Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3)

by Andrea Hopkins

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Ben jerks his head back, brows furrowed and confused.

  “Ben. I have a mirror. I have many, actually. I know what I look like. I know you do, too. You have eyes. You’re not blind. Nor is the entire male population at Lincoln.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me right now? Shit, Cady—”

  “So, you do know how to cuss and quite well, apparently. Who knew?”

  “Don’t effing deflect! Is that what you really think?”

  “What am I supposed to think, Ben?”

  He scrubs his beautiful face with the palms of his hands in frustration while dropping a few more curse words that make my eyes widen and lips curve in amusement. The smile drops instantly, though, when all of a sudden, he closes the distance between us. I gulp loudly as he stares at me with so many different emotions flittering over his features, I can’t keep up. But it’s when he cups my face with those hands, strong yet soft against my gooseflesh skin, I forget how to breathe altogether.

  “I don’t ever want to hear you insinuate that you are anything less than perfect. Because you are, Cady. You are fucking perfect. And any guy who can’t see that, who can’t see the absolute and immeasurable beauty in front of him is a fucking asshole and not worth a second of your time. You hear me?”

  I release a shaky breath and give a little nod. The ability to form words is now suddenly a foreign concept.

  But apparently, he doesn’t give a shit that he just royally stunned me speechless—a feat no one has ever conquered, mind you. Well, until now.

  “Do. You. Hear. Me?”

  “I hear you, I hear you. I can’t not hear you. You’re screaming in my face.”

  He chuckles softly, before giving me that crooked half-smile that makes my knees wobble as a troupe of butterflies begin to twerk deep in my belly. And just when I finally get a handle on my breathing, the asshole moves those damn sensual lips to my forehead, leaving a searing kiss smack dab in the middle. His mouth lingers, and I unconsciously close my eyes and take a deep inhale. A lazy smile overcomes my face as the sweet smell of rain saturates my senses.

  Fuck, I love that smell.

  Home.

  He smells like home.

  I’m so lost in his scent that I don’t register what he’s doing until I feel his arm wrap around me, pulling me tight against his ridiculously hard body. My back stiffens at his touch and because I’m ‘Cady, connoisseur of awkward’ my damn knees give out. But Ben doesn’t let me fall. He may be an expert in breaking my heart, but he would never hurt me intentionally. Although, that could just be the wishful thinking of a naïve girl in love with a boy who doesn’t let himself love her back.

  “What are you doing?” I pull back, whispering into the tiny space between us. He looks down at me in confusion, like he has no clue either, but that half-smile is still firmly placed on his face and I can’t help but to return it.

  “I don’t know. Just go with it,” he whispers with a shrug. We stare at each other for three more seconds, those unspoken words from before, pleading to be spoken, to finally be heard, to be set free. But just like earlier, and every time before, I swallow them down.

  Next time. I promise.

  I’ll tell him next time.

  But right now, right now I’m going to take the moment he’s giving me.

  I nod, hopefully succeeding in masking the dopey grin beginning to etch on my face, rest my cheek on his lapel, and start to sway to the music.

  Harry Styles’ “Sign of the Times” plays tenderly in the background, and this time I don’t even try to hide my smile as we both whisper the words to one of our favorite songs from our childhood.

  We move fluidly together, and with each word sung I have to remind myself to breathe. But with each breath I take, I grow feverish with an unyielding urge to move my face just six or seven more inches—three and a half, if I stand on my tippy toes—so that my lips could finally meet his for the first time in years.

  Come on, Cady. Fucking woman up.

  I move my cheek from his jacket and look up at him, my blue eyes traveling down to his lips that continue to quietly serenade mine as my breathing quickens and my knees grow weak all over again. When my gaze moves back up, I suck in a sharp breath, finding his green irises staring back at me with a piercing force so strong that it brings our swaying to a standstill.

  This is it.

  “Cady.” My name is a breath of a whisper.

  His head dips an inch.

  He’s going to kiss me.

  Another inch.

  Oh fuck, please Ben, kiss me.

