✨As the World Falls Down✨

When you woke up, you were alone.

The absence of Donnie's warmth hit you before you were fully awake. Cold fabric of the couch cushion pressed against your face where his body should have been. You rubbed your eyes, sitting up too fast. Pain exploded behind your eyes.

"Christ…" you groaned.

You cradled your head in both hands, fingers pressing against your temples like you could hold your skull together through sheer force of will. Sunlight spilled through the living room window, bright enough to make you squint, and very heartbeat echoed in your head.

You stumbled toward the kitchen. After several minutes of opening the wrong cabinets, you finally found the bottle of pain reliever. You shook three out into your palm, tossed them into your mouth, and chased them with tap water.

You glanced at the clock above the sink.

9:32.

Fuck. Your shift started at ten, and today wasn't just any plain old shift. It was the double you had begged your manager for. You practically sprinted to the bathroom. Your jewelry clattered onto the counter and your dress landed somewhere behind you.

If you were going to be late, the least you could do was show up looking halfway presentable.

One quick shower and a thorough teeth brushing later, you were feeling much better. You dried your hair enough not to drip everywhere. Your uniform went on smoothly. On the way to the door, you slipped on your shoes, grabbed your apron, and suited up in your armor for the morning– a pair of dark sunglasses.

-

You made it to work by 10:15. It could've been worse.

The headache lingered well into lunchtime, but after the first rush rolled in, there wasn't much time to think about anything besides coffee refills and burger orders.

By noon, your favorite regulars had wandered in. Mr. Lewis tipped you ten dollars just because he said you looked tired. One of the truckers left enough to pay for your lunch. A sweet older couple insisted you keep the change after their pancake breakfast.

Little by little, the day redeemed itself.

When your manager finally cut you loose that evening, your apron pocket felt pleasantly heavy with cash. It was plenty enough to cover the rest of your rent and to treat yourself. You had earned it.

You went out of your way to stop by your favorite restaurant in town. Twenty minutes later, the smell of greasy, salty southern comfort food filled your car.

Your mood had almost completely recovered once you pulled into your driveway. That is, until your headlights caught someone sitting on your front steps. You thought about just driving off, but parked and got out anyway.

Donnie's girlfriend waited for you; she was dressed in denim booty shorts and a hot pink bikini top that matched the flip-flops dangling from her feet. A cigarette hung from her lips, different from Donnie's brand. The smoke drifting through the air reeked of something cheaper and more harsh.

She leaned back on her hands, watching you approach. You didn't even know her name, why was she on your porch? When you were close enough, she stubbed the cigarette out against your step.

"Hi," you tried awkwardly, fighting the urge to run.

"I know what kind of man Donnie is," she said flatly, "I ain't stupid."

"Okay?"

"But I'll be damned if I'm gonna lose him because of you."

Your eyebrows pulled together.

"It's not like that," you insisted.

"Then what's it like? I am dyin' to know," she leaned forward, elbows on her knees.

You searched for the right words, but nothing sounded right in your head.

"He was just…" you sighed, "being nice."

She laughed, genuinely amused, "Donnie ain't nice unless he wants somethin' real bad."

She stood up quickly and stepped down into your space. Close enough that you could see the imperfections in her makeup and the jealousy in her eyes, eating her alive from the inside out.

"Leave him alone."

You opened your mouth, "There isn't anything–"

"If I catch you sniffin' around him again," she smiled, "It ain't gonna be pretty."

She gave you a cheerful wave of her fingers, then turned around and sauntered back toward the trailer at the dead end of the road.

You stood in your driveway for another minute, completely baffled. The smell of your cooling dinner drove you inside. You sat on the couch, not even bothering to turn on the TV or radio. You ate in silence while the conversation replayed itself over and over in your mind.

The food didn't taste nearly as good as you had been looking forward to. You wondered what the hell you got yourself into, and why some stupid part of you was still dying to see him again.

-

Your weekly visit with Mrs. Gertrude had been postponed twice, and you were out of good excuses. You were officially overdue to see her.

You stared at the bunch of overripe bananas sitting on your kitchen counter. Muffins would be a great apology gift to your elderly friend. If nothing else, baking gave your hands something to do while your mind raced.

Mashing the bananas with more force than necessary, you hoped that the gossip mill hadn't reached Gertrude's ears yet. Donnie probably wouldn't say anything to anyone– but his girlfriend? That woman had the look of someone who'd shout your secrets from the church steps if it served her.

