Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3)

by Andrea Hopkins

  Dylan curses under his breath, nods, and takes his arm away from my abdomen before grabbing my hand and pulling me into a hug so tight he momentarily cuts off my air supply. The dude really needs to lay off those protein shakes. Holy hell.

  “Sorry to go all brother-bear on ya. I just—”

  “I know. I worry about her, too. Trust. I’m the reason for all of this shit. I’m just trying to get us past it so we can move forward…together.”

  “You know it’s not gonna happen overnight, right?”

  “It’s been six months, dude, I think I know that. But I’m not gonna stop. Not until—I’m not gonna stop, okay? But I’ll go easy. I’ll go slow. I’ll wait years if I have to.”

  Dylan pulls back and nods with big-ass grin on his face, releasing me from his burly embrace. “Get the fuck outta here, then!”

  His words are like a slingshot to my body—catapulting me up the stairs in less than thirty seconds. Once I reach the long hallway between our bedrooms, I take a peek at her closed door before striding over to mine. I fling it open and walk over to my bed. The navy blue plaid comforter is dangling half off the bed while the matching sheets are crumpled in a heap at the center. And right next to it is a box—a light green gift box with a penguin on the front, wearing a red and white polka dot winter hat and matching scarf. I pick it up and leisurely walk to Cady’s room, the initial fire that stirred wildly inside me, demanding I go to her, beginning to dwindle down. I’m nervous. Fucking Dylan and his big-ass mouth.

  I take a breath, in through the nose, out the mouth, summoning the courage to actually give her this damn thing that suddenly feels like it’s fifty pounds in my hands. This is not something I make a habit of—attempting the grand gesture. I’m not that guy. I’ve never been that guy. I didn’t ask girls to homecoming and prom in some elaborate way. I’m not the biggest or greatest conversationalist. I’m straightforward and to the point. I say what I mean and do what I want—at least when it comes to everything and everyone who isn’t Cady Adams.

  She’s always been the exception.

  From day one, she’s had this way of bringing out a side of me I was too terrified to share. She made everything brighter, more enhanced. Loud and vibrant. Showed me how to find a new angle, see things in a way I never knew nor would have, had she not been there. She eases that dull pain I still feel sometimes, eclipses the loss and the simmering grief. She’s a force. A 5’4” beast of sass, smarts, and sexiness. She doesn’t even know it, which makes her even more dangerous. I never knew how to handle her, still don’t, and that’s because there is no ‘handling’ Cady. Cady handles herself.

  For the past ten years, I’ve worked my ass off to resist her, for reasons I’m just now coming to terms with, and I’ve done a shit job of it. I did the one thing that I promised I wouldn’t do—the prime reason I decided to ignore the connection we had in the first place—I hurt her. Badly. I never wanted that. And yet, I found myself hurting her every fucking day without even realizing it. Until it was too late. But I wasn’t lying to Dylan earlier; I’m done with that shit. I’m done denying myself what I really want—of who I really want. I won’t let fear stop me, not anymore.

  The only thing—the only person—who has that power now, is the girl behind the cherry red door between us.

  The girl I hurt.

  The girl I love.

  The girl who fucking hates my guts.

  One more deep breath for the road …

  May the odds be ever in my favor.

  And merry fucking Christmas to me.

  Twelve

  Songs to listen to:

  “Blue Christmas” by Houndmouth

  “(It’s Gonna Be A) Lonely Christmas” by Lauren Shera

  “Winter’s Love” by She Keeps Bees

  “Present Without A Bow” by Kacey Musgraves & Leon Bridges

  Cady

  I used to love Christmas. The bright lights strewn across rooftops and around Douglas Firs. The homemade hot chocolate Jake makes every year after we all bake sugar cookies to our hearts’ content. Mariah Carey’s “All I want for Christmas is You” on repeat for all of December. Watching Elf and Home Alone while gorging on the popcorn we’re supposed to string up. The promise of snow. And the deep gratification when it actually comes.

  But even the frozen white powder steadily falