Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3)

by Andrea Hopkins

  “Cady? What’s wrong?”

  At the sound of my voice, her mute cries grow louder and before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m underneath the table, cradling her soft body against me. Immediately, she burrows her nose into my chest, the wetness from her face soaking my undoubtedly rank tank top, curling her body in a way that fits into mine like a puzzle piece.

  Perfect.

  I wrap my arms around her and tug her as close as I can, praying the dude downstairs doesn’t get any inappropriate ideas—though he tends to have a mind of his own these days so there’s really no stopping it, no matter how much praying I do. I rub her back and whisper shiz I think would help her calm down, but nothing seems to work. In all honesty, I think I might be making it worse. I try to pull her away so I can see her face but she clings onto me with a strength I never knew she had.

  “Bug, please stop crying. I don’t know what to do here. I just…I know I hate to see you cry.”

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbles. The sound reverberating against my chest, sending enticing tingles down the entire length of my body. I try to shrug it off, but that only pushes my chest into hers, which just creates even more powerful and severe tingles that I can’t ignore no matter how hard I clench my jaw and think about old man balls. Gross, I know, but it normally does the trick.

  Wrinkled …

  Saggy …

  “You have nothing to be sorry about—at least, I don’t think you do. What happened, Bug? I want to help, but I can’t if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

  Cady takes a few shuddering deep breathes, inhaling and exhaling against my chest.

  Musky…

  She pulls away slightly, bringing her bright blue eyes to mine and I can’t help the hitch of my own breath.

  Crap.

  My hand moves toward her face before I can stop it. My thumb grazes her smooth olive skin, brushing away the wetness that has become a thin coat on her cheek. Her eyes close briefly at my touch and I feel her shudder in my arms. When they open, they remain sad and unsure.

  “Cady?”

  “Do you think I’m fat?”

  Her question surprises me so much that my entire body jolts. My eyebrows furrow in confusion. She takes my stunned silence as an answer and begins to cry even harder.

  “Oh my God, you do! You think I’m fat, too!” she wails, and I curse a word I’ve never said before.

  Fuck!

  “What? No! No, Bug. How could you even think that? Did someone call you fat?”

  She just nods into my shirt again as the sobs continue to assail her. Oh, I’m gonna kill the son of a bitch.

  “Who the hell called you that?”

  She mumbles something, but I can’t hear her through my soaked shirt. I cup her chin and pull her away from me again and those effing tears do something to me. Something I refuse to acknowledge. With a deep breath, I repeat my question.

  “Lucy. She said if I ever want boys to like me like they like her, then I need to drop five pounds. She said that I’m one hamburger away from being fat. I don’t even eat hamburgers!”

  I growl. I actually growl.

  Effing Luce.

  Cupping Cady’s too beautiful face, I force her to look into my eyes. I have to swallow down the intense mixed bag of emotions trying to swallow me whole before speaking the words she needs to hear. Words that are nothing but the truth.

  “Cady, you’re not fat. You’re not even close, but even if you were, you’d still be the most beautiful girl I…anyone has ever seen. Lucy is just jealous because she’s shaped like a damn stick figure.”

  Her tiny giggle warms my entire body and I feel like I won the lottery three times over, or I don’t know—I just mastered a recipe quicker (and better) than my dad. That adorable snort that never ceases to escape and the fact that I was the one to bring it out of her…it’s the best damn feeling I have ever felt.

  “You really think so? You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”

  “I swear, Cadybug. She may be pretty and yeah, some boys like her, but she doesn’t have anything on you. You…there is no one like you, Bug.”

  Ever so slowly, her mouth widens into this big, toothy grin. Her puffy, bloodshot eyes sparkle and stare at me like I’m effing Santa Claus—full of wonder and gratitude. My heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of my chest when she looks at me like that. Hell, every time she looks at me, period. But it’s when she wraps her arms back around me, her voice soft and sweet, whispering into my ear like the wind, “There is no one like you either, Ben. You’re it.”

  That’s when I know.

