After the Fall

far—didn’t give me too many opportunities for hesitation though, and I made myself get all the way to his door.
    I knocked.
    No answer.
    After almost a minute, I tried again.
    Still nothing.
    Crap. Now what?
    Now you get the fuck out of here, because he obviously doesn’t want to see you.
    Heart heavy, I headed back to the car. I paused at the door, debating sending him a text, or calling him, or coming back later. Something told me I had one chance at contact, and if I couldn’t fix this before he broke that contact, then it was done.
    And if I walked away now, would I ever work up the nerve to come back?
    Maybe I should let it go before either of us has a chance to say something to make this really hurt.
    Before I could make a decision one way or the other, the all too familiar sound of a motorcycle engine raised the hairs on the back of my neck.
    Slowly, I turned around. Now wasn’t that a surreal and oddly familiar sight? The bike. The leathers. The helmet. Blue and white between streaks of mud. Just like the day I’d met him.
    He parked beside his truck. The engine died. I gulped.
    When he took off the helmet, his eyes were cold. He didn’t say a word, but I sensed the fuck off from here.
    “I want to talk,” I said.
    He regarded me silently for a moment. Then he shrugged. “Okay.”
    Well, that was a start.
    He keyed us into the apartment and set the helmet on a chair by the door before he started taking off his leather jacket, the same one he’d left with me when he’d gone to get the paramedics.
    “You got the casts off,” he said flatly. “How is your leg? And your hand?”
    “They’re fine. A lot better now.”
    “Good.” He paused. “You probably want to sit.”
    Truth was, my leg ached like hell, but I didn’t want to overstay my already tenuous welcome. “It’s up to you.”
    Without a word, he gestured toward the small living room. I sat on the couch. He stayed standing, which was unnerving. The height difference, the defensiveness in the way he folded his arms; I suspected he wouldn’t have invited me to sit if I hadn’t been in a cast recently.
    I cleared my throat. “I, um, I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”
    “You mentioned that the last time we talked.”
    “Yeah, but I didn’t include the part where I was sorry because I’d made a huge mistake.” I paused, taking a deep breath. “I really am sorry, Ryan. I got spooked, and I fucked up and hurt you. I am so, so sorry for that.”
    He was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he spoke, his tone flat and even. “I can accept the apology. But I’m not going back.”
    My heart dropped. “Ryan . . .”
    He shook his head. “I’ve been avoiding this kind of thing for years because I was happier on my own. Things were different with you, but . . .” He finished the thought with a heavy shrug.
    “Yes, they were different.” I paused again, collecting my breath and thoughts. I started to speak, but he beat me to the punch.
    “Listen, it was fun while it lasted. Maybe it could have gone somewhere, maybe it couldn’t have. But I need to move on.”
    “Move on?” I asked. “Is that how you deal with everything? Stay until things get rough, and then ‘move on’?” Pot . . . kettle . . .
    “I’m not the one who called time on this,” he snapped, and I jumped at the uncharacteristic sharpness in his voice. “This was your decision, Nathan.”
    “And it was a mistake.”
    “Was it? So if we tried again, how long before you decide that’s a mistake too?”
    Sighing, I rubbed my forehead as I struggled to find the words to assure him that I didn’t flip-flop on these things as a rule, and I knew damn well I’d made a mistake by leaving, not by coming back.
    Ryan spoke first. “One day you can’t do this. The next you can’t do without. How do I know tomorrow I won’t be back out on my ass? I mean, you had the nerve to ask if I deal with everything by moving on and running away from anything that might hurt, but I could ask you the same thing, couldn’t I?”
    I flinched. “I . . .”
    “You’ve been hurt a few times, and you’re scared of getting hurt again. So you’re going to hang back and let life pass you by? Are you also going to sell Tsarina because of your leg?”
    “That was an accident,” I snapped.
    “Yeah? So if you’d been on foot when I came around that corner, you still would have broken your leg?”
    I avoided his eyes.
    “I don’t let people in very often,” Ryan said. “Every