  I rise on my toes like a prima ballerina.

  Just one more inch…

  And then the song changes.

  The pounding beat and awoken words of Kendrick Lamar are like a bucket of ice water, waking Ben up from whatever trance he couldn’t fight for the last four and a half minutes. He shakes his head free again—the moment already a distant memory. Then he gives me that tilted, carefree smile that somehow, despite my heart cracking with every ticking second, brings a mimicking smile to my own face. And before I know it, we’re jumping up and down, rapping the lyrics, and dancing like no one’s watching.

  We dance through three more songs much like this. Riotous laughter replacing the tension of the near-kiss. We’re both mid-twerk to Bruno Mars’ “Chunky” when Jake bursts into my room looking annoyed as all Hell, which quickly turns to shock and sheer amusement when he sees Ben and I dropping it low.

  “Sorry to interrupt whatever the eff this is—can I call it dancing? You look absolutely ridiculous, and I’m afraid I will never un-see this.”

  “Did you come in here just to insult our mad skills or is there an actual reason for your presence, Daddy 2.0?” I ask him with my brows raised. He tosses Mom’s phone to Ben.

  “Jenny. Girl’s been blowing up your mom’s phone.”

  “No one says that anymore, Jake.” I quip at his retreating back as he leaves the room. It’s a sad attempt at masking the sudden ache in my chest at hearing that fucking name. Jenny. Motherfucking Jenny. How could I have completely forgotten about prom?

  Ben, that’s how. He has a way of distracting me with just the tiniest hint of attention. One look, a smile, a few innocent touches and a blast from the past playlist, and all other thoughts extricate themselves from my stupid-girly brain. I move my eyes back to Ben and find that they are already on mine. He gnaws on his lip, which forces my eyes to move down to his mouth, but only briefly. When they return to his, I swear they’ve darkened a shade, but I couldn’t tell you for sure as my vision threatens to blur with unshed tears that I force to blink back.

  “I guess our impromptu dance party is over?”

  “I really don’t want it to be,” he whispers gruffly, clearing his throat before continuing. “Maybe I could just, I don’t know, not go?” It’s more of a question than a statement. Goddess, do I want him to stay, but…fuck, why do I have to be such a nice person? I blame my mother. I sigh in defeat. Fucking hippie problems.

  “Standing up a girl on prom night is a dick move, even if she is a bitch-ass hoe. Don’t be a dick, Ben.”

  “Always so wise you are, Bug.”

  “Why thank you, Yoda. Try much, I do.”

  Ben gives me that damn smile, and my heart does the fucking Carlton dance. Yes, I know The Fresh Prince of Bel Air was on years before my time, but I have four dope parents who made sure to educate us on all things ‘90s. I guess they were terrified we’d turn into shitty-ass millennials.

  “Save me one more dance for later?”

  I bite my lip from stopping the embarrassing Joker-like grin threatening to overtake my face.

  “As long as I get to pick the song.”

  “Done.”

  I nod with a small smile, hoping it doesn’t look as sad as it feels. But I’ve never been much of an actress, no matter how many drama classes I’ve taken.

  “Cady…”

  “Go, Ben.” Before I beg you to
stay.

  He gives what I think is meant to be a resolute nod, but there is no weight behind it. I bite my tongue as I watch him turn to leave. Of course, it only lasts a second because again, I am my mother’s daughter, and honestly, I need to fan the thick air suffocating me. To ease the sharp pain in my chest.

  “Make sure to wash your hands before coming back in here! I have no fucking clue where Jenny’s been, and I really don’t want to get an STD. Knowing Jenny, it would probably be some new strain that would even have the docs from Grey’s stumped, and those beautiful people know how to cure everything!”

  Ben doesn’t turn around, but his answering laughter makes me smile despite the roaring and sadly expected disappointment stabbing my pathetic heart.

  I walk to the foot of my bed and faceplant onto the white and black striped comforter, screaming into the silken fabric of my pillowcase.

  That was a moment, right?

