Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3)

by Andrea Hopkins

  I pull back from Dylan’s hold and meet his deep and soulful brown eyes. My own have morphed into a dull blue, bordering on grey. Lifeless. That bright light I used to see emanating from my irises has dimmed so low that it’s almost not even there.

  A sad, barely there smile that we have all grown accustomed to graces its underwhelming presence onto my pale, tear-stained face and I say the words that are so fucking tragic in their truth, I feel like my heart literally winces.

  “Then you don’t love him like I do.”

  Seven

  Songs to listen to:

  “We Don’t Talk Anymore” by Charlie Puth feat. Selena Gomez

  “Palace” by Sam Smith

  “I Can’t Turn You Loose” by Otis Redding “Psycho, Pt. 2” by Russ

  “Incomplete” by James Bay

  “Mr. Pitiful” by Otis Redding

  Ben

  I’ve been staring at this damn picture for an hour. It’s become a pathetic ritual of mine. I should be working on a mock Italian menu that I could come up with in my sleep but eff, my eyes don’t want to leave her face—her angelic yet sinfully sexy as hell face.

  Cady.

  It’s the last picture I remember taking with her. We were at Dylan’s championship game last year. Mom must have taken about two hundred pictures that day. But once he threw that game-winning pitch, she trained the camera on Cady and I, capturing the pure pride and joy we both felt for our brother in that amazing as eff moment.

  The longer that I’ve looked at this picture—and let me tell you, I’ve looked at it so many effing times, I can describe every little detail down to the nacho cheese stain on some asshole photo-bombing us to the left—I see it—I see every effing feeling we tried so goddamn hard to hide.

  I see longing.

  Fear.

  Happiness.

  Love.

  It’s all right there…right in front of my face and hers, clear as fucking day. Springing from our bright eyes that seem to notice no one but each other, and yet we missed it.

  Hindsight really is fucking 20/20.

  This picture has become my atonement—a harrowing reminder of what I could have had and what I royally fucked up. What I pushed away, lost because I’m a chickenshit asshole too afraid to admit his truth to anyone but himself and his mama.

  It’s been three months. Three long as eff months without a word from her. And that’s not from lack of trying, because holy shit-balls, I’ve gone into overkill mode, possibly stalker territory, in the amount of times I have called, texted, and emailed Cady. Jesus, I even wrote the girl a letter.

  Yes, a fucking letter.

  Who even does that anymore?

  No one, that’s who.

  Before I know it, I’ll be cutting letters out of old magazines to compile some creepy as shit but definitely eye-catching note just to get her attention. I’m that effing desperate.

  Which explains why I spend a near-disturbing amount of time gazing at the old-school photo album Mom made for me before I left home. It was cheesy as hell, but so effing Evie, I couldn’t help but to love it because you know it came from her heart and that heart of hers is…it’s everything. And to be honest, it’s gotten me through the loneliness that never seems to wane since moving to New York.

  I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s effing New York City. It’s beautiful and fascinating and full of promise and magic—shit, I sound like a corny-ass douche. NYC is fucking amazing, plain and simple, but it’s also hectic as Hell and quite honestly, mother-effing terrifying. And it’s not like I’m from some Podunk city in Oregon; I’m from Portland, for fucks sake. But damn, New York City is New York City. It’s one of a kind.

  The Big fucking Apple.

  But as badass as it is here, it’s not home.

  Home is where the heart is, and I left mine with Cady.

  Oh my God, I’ve gotta stop reading the books Mom sends me.

  I’m turning into fucking Fabio over here.

  And how the hell do I know who Fabio is?

  A laugh escapes me, echoing in this small dorm room, bouncing off the scantily covered walls—reminding me how effing alone and just plain sad I am.

  Fuck.

  Yeah, fuck. It’s become my new favorite word, as you may have noticed.

  I pull my tablet from underneath the photo album, swipe up, and hit the video chat icon.

  Within thirty seconds, Mom’s sunny face appears on the screen, instantly healing the homesickness that plagues me, although I know it will only last ’til the end of this call, it’s comforting nonetheless.