The muffins emerged golden and fragrant from the oven, studded with nuts that you had chopped too aggressively. Once they cooled enough not to burn your fingertips, you arranged them in a basket lined with a checkered cloth, and set out on the walk to Gertrude's.

She was exactly where you expected: settled on her rocking chair on the back porch, right next to a couple hummingbirds that fought over her only feeder standing above the bushes. Her crochet needles clicked rhythmically, working the same cream-colored sweater she had been unraveling and reworking for weeks.

When she saw you, her whole face lit up with joy.

"Well, there she is!" she set her crochet hook to the side and waved, "I was startin' to think you'd forgotten about this ol' lady."

You climbed the steps, extending the basket like a peace offering. She took it, inhaling deeply, and immediately insisted you stay to share one with her. You couldn't refuse her, no one could.

The conversation carried on smoothly. You talked about weather, the church bake sale that you had forgotten all about, your successful double shift, and how you treated yourself to your faovrite take out last night.

You purposefully avoided any words even remotely related to Donnie.

Gertrude dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin, and fixed her eyes on you. They seemed far too sharp for someone her age, cataract-filmed, but seeing everything.

"So, you ain't gonna tell me how that date of yours went?"

Your mouthful of tea went down the wrong pipe and you choked out a raspy, "Wh-aaat?"

"Earl told me all about that fella that showed up at your door, right when Donnie was leavin'."

Of course Earl had seen. The man kept binoculars near every window and had a mouth like a broken faucet. He couldn't keep anything to himself.

"It wasn't… he wasn't…" you gave up, shoulders slumping, "He just wasn't interested. Left not long after he got there."

Gertrude hummed.

"Mhmm. Well, Earl saw you later on, too. All dolled up in that yellow dress of yours, headin' straight for the dead end down there."

"Oh, Lord."

She nudged your arm, "What happened once you got where you were goin'?"

You stared down at your hands, trying to decide if you wanted to lie to this sweet old lady. You didn't have the heart.

"I ended up at Donnie's," you sighed, "He let me sit inside for a little while, but then his girlfriend woke up and told me to leave. Donnie walked me back home."

"Yeah, I figure she wouldn't take too kindly to a pretty girl like you showin' up at his door late at night, hm?" She gave you a soft smile.

You conveniently left out the threat waiting on your porch the following evening. Gertrude sat very still for a moment, staring off into the distance. You thought she had fallen asleep, but then she spoke.

"You oughta go talk to that boy. Sober this time!" she added.

"Mrs. Gertrude-"

She shook her head at you, "Uh-uh! He's been kinder to you than folks give him credit for."

"He has a girlfriend. A mean one," you said quietly.

"So? That girlfriend of his ain't got no claim on him 'til there's a ring on her finger, and even then," she waved her hand while she spoke, "Men like Donnie, they need a firm hand steerin' em. Right now, he's just driftin'."

You weren't sure how to respond to her, so you just frowned thoughtfully.

"I ain't tellin' you to steal him. Now, I'm just tellin' you to go over there and thank him proper."

"She'd probably claw my eyes out if I did that," you laughed.

"And I bet she's all bark," she leaned forward seriously, "Take 'em some cookies. Call it a thank you, but make it clear you ain't scared of some girl with a bad attitude and a push-up bra."

You laughed, breaking the tension you felt. Cookies. It sounded silly to bake your way into a man's heart while he girlfriend sharpened her claws, but what else did you have? You had already made a fool of yourself. Might as well be a fool with dessert.

-

Back home, you threw yourself into baking. Browned butter, dark chocolate, and the good vanilla you saved for special occasions. The dough came together nicely, and you scooped it onto sheets with careful precision, wanting them perfect.

A dozen chocolate chip cookies cooled on the rack while you searched every cabinet in the trailer for your prettiest serving plate. You found it, the nice one with blue flowers around the rim, and stacked the cookies neatly beneath a layer of plastic wrap.

Donnie's truck rumbled past your window around six, home from whatever work kept him gone all day. You took that as your cue to get ready.

You stood in front of your closet for fifteen minutes trying on and discarding outfits. You settled on some shorts that might have been a little too short and a red tank top that was definitely cut too low. Mascara and a light lip gloss were the finishing touches.