  Like a moment-moment? Or a bunch of tiny moments that add up to one great one?

  I felt it, I swear I did—fuck, at least I think I felt it.

  No, I definitely felt it. The thing Mom swears she feels with Jake and Dad with Angel. The tether. That pull. The invisible chain that links two people together. I used to think I felt it with Ben when we were little, but he severed it a long time ago—or at least bent it. Definitely ignored it. I haven’t felt it since that stupid, haunting, ruining kiss in seventh grade.

  But tonight, I felt it—sturdy and real. So damn real.

  And I think… I think he felt it, too.

  It’s that hopeful thought that keeps me waiting up three hours past curfew.

  Three hours spent sitting, sketching, pacing, cursing, crying, waiting.

  So much fucking waiting.

  Waiting for the boy who promised one more dance.

  Waiting for the boy who never comes.

  Waiting for the boy who, apparently, is a dick after all.

  ***

  Three months later, and he’s still a dick.

  In fact, he’s been a dick for the past ten years. I was just too damn blinded by love to see him for who he is—an asshole. And a dick.

  Fucking Ben.

  And fucking love. And asshole dicks.

  I know that’s not a thing, but it really should be, and it’s exactly what Ben is—a bitch-ass-asshole dick.

  But what really fucking pisses me off, what make me want to kick and scream and punch my own damn face, is that he made me look like an even bigger dick. Because even though I sat and watched him choose girl after girl over me, endured the countless broken promises or the days where he couldn’t even be bothered to notice my presence, and goddess, even finding out he threatened bodily harm to any boy who came near me, thus keeping my social life at an embarrassing standstill—I still tried to give him my heart. Only to have it thrown right back against my chest—unwanted and cracked beyond recognition.

  Busted, and down and out.

  Crushed and stupid as fuck.

  I let him do this. I did. Me. Cady Adams, badass hippie chick who incites rallies and sit-ins, who can make wearable clothing with some duct tape and a few Portland Mercurys, who curses like a drunken sailor and stands up for any and all creatures, who listens to ‘90s gangster rap while doing yoga. I let Ben ‘the bitch-ass asshole dick’ walk all over me while I waited with bated breath for any scrap he would throw my way.

  Well, fuck that shit.

  I’m done.

  I’m so fucking done with Ben motherfucking Catalano-Moretti.

  He just doesn’t know it yet.

  But hot damn, he will.

  Five

  Songs to listen to:

  “Say Something” by Little Big World

  “Too Good at Goodbyes” by Sam Smith

  “All I Ask” by Adele

  “Open the Door” by Otis Redding

  Ben

  This is stupid.

  I’m stupid.

  Sometimes I don’t know why I listen to my mom.

  Who am I kidding? I listen to the woman because she always effing right, but I think this time her intuition is off. In fact, I know it is. But mother-effer, as stupid as this is, it has to be done. I’m leaving tomorrow, and even though I am almost positive Cady will fillet my balls—that is, if Cole doesn’t do it first—Dad assured me that he was at baseball practice. I really hope he wasn’t effing with me—this, seeing her, apologizing, groveling, doing anything and everything it takes to get her to do something other than dodging my calls—this has to be done. I can’t go, leaving things like they are.

  I can’t.

  And if I’m honest with myself, I just effing miss her face.

  It’s been four days.

  Four days of silence, agony, and regret.

  So much effing regret.

  I think I’ve slept maybe an hour each night. I try to block it out, to de-commit it to memory, but every time I close my eyes, I see her face, and it’s not the face that I miss. No, it’s the face that will haunt me for the rest of my pathetic life. The face that is no less beautiful, but it’s a face of hurt and a deep, all-consuming betrayal. I put that there. It’s like an old film reel behind my eyelids, but it never effing ends. In fact, it’s in slow motion. Every night, I have to watch each unbearable second as Cady completely breaks right in front of my eyes. Because of me. And every night, I get water boarded with shame, dousing me in crashing waves of unrelenting guilt.