  “How is she?” I ask abruptly, practically foaming at the mouth to know the answer to the question I ask every single time I talk to any one of my family members, knowing full well their answers will be vague and most likely a big heaping pile of bullshit.

  “Why, hello to you too, son. I’m good, thanks for asking. How are you?” Evie says with a teasing smile and those all-knowing brown eyes glint in amusement. Damn, I miss her. My mouth tips up in the right corner and I shake my head at my own pathetic eagerness.

  “Sorry, Mom. How are you doing? You look well.”

  “Well? I haven’t talked to you in—”

  “Three days, Mom—”

  “Practically an eternity. And all I get is ‘well?’”

  “Did I say well? I could’ve sworn I said beautiful. Absolutely stunning. Not a day over twenty-nine.”

  “Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner!” I can’t help the near full-on smile that sneaks onto my face. It’s pretty impossible to prevent when talking to Evie. She just has that way about her. Just like all of the other women in our weird as eff family.

  “How is she, Mom?”

  I almost regret asking her when I see the dark cloud falling over her face, causing her brown eyes to dull slightly and her shoulders to noticeably slump in defeat. Her thick yet sculpted brows furrow dramatically. She tries to hide it with a way too forced smile, but though Evangeline Moretti is great at many things, masking her emotions is not one of them.

  “Do you want the truth, or the bullshit answer?”

  “Both.”

  “She’s amazing! Has so many friends, she can barely remember all of their names. Her closet is full of new and absolutely gorgeous designs. We can’t get her to shut up, all she wants to do is talk and eat and laugh. And there isn’t a day that goes by where she isn’t smiling.”

  “And the truth?”

  I watch her take a deep breath while holding my own. She looks away from the screen, closes her eyes briefly, sucking in another breath and exhaling once more before returning to face me. The worry in her eyes is evident, and it’s like a dull, serrated knife to the heart.

  “Not much has changed since you left. She walks around in a haze. She’s been trying to put up a good act ever since school started, but she’s a lot like me when it comes to her emotions. Every little thing she is feeling is written all over her face. I’m afraid she’s losing herself. Not to mention all of the weight she’s lost—”

  “Wait, what? What do you mean she’s lost weight? You never told me she lost weight!”

  Her answer is a wince and another one of those deep breaths.

  “Mom? How much weight are we talking here? No bullshit this time.”

  She blows out another puff of air.

  “Fuck, give me a second. Don’t go anywhere,” she orders before disappearing from the screen. I wait for a good minute before her tiny frame pops back up onto the screen, only this time a generous glass of wine joins her. She gulps down at least a fourth of it before speaking.

  “My guess? It’s about fifteen pounds.”

  “Fifteen pounds! Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Language.”

  “Mom, if there was ever a time to drop the f-bomb, now is the fucking time!”

  “I’ll drink to that,” she sighs out before taking another swig.

  “You gotta make her eat, ma. Shove the goddamned food down her throat! I don�
��t give a shit what you do, but goddess, fifteen fucking pounds? She was too skinny to begin with!”

  “I know. We’re trying, hon. But this is new territory here and then there was, um, an incident.”

  She winces again. A wincing Evie is never a good sign. I brace myself for the worst because I have a feeling that some bad shit is coming.

  “What kind of incident, Mom?”

  “You know what, never mind. We got it handled, so don’t you worry—”

  “Mom. What. Kind. Of. Incident?”

  I watch her down the rest of her wine and pour another glass of red before returning her sad eyes to the screen, gnawing on her lip before telling me the last fucking thing I wanted to hear.

  “Some pictures circulated around the school—”

  “What kind of pictures?” I ask the question, but I’m pretty sure I already know the answer if my clenched fists and grinding jaw are any indication.

  “Apparently, Lucy had taken some pictures of Cady wearing very little, and after Cady called Luce out in front of the entire senior class—”

  “She did what?”