The way you looked in the mirror, it was impossible not to do a little twirl and admire yourself. You were cute. Nothing bordering on too sexy or too much; it didn't seem like you were trying hard.

Each step toward Donnie's trailer had your heart hammering faster and faster. You stood on his steps for a full minute talking yourself out of it and back into it three times before you knocked.

Inside, heavy footsteps took their time answering. The door cracked open enough to give you a glimpse of him.

"What?" Donnie barked.

He was still dressed from work. Dirty work boots, grease-stained jeans, and a grimy mechanic's button-up hung open over a tank top. Around his neck rested that same little gold cross he only seemed to remember to wear sometimes.

He pulled the door open wider, smiling as he recognized you.

"Oh. Hey there, neighbor," he stretched the last word out, exaggerating it with his drawl.

"Hi, Donnie."

He leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed, looking at you head to toe with unapologetic interest.

"What brings you down here? Ain't drunk again, are ya?" he teased.

"No," you laughed, breathier than you intended, "I'm not. I wanted to thank you for the other night. You didn't have to help me, but you did, and I appreciate it. So, here, cookies."

You thrust the plate forward to show him your baked masterpiece. Donnie whistled, looking them over.

"Damn, those look mighty good," he stepped back from the doorway, "Say, you wanna come in for a minute?"

Your eyes searched past him. The living room looked empty to you, but you couldn't really be sure.

"She ain't here," he said bluntly.

"Okay."

The relief from hearing that was embarrassing. Donnie took another step back and held the door open for you. You crossed the threshold into his space for the second time. This time felt more intimidating than the first.

"Come on in here," he headed straight for the kitchen, "Want somethin' to drink? Got beer."

Again with the beer. You should tell him no. You came here sober, intending to stay that way, trying to prove you weren't the same mess he'd found in his yard.

"Sure," you said happily.

"Atta girl."

He tossed you a blue and white can, and you caught it one-handed.

"Good catch," he said, impressed, "You got pretty good reflexes when you're sober."

"I guess so."

He met you at the counter, close enough that you could smell the day still on him. The mechanical grease and sweat mixed with nicotine should have been unpleasant, but it wasn't. You set the plate down and Donnie tore into the cookies. He grabbed the largest one and took a big bite. His eyes closed and made a low, guttural sound making your cheeks burn.

"Goddamn," he muttered around the mouthful and pointed the cookie at you, "What'd you put in these? Tastes like… I don't even know. Like somethin' my mama would've made if she'd'a known how to cook."

You shrugged, "Secret recipe."

You weren't about to explain browned butter and sea salt to a grown man. Some mysteries deserved to stay mysteries. You popped the tab on the can of beer and took a sip. By the second sip, Donnie had already finished another cookie.

His eyes drifted toward a third, and he sighed dramatically.

"Nah," he shook his head, "I can't. Gotta make myself somethin' to eat. I'm starvin'."

He looked at you speculatively, and you felt the question coming before he asked.

"You wanna stay for supper? Got some venison I'm fixin'. Could make you a plate, too."

The yes was about to roll off your tongue, but you thought about the chat you had with his girlfriend the night before. Even if Mrs. Gertrude said she was all talk, you didn't want to find out.

"I don't think it's a good idea," you sighed.

"She ain't here," he repeated firmly, "and she won't be. I swear."

"I might could stay…" you decided, "long enough to eat. What's on the menu?"

He gave you a real, wide smile, already moving and pulling pans from cabinets.

"Venison cubed steak. Got some potatoes, too, and some of them fresh green beans," he nodded, "Won't take but just a minute."

You stood off to the side and watched him work. The conversation stayed light and easy. He gave you a rundown of his day at the shop, complaining about a stubborn transmission. You learned that he had been fixing cars since before he could even drive.

The entire time, you had expected him to be helpless in a kitchen. You figured his girlfriend would cook for him or he'd survived on takeout and frozen TV dinners. You were glad that you were wrong.

When he was done, he carried two steaming plates into the living room. The venison was seared perfectly, crusted with pepper and herbs, nestled against boxed mashed potatoes doctored up with butter and garlic. Bright, crisp green beans completed the plate and had your mouth watering.

He set yours on the coffee table, right atop a Playboy from three months ago. You laughed. Such fine cooking sitting on a glossy porn magazine in a stinky, rundown trailer.