  Something twists deep inside my gut, and no, it’s not the effing food lion, it’s something entirely different, something far more dangerous than a starved, ferocious feline. Something I can’t feel. Not unless I want to screw up everything good in my life. And my life is damn good. My family. I can’t afford to lose them, no matter how much I have to sacrifice. So, I push it down—six feet under my heart—and I begin to cover that feeling with layer upon layer of indifference, distraction, and denial.

  But first, first I allow myself three seconds.

  Three seconds to remember how she looked at me like I was her everything. Her hero. Three second to breathe in her crazy dark brown curls and to feel her warm breath on my neck and how with each intake, my body hums a song I want to hear every single day for the rest of my life.

  Three seconds to forget everything that just happened.

  And one more second to push her away and to make sure she stays there.

  ***

  I open my eyes, blinking away the memory—or at least attempting to, but it’s hell-bent on lingering just below the surface.

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah, honey?”

  “You’re right. I love her. Fuck, I love her. I’m so fucking in love with her.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit. I. Love. Cady.

  Of course you do, dumbass!

  “Hallelujah! It’s about effing time! And of course, I’m right, I’m always right.”

  “Not to mention humble,” I tease as I crawl my way out from underneath the table. Mom’s smile is wide, warm, and all knowing.

  “Oh, hush you.” She swats at me before grabbing my big hands into her dainty ones. “Are you ready now?”

  “Ready for what?” I ask, my brows creasing in confusion.

  “To tell her. To stop living in denial. To finally let yourself be happy. Truly happy, Ben, not this settling-for-less-man-hoochie thing you got going on—”

  “Man-hoochie? Really?”

  “I calls it like I sees it,” she gives me another shameless shrug and her signature smirk that rivals my dad’s any day before growing serious again. “So, are you ready?”

  I blow out a huge puff of air, moving my eyes back to the withered dining table, taking a deep breath, in through the nose and out the mouth and giving myself three seconds.

  Three seconds to slowly unearth the feelings I buried deep so long ago.

  Three seconds to allow myself to grasp those feelings. To feel again.

  And three seconds to second-guess myself before answering.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  Four

  Songs to listen to:

  “Worth It” by Danielle Bradbury

  “Suffer” by Charlie Puth

  “Rolling in the Deep” by Adele

  “River of Tears” by Alessia Cara

  “Bang, bang” by Nancy Sinatra

  Cady

  I hate him.

  It’s been three days since I walked in on Ben…three days, and I think I hate him even more than I did yesterday and the day before—which was a lot, trust me.

  I hate how much it hurts—goddess, it hurts so damn much. It feels like my heart has been transformed into my pincushion, the pincushion that I glared at for two whole fucking hours yesterday. The same pincushion he gave me for my tenth birthday—bright cherry red with black polka dots. I’ve made dozens of dresses, skirts,
tops, costumes, even pillowcases using that stupid pin cushion. It’s one of my favorite things in this world.

  Was. It was one of my favorite things.

  Now it’s at the bottom of my trash can. I even made sure to pile whatever disgusting garbage I could find on top just so I wouldn’t dig it back out during my many moments of weakness. Even now, just thinking about it, my fingers twitch to retrieve it.

  But I can’t.

  I won’t.

  I know I sound like a pathetic, petty little girl and it’s annoying the hell out of me too, but I just can’t seem to stop. I guess I don’t handle betrayal so well. Which brings me back to the damn pincushion and why it reminds me of my weak-ass heart. Every time I think about his hands being on Lucy, touching my former best friend in places I have only dreamed of him touching me. Looking into her eyes the way he looked into mine only hours before. Pressing his naked body against hers…fuck…hers. Her perfectly thin, runway-model body… It feels like a needle straight through my fucking ignorant, treacherous organ that still only beats for him. And unfortunately for me, my mind keeps insisting on remembering every last fucking detail of that moment on the porch and then the morning that followed, the morning, plus everything else my imagination wants to conjure up. Needless to say, my pincushion of a heart is chock-full of goddamned needles.