  “Yep, according to Dylan, it was pretty effing epic. I think the words ‘conniving bitch-ass ho’ were used, among other slut-shaming yet quite accurate insults.”

  “Wow. Damn, go Bug.” I can’t help the proud-half smile arise on my face despite what Mom is about to finish telling me.

  “Yeah well, Lucy didn’t take too kindly to Cady finally standing up for herself. I’m not gonna lie, Ben, it’s been pretty bad. The girls at school…and then the pictures—”

  “Mom, what the Hell happened?”

  “Luce sent the pictures of Cady to every senior in school.”

  “Fuck!” I roar, gripping the tablet so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t crack in my hands. But honestly, I just want to throw the fucking thing. “Those salty-ass bitches! I’m coming home!”

  “Ben, no, baby.”

  “No! This my fault. I fucked her over, threw her to the damn wolves, and then just fucking left! I did this shit. Fuck, I have to make it right, Mom. I can’t just sit here, I have to do something!”

  “Honey, there’s nothing to do. It’s done. And if I can be real with you, I’m not so sure you coming home would be of much help right now.”

  Ouch.

  I know she’s probably right, but damn.

  I throw my head back and sigh out of frustration and helplessness—feelings I’ve come to know quite well recently.

  “I’m sorry, honey.”

  “Don’t be. This is my doing. But damn, Mom. She already hated me, but after this…there’s no coming back from it. I’ve caused too much turmoil. And I miss her, I miss her so goddamned much. It’s like a piece of me is missing…like I’m one of those stupid puzzles you always made us do during Family Night. I need that piece, Mom. I won’t be complete without it. Without her.” I wince at my words, feeling like corny asshole. “Damn, you really need to stop sending me romance novels. I’m turning into one of those sappy-ass dudes in your books.”

  “Just because I send them, doesn’t mean you have to read them. And I don’t write sappy-ass dudes, I write sexy alphas with hearts of gold.”

  “The fact that I had a feeling you were gonna say something like that proves you’re creating a monster. I’m losing man-points here, Mom. Although, that last one you sent me by Brittainy C. Cherry…that’s what’s up.”

  “I know, right? The woman is a story-telling beast. I just finished the latest from Meghan Quinn and it was just as hilarious and sexy as her previous books, but if you’re afraid to lose more man-points, I’ll just keep it.”

  “No! Damn it. Throw it in the next care package. And maybe throw in the new Jordan Marie and, um, a few R.S. Grey’s, LJ Shen’s and Penny Reid’s I haven’t read yet. And I’ll be sure to overnight you all of my man-points. Apparently, I won’t be needing them anytime soon.”

  “I’ll keep them safe.”

  The left side of my mouth tilts up for a second before I remember what we were talking about earlier…before she successfully and stealthily distracted me in a way that only Evie can manage.

  My mood quickly turns somber once again.

  “She’s going to be okay, Ben. We’ll make sure of it. And so will you. She’s not going to hate you forever. She just needs more time.”

  “Time. I’m really starting to fucking hate that word. I swear to the gods if I hear any of you say that damn word to me in the next week, I won’t come home for Christmas this year,” I grumble. Mom gasps dramatically.

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “No, I wouldn’t, but seriously, you’re a writer, come up with a new word for crying out loud! Don’t you have like a bajillion synonyms floating around in your head or something? Pick one.”

  “Duly noted, kid.”

  “Will you just, I don’t know, tell her I miss her…that I’m thinking about her? Goddess, when am I not thinking about her? Just tell her I’m sorry. For everything.”

  “I will.”

  I nod gratefully.

  “So, I tried calling Cole again. And yet again, no answer. I think he hates me just about as much as Cady does.”

  “He doesn’t hate you.”

  “He hates me, Mom.”

  “He doesn’t hate you, Ben. He’s just…disappointed.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s worse.”

  “He trusted you, honey. He trusted that you wouldn’t hurt her. But you did, in the worst way. You broke his little girl’s heart.”

  “She’s your little girl, too and you talk to me almost every fucking day.”

