest of them materialize.

  A woman with shoulder-length blond hair stands next to Jay in a red, knee-length coat, clinging to the purse strap slung over her shoulder with both hands, as if she’s worried she’s about to be mugged. Based on the photos I’ve seen, this is Jay’s wife, Connie. She’s a real estate agent, and right now, she is undoubtedly sizing me up like a property listing.

  Beside her is a teenage boy, and I instantly know that it’s Tanner, who’s thirteen. He isn’t looking at me; his attention is on the phone he clutches in his fingers.

  Rounding out the family is a small girl, her long, dishwater blond curls drawn up into two high ponytails. She holds tight to Jay’s hand as she wobbles on her tiptoes, anxiously scanning the people coming toward her. Within moments, I cross through the security gate and come to a stop in front of them, that blasted Pringles can spinning like a carnival ride in my gut.

  “Hello, Paige.” Jay’s greeting is pleasant, but he can’t decide if he should attempt to hug me or shake my hand. He settles for a pat on my shoulder. “How was your flight?”

  “Good.” I shift my duffel bag from one hand to the other.

  He practically lurches forward and yanks the bag from my grasp. “Let me take that for you.”

  “Hi, Paige, I’m Connie.” Her smile is sweet, and she tucks a strand of her hair behind one ear. Without warning, she pulls me in close for a long hug and—what exactly is happening here? I have to be the equivalent of a stone statue in Connie’s embrace, but she holds on to me, whispering, “I’m so sorry about your mother.” She smells like some kind of flower I can’t identify. When she releases me, I attempt to swallow the enormous lump lodged in the back of my throat. “We’re so glad to have you here.”

  I do my best to return her smile, but it feels stiff, like someone glued it on my lips. I planned for diplomacy; I didn’t expect affection of any kind, so I’m not quite sure how to process this.