  My subconscious is a salty-ass bitch, too.

  For the last few nights, in my dreams—nightmares, really—I keep reliving the moment, that blissful yet tainted moment we had on the deck, the kiss that shattered all other kisses before it and in the future. And every night, just as I’m pulling away to catch my breath and give him a satiated smile, I’m all of sudden in Tuck’s room, watching Ben and Lucy do things I’ve only read in books or seen in the two porno’s I’ve watched for educational purposes due to my vast sexual inexperience. But apparently, those limited visuals stuck because these nightmares were vivid as fuck. Thankfully, my subconscious isn’t a total heartless dickwad because I always seem to wake up before they finish. But at that point, the damage is already done—I’m drenched in sweat and tears, breaking into a crumpled mess all over again.

  Dylan hasn’t left my side. Well, until today. But that wasn’t his choice. I had to practically push him into his damn car to go to practice, which is insane because the dude lives for practice—he’s never missed anything when it comes to baseball. Which really was a telltale sign that I’m a fucking disaster right now, so much so that he was afraid to leave me alone, willing to skip the one thing he loves the most. Not that this is much of a surprise to me. It’s been three days, and I’m just now showering. Although, I’m not sure I can call sitting in the tub with my knees to my chest as the water blends with my silent tears, showering. But, at least I don’t smell anymore. I think we can all count that as a win.

  I can’t stop crying, either. I try to. I really do, but it just keeps on coming. It’s the gift I don’t want, that just keeps on giving. It’s been three days, stupid pincushion heart and you backstabbing tear ducts! You would think I’d be all dried up by now, but nope. I go to sleep crying. I wake up crying. It’s really starting to piss me off. Just another thing I can add to the growing list of reasons I hate Ben motherfucking Catalano-Moretti. He’s turned me into this. This blubbering, broken, mess of a girl. That’s not me. This—this isn’t me. And yet, here I am, barely able to pull myself together to take a fucking shower.

  Before this, I could count the amount of times I have cried in my entire life on one hand. One. Hand. I didn’t even cry when my parents split up.

  Shit.

  Motherfucking shit! Now that I think about it, almost every time I’ve cried was because of Ben.

  Ben kissing me for the first time, my first time, then practically ignoring me for a year.

  Ben asking my middle school biology lab partner, Sadie Terrance to our first school dance. Right. In front. Of me. Dick.

  Lucy, in not so many words, calling me a fat-ass who needed to drop a few (or ten) pounds in order for Ben to notice me. Of course, Ben comforted me after that happened, but still…he’s an asshole, so I’m blaming that one on him, too. I’m in pain, I’m allowed to be a nonsensical bitch.

  Prom.

  Just one word, but damn, it holds so much fucking weight.

  I blame prom for my lack of judgment at the party. Prom night gave me hope, a moment of insanity. I should have known it was just another one of his twisted games. I should be used to them by now, expecting them, but my stupid heart has the worst case of dementia.

  ***

  Three months earlier

  “Motherfuckingshit!” I curse at my vintage Singer sewing machine. Tim is his name, and although he is handsome and has guided me to create some beautiful, amazing pieces of walking art over the years, he’s a fucking pain in my ass. And with that thought, the damn needle sticks again, for the fifth fucking time. “Ah! If I didn’t need you like air, you’d be in fucking pieces at the junkyard! You worthless piece of—”

  “Tim being an a-hole again?”

  Ben.

  My head immediately snaps to that voice. The voice. The voice that makes my body sing a song that is only meant for him to hear. Of course, he never does. But when my eyes find his, I wish I had the strength to ignore that low timbre. Because once my eyes leave his face, they begin a slow, mouth-watering descent down the length of his long and lean swimmer-like body. Strong broad shoulders, hands that are probably bigger than my head, a narrowed and defined waist with abs that make me want to weep with an overabundance of want. And since the gods are spiteful bitches, that sinful body with all of its magnificent parts, are currently expertly wrapped up and tailored to perfection in the sexiest fucking suit I have ever seen. I have to shut my eyes for a second and literally shake the overpowering thoughts from my head before I’m able to form actual words.