"Sit," he said, patting the couch beside him, "Before it gets cold."

You sat, setting your beer down beside the plate. You dug in, finding the food to be better than you expected.

Dinner stretched on much longer than you had planned. Somewhere between the venison and the last of the green beans, Donnie found the remote and switched on the television. Some old western filled the screen. John Wayne or Clint Eastwood, you couldn't tell. It was the kind of movie where men were men and problems were solved with fists and guns. He'd probably seen it dozens of times, if you had to guess by the way he mouthed some of the words as the characters spoke.

That movie quickly became background noise as the two of you settled into conversation. You told him about impossible customers at the diner. In turn, he told self-deprecating stories about botched repairs at the shop and did silly impressions of his boss that had you covering your mouth to muffle the laughter.

You were giggling like a girl half your age. Drunk on more than just the alcohol he kept offering, you were quickly forgetting that he belonged to someone else.

Another beer appeared in your hand, and you drank without thinking. The warmth spread through you, loosening your spine, and you found yourself drifting closer to him. Your thigh was pressed flush with his while his arm stretched along the back of the couch cushions. Your hand found his thigh and stayed there, mindlessly rubbing circles.

"You're dangerous," he said, but he was smiling.

"Me?" you batted your lashes, playing dumb.

"You know exactly what you're doin'."

Maybe you did.

He offered you another beer and you took it. Stopping would mean thinking about this interaction, and thinking was the last thing you wanted.

Your words slurred at the edges as you started to notice the imbalance. The collection of cans on your side of the table was four (going on five) to his two. He was drinking slower, watching more, and complimenting you more freely. Your hair was "like silk, swear to God," your skin was "soft," and your jeans were "made for your body."

Each touch lingered, testing boundaries. And you let him.

His hand squeezed your thigh, higher than a friendly touch would've. Warm fingers pressed into the denim of your jeans, sending goosebumps across your skin. Your breath hitched.

A car door slammed outside.

You jumped, breaking whatever spell was holding you in place. Reality crashed back in. You were suddenly hyper-aware of where you were, what you were doing, and whose hand was on your leg.

"Do you need help cleaning up?" you stood up, head spinning, "I should help you. I could at least throw away the trash."

"Don't worry about it," he said calmly, "I'll get it later."

You were already moving, gathering empty cans with clumsy hands, desperate to do something with your body that wasn't this. You swayed a little, and then the doorknob jiggled franticly.

"Donnie? Why's the door locked? You know I don't got a key!"

His girlfriend's voice cut through the door.

Panic was too gentle of a word for what flooded your veins. It was terror. Your eyes flew from the door to Donnie's face and back again. He didn't look bothered. Donnie stood slowly, not a worry in the world.

"It's alright, I'll handle it."

You didn't believe him, but you watched anyway. He crossed the room to the door and cracked it open, wedging his shoulder against the jamb to block the view inside.

"Baby? What're you doin'? Open the door," Her voice raised, sounding confused.

"I'm busy."

"Busy doin' what?" she asked indignantly.

"Nothin' you need to worry about."

"Why won't you let me in, Donnie? Stop playin' around."

"Just ain't in the mood tonight," he said flatly.

"That doesn't make any sense. Move–"

He stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind him, and you were alone. Alone with the mounted buck staring down at you from the wall. You put the cans back down onto the coffee table.

You narrowed your eyes at the buck and whispered, "Don't judge me."

You rubbed your face and sighed. What were you doing? Spending the evening drinking and hee-heeing with another woman's boyfriend. No matter how innocently it started, it didn't feel innocent anymore.

The deer knew it. The walls knew it. You knew it.

Outside, their voices got louder. You couldn't make out every word, just enough to understand frustration. Her voice rose to a yell before you heard a sharp sound, like flesh on flesh, and you flinched.

Your eyes wandered to the dark hallway. There had to be another way out. Your hands trailed along the walls for guidance, until your fingers found a door handle. You slipped outside, easing the door shut behind you as quietly as you could. Shuffling forward, you outstretched your arms and felt for obstacles in the blackness.

If you could just make it to the other end, you could slip past while they argued, sneak behind Mrs. Gertrude's trailer, and you'd be home before he knew you were gone.

It was a solid plan.

Right up until your foot caught the edge of one of Mrs. Gertrude's enormous flower pots. Your momentum carried you forward.

"Oh, fuck!"