  Guess it’s what I deserve. It’s actually far less than I deserve.

  I’ve been pacing back forth on Cole and Angel’s front porch for the last twenty minutes. Most of that time has been spent shuffling between talking to myself like a crazy person and glaring at the bright yellow door, lost in my thoughts and scared shitless of what I will find behind it once I grow a pair and actually knock.

  C’mon, Ben. She’s just a girl…

  The girl. The only girl you have ever loved and will ever love, and you can’t seem to not mess up every single effing second you’ve spent with her. And the latest fuck-up—yep, the f-bomb has dropped—was catastrophic. Epic, in the worst effing way. But yeah, Cady is just a girl.

  Just breathe and knock, asshole.

  I take a deep breath, in through the nose and out the mouth—pretending I don’t hear the slight shudder on the exhale.

  Another deep breath for good measure and before I chicken out, I force my clenched knuckles to rap at the yellow wood.

  The door opens almost instantly, and I suck in a breath but quickly blow it out in relief when I see the glowing smile and kind, golden brown eyes of Angeleigh.

  “Took you long enough. For a second there, I thought you might wimp out, although I wouldn’t blame you if you did. Can’t say I wouldn’t be disappointed, though.”

  “Hey to you too, Angel.” I give her a small tilt of my lips because honestly, it’s nearly impossible not to smile around Angeleigh. She can bring light to your darkest day with just one damn smile. Mom and Cady have the same talent. Seems like the men in this odd family have a type. I wrap my arms around her tightly as she pulls me into a hug. Over the years, Angel has become like a third mom, big sister, confidant, and a best friend all rolled up into one beautiful, soft-spoken and kind-hearted package.

  “How you doing, kid?” she asks, pulling me slightly away from her so that she can look me over. Mama bear mode in full acceleration.

  “I’ve been better.” I shrug lamely, not even attempting to hide the sadness in my voice. She would’ve seen through it, anyway. She gives me a sad smile, but this time, I’m too nervous to return it. I try to ask if Cady’s here, but the words get stuck in my throat. I clear it and take another deep breath before asking the million-dollar question. It comes out hoarse and shaky. “Is she here?”

  Angeleigh nods before speaking softly, “Upstairs, in her room. She hasn’t left it since she’s been here.”

  “Fuck.”

  “She’s hurting, Ben, really hurting. Tread carefully.”

  N
ow it’s my turn to nod, suddenly unable to speak, for fear that I will lose my shit. And I really need my shit together and on point before I do this.

  “I’ll be down here on Cole watch.”

  That pulls a smile from me, albeit a tight one. A sobering reminder that I not only have to work this all out with Cady, but with her dad, too. Cole is like my uncle—in fact, I call him Uncle. He’s a man I respect greatly. A man who has been nothing but kind and welcoming—treated me like every other kid in our ragtag clan. He trusted me, and I’ve just obliterated it.

  I’m so fucked.

  Yep, dropping f-bombs all over the effing place today.

  Honestly, I’m not even sure how I’m breathing right now, let alone in his house, walking up the stairs to talk to his daughter.

  To meet my fate.

  I make it to her room faster than I had hoped, which wasn’t really fast at all—practically dragging my twelve-inch vintage Nike Dunks through the hall. I stop and give myself three seconds.

  Three seconds to close my eyes.

  Breathe.

  And grow some effing balls.

  Here goes nothing.

  Or everything.

  I swear the knock on her door echoes in the quiet hallway—sounding way too ominous and foreboding for my liking.

  No answer.

  I knock again.

  Silence.

  One more try.

  “Angel, I love you, but—”

  The door swings open as she says the words. But once she realizes I am in fact not Angeleigh, Cady slams the door in my face. The click of the lock is the only other sound I hear.

  All right, I deserved that.

  “Cady, we need to talk,” I say as tap on the door once more.

  No response. It’s so effing quiet, I’m afraid she shimmied out of the window just to avoid me. I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s the cleverest person I know.

  “Cady! C’mon, open the door!”

  Nothing.