  “I’m different. Cole and Cady are two peas in a stubborn as eff pod. They deal with emotions on their own time. It takes awhile for them to process everything and move forward. But he’ll get over it. You just need to earn his trust back, as well as hers.”

  “How the Hell can I do that when neither of them will talk to me?”

  “Time.”

  “Mom, I swear…”

  She winces. “Sorry, I couldn’t think of another word. Space? Just give them space to heal.”

  Another sigh from me. Mother-effer, even I’m annoying myself.

  Pity party for one, please.

  Person the fuck up, Ben.

  “So, how’s my cousin-brother?”

  “I really wish you would stop calling him that.”

  “Well, it’s the truth.”

  Mom rolls her eyes and shakes her head in exasperation, but I see the smile she’s trying but failing to stifle. “I know, but it sounds like we’re auditioning for the Real Hillbillies of Portland.”

  “I’d watch that.”

  “Me too,” she laughs. The sound is like church bells, and another wave of homesickness hits me hard. Evangeline Moretti may not have given birth to me, but she’s my Mom in every way that counts. I’d like to believe my birth mother would agree and be as thankful, if not more, than I am.

  “And you have to admit, our family is pretty damn unorthodox, to the point where it’s almost unbelievable, right?”

  “Again, true. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Me, either.”

  “So, tell me about your week so far? How’s school?”

  I spend another twenty minutes just shooting the shit before Jake makes an appearance on the screen and we bore Mom nearly to tears—driving her to finish her third glass of wine by 5:00 PM—discussing the new dishes he’s adding to his menu at his second restaurant, Familia Mista.

  After I give him a few minor suggestions that I have no doubt he’ll use because that’s just how dope he is, we say our goodbyes—a slightly slurred one from Mom—and I am once again left alone with my thoughts.

  And as usual, they are all about Cady.

  Every. Single. Effing. One.

  I toss my tablet to the end of the bed and pick the photo album back up, carefully putting the picture of Cady and I back into its proper place—of course, not before I spend an obscene amo
unt of time staring at it like the fucking sad weirdo I’ve become.

  Goddamn, I’m pathetic.

  But I can’t help it. I just miss the girl so damn much. If only she would answer my calls or at the very least throw me a text, even if it’s to tell me to fuck off…anything would be better than this continued cold shoulder. I get it; I was an asshole. I hurt her. But it’s been three months.

  Three. Effing. Months.

  I don’t know how much more I can take.

  I know, space and fucking time will help heal the gaping wound I left wide open, but fuck, I don’t know how much more I can take, being without her. It’s too fucking much.

  As I shut the photo album—the constant stills of my failures weighing down heavily on my shoulders, which I silently carry because I fucking deserve the burden—I make a decision.

  I’ll give Cady space…or time. For the next three months, I won’t call or text or email or send her quasi-ransom notes. As much as it kills me—and it fucking guts—I’ll let her be.

  But come Christmas, I’m taking what I left behind.

  And I don’t give a shit, whether she is ready or not.

  Yeah, that’s right. The selfish asshole is back.

  I’m ready.

  I’m ready to get what’s mine.

  If she’ll let me.

  Fuck.

  I’m screwed.

  Eight

  Songs to listen to:

  “Power” by Katy Perry

  “Elastic Heart” by Sia

  “Would You Call That Love?” by Kelly Clarkson

  “Turning Tables” by Adele

  Cady

  Thirty minutes.

  Ben’s supposed to be here in thirty motherfucking minutes.

  I’ve been holed up in my room all day—splitting my time between sketching furiously and pacing back and forth like a madwoman, leaving trails of smoke in my wake.

  I’m not ready.

  I know I should be. It’s been six months. I’m stronger than this. I know I am, but holy fuck, every time I even think about seeing him face to face, these stupid tears torrent to the forefront of my eyelids—never spilling over, but the threat is damaging enough.

  I’ve made progress over the last few months. Pulling me out of school has done wonders. Even though Lucy and her loyal minions were expelled for their ‘inappropriate behavior,’ the damage was already done.