Fear of Falling

work?”
    “How do you know it won’t work? Have you ever tried to have a relationship?”
    I lifted a brow. “No. Have you?”
    Dom’s mouth twisted as he digested my words. He had never tried either. He slept with anything on two legs in an attempt to mask his insecurities and shame. After years of being raped by someone who proclaimed to love him, Dom had been confused about his sexuality. He thought being violated by a man meant he was gay, yet he didn’t find men attractive. He was undoubtedly good-looking, almost pretty. Both men and women found him exotic and enticing. His uncle even tried to use the defense that Dominic had indeed enjoyed it since he had ejaculated. Luckily, the jurors in Dom’s case saw his bullshit for what it was.
    “You don’t want to be like me, Kam. Different chicks every night—hell, I couldn’t even tell you who I brought home last week. That’s not you. You’re not a slut. You deserve someone who is going to cherish and love you. You need someone to build a life with. Maybe even start a family.”
    “And you think that someone is Blaine,” I said incredulously.
    “I think he could be. But you won’t know that until you try, Kam.” He handed me my cell phone that he’d been clutching. “Call him. Maybe he’ll understand. Maybe he’ll be exactly what you need. You owe it to yourself to at least try and find out.”
    Dom brushed away a wayward lock of hair from my forehead before leaving me alone to make my decision. I looked over at the jar of colorful origami stars in my windowsill. They were laughing at me. Taunting me. Reminding me why no one would ever be able to accept me. Not the way that I needed them to.
    I powered down my cell phone that was hanging on to its last bar of battery life and set it on my nightstand. No. I couldn’t call. I had 253 reasons not to.

I was off for the next two days, so I was able to properly wallow in my misery. I was pathetic. It was bad enough that I had played every sad song in existence on a continuous loop, but I had also played my own renditions of dejection. I had no right to be sad when my unhappiness was self-inflicted. But I was a masochist. I needed the pain. I needed the constant reminder of what… he …had done to me.
    By Tuesday, fed up with the doom and gloom of my bedroom, Angel stormed in with a determined expression.
    “That’s it! Enough already, Kam! You are obviously miserable, and it’s making us miserable. Call him, please!”
    I propped my guitar against my bed and frowned at her. “Why should I? He has officially seen me at my worst. Do you really think I can just bullshit my way out of a freak out like that?”
    Angel fingered her blonde hair and flopped down onto my bed. “No. But I think you can be honest with him. And I think he would be ok with it.”
    “Ok? Ok? Angel, how is any of this ok? How is screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night ok? How is hyperventilating to the point of fainting whenever a door is closed ok? How the fuck is nearly drowning because I can’t stand up in a pool of shallow water ok?”
    Angel’s big blue eyes glazed over with emotion at my outburst. “Kam…” she croaked, before swallowing down her hurt. But there was nothing left to say. There was no answer to my questions.
    “He wouldn’t understand.” I looked away to keep frustrated tears at bay. “He thinks he would. He thinks he could be with me despite it all, but I know it’s impossible. And when he finally sees that, it will kill me. I have no room left in me to be hurt, Angel. I’m barely hanging on as it is.”
    I looked back to Angel’s solemn face and sighed with resignation. “And how could I ever forgive myself for subjecting him to all my shit? He doesn’t deserve that. No one does.”
    Angel’s slender arms were around me instantly, squeezing me as if her life depended on it. Fresh tears on her cheeks wet my shoulder. “Don’t you dare fucking think that! Do you really think you are undeserving of happiness? Of love? That’s bullshit, and you know it! Blaine would be lucky to have you, Kami. It would be a fucking dream come true to love you, scars and all.”
    I clutched her arms that were wound across my chest, and let my own tears fall freely. I didn’t wipe these away. They weren’t just for me. They were for Angel, who wanted nothing more than to be loved for all that she was. She had experienced rejection of the worst kind. Her own parents had disowned her for being