Falling Fast (Falling Fast #1) - Tina Wainscott Page 0,28

But I saw something in you, too. And when you came around and told me you wanted to go I was…” He rubbed the back of his neck. Thrilled? Awed? Touched? He didn’t want to admit to any of those. “Happy,” he settled for. “I promised myself I’d keep you safe, that I wouldn’t touch you. You see how well that turned out.” He tucked the box sideways under his arm. “I’d better go.” Because he’d made that promise again. “Good night, Mia.”

Raleigh stepped out into the balmy night air and sucked in the salty breeze. He had no willpower when it came to her. Even now, when he wasn’t a nineteen-year-old with a partially disconnected frontal lobe, as all teens supposedly had.

He stuffed the box into the trash can and headed down the gravel road to his car. The moon washed over the white shells, making the road glow. When he reached the car, he leaned against the front and watched the shadowy waves rolling in. Here they were again. Him, the town drunk’s son trying to make something of himself. Her, so beautiful, here for a short time. Him, wanting her so bad…and knowing he could never be what she deserved.

—

Mia couldn’t help herself. She stood inside the window watching Raleigh walk away. He was still serving his sentence. Hating himself. Blaming himself for what had happened. Even for loving you.

When he disappeared into the distance, she pushed away from the window. She released a sigh, though it did nothing to relieve the tension in her chest. Here she was again, falling hard and fast for the bad boy with the good heart. Yeah, maybe that mystique had drawn her that first day in the garage, a boy so different from any she’d ever encountered. But she had seen his heart, his tenderness.

She saw it now.

Play it safe, Mia. Don’t fall again. This is about closure, not getting involved with someone you’ve had such a tangled history with; someone your parents despise.

She turned back to the cottage, so warm and cozy. Even though she’d been here for more than a week, she hadn’t done much in the way of packing things up. Her parents had gone through and taken anything of value, sentimental or otherwise. Her father, who’d been on the bank accounts, assigned them to her. She knew that he didn’t care about the money; it was the idea of her staying here, doing this on her own, that rankled. And, mostly, being near Raleigh.

They’d been overprotective, just shy of coddling her. It had been a small step to move into the college dorms, even though she’d chosen a college that was only thirty minutes from home. Now she was moving farther away, but it was still Minneapolis.

Way too wired to even think of relaxing, she tackled the closet in the main bedroom. Moving boxes filled the second bedroom, and she taped one up and set it in the corner. There were no walk-in closets here, no huge rooms. Even as a bored teenager, she had intrinsically appreciated the coziness and simplicity of Grandma’s house.

She opened the bifold doors and took in all the clothing. Not pastels, polyester, “old lady” clothes, as Grandma had put it. She loved color—rich, deep, and bright. Mia carefully pulled clothes and dresses and such, folded them, and set them in the box. She would donate them to the thrift shop, as Grandma would have wanted.

Stepping up on a stool, she cleared out the boxes of shoes and set the ones that contained business papers aside to sort. At around midnight, she pulled down the last one, labeled PICTURES. She sat on the bed and lifted the lid. On top of stacks of pictures lay an envelope with the words FOR MIA, PERSONAL written in large letters. Her heart stepped up as she tugged her finger beneath the seal. The stationery was delicate, with scalloped edges. She unfolded the page and read Nancy’s familiar writing:

Dear Mia,

If you’re reading this, I’m gone or on the way to being gone. Either way, know that I’m fine with going home. I have no regrets. I lived well. Loved. Felt gratitude at every sea breeze that wafted over my face and ruffled my hair. Every grain of sand lodged between my toes. You taught me that, a child, looking death in the eye and soaking in life as you did.

I lied; I do have one regret. His name was James McConnelly, and I met him when