  “When is he not being an a-hole? And dude, you’re eighteen, technically an adult. I think it’s time you to stop censoring your swear words like you’re broadcasting on TBS. If you’re gonna curse, curse like you mean it. Tim is being an asshole. Repeat after me. Ass. Hole.”

  Ben shakes his head in amusement, giving me his signature half-smile that I swear gets more adorable each time I see it.

  “You think maybe it’s time to swap out Tim for a newer model?”

  I gasp and cover my trusty (sixty percent of the time) sewing machine’s non-existent ears.

  “How dare you insinuate such things! I would never!”

  “Suit yourself, but c’mon, Bug, you’ve had that hunk of junk—”

  Another gasp from me.

  “Since you were eight years old. Don’t you think it’s time to, I don’t know, move on from the dang thing? It does more harm than good. Pisses you off to no end—”

  “Yes, but for all of his faults, no matter how much he pisses me off, no matter how often he breaks my—”

  Ben sucks in a breath, cutting me off before I make a detrimental verbal mistake. My blue eyes meet his green and for a second, for one single second, I see a flicker—a tiny spark of what I feel every single moment I am in his presence. But it vanishes as quickly as it appears. And that mask he wears so well is carefully put back into place. I close my eyes once more and take a deep breath before reopening them and delivering my next words.

  “No matter how often he breaks, nothing makes me happier.”

  Ben holds my gaze for three seconds.

  Three breaths.

  Three beats of my heart.

  The space around us grows heavy with unspoken words and repressed emotions. But in those three seconds, I can hear them clear as day, whispered like a gentle wind—feel them prickle my skin, sending a cold chill down my arms. I shiver under his confused gaze.

  And then he turns his head away from mine, shaking it out, thoroughly erasing what I thought I read.

  Another moment gone before I could grasp it.

  Slowpoke chickenshit.

  Story of my life.

 
“Well, anyway, you look nice. Jenny will be pleased, you know, if she can manage to see you through her legs up in the air.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Sorry. That was insensitive. Jenny is a lovely… Oh, who am I kidding? She’s a raging bitch, Ben. And she’s slept with the whole starting lineup for the baseball team, except for Dylan, but he’s gay and wouldn’t touch that whoreasaurus with a thirty-foot pole!” I say with a shrug of my shoulders as I grab my pincushion. Fuck Tim. I’m going old school.

  Ben throws his head back and I can’t help but to ogle his exposed neck, fighting the urge to nip his Adam’s apple as his boisterous laughter floods the room.

  “Tell me how you really feel, why don’t you?” he asks once his man-giggles subside.

  “Oh, I could go on for hours, but then I’d make you late for the big dance and you wouldn’t want to piss off Jenny Short. Trust me, I’ve seen some things. The bitch be crazy.”

  “Good to know.” He gives me a small smile, biting his lip while shoving his hands in the pockets of his navy dress pants. He looks like he wants to say something more but is too afraid to. He looks nervous. Ben is never nervous.

  “So, um, you’re really not going tonight?”

  Ah yes, I should have known he’d mention it. Everyone else in our family has, so why not Ben, too? Motherfucker.

  “And miss quality time with Tim? I don’t think so.”

  “Cady.”

  “Ben.”

  “It’s prom. You’ve wanted to go to prom since as far back as I can remember. You used to talk about it when we were little. You said it was like a wedding, but for teenagers.”

  Do you remember that you were supposed to be my date? The words are right there, on the tip of my tongue, but that’s where they stay.

  “Things change, Ben. People, priorities…everything changes. Besides, I doubt spending the evening as Luce and Tuck’s third wheel, enduring their graphic PDA before and after they fight over meaningless shit would be as magical as I thought when we were eight. Nor would going alone, or tagging along with my brother and his boyfriend. That wasn’t the dream. The dream was… Well, it doesn’t matter. No one asked me. You know that. And I’m not surprised, I mean, c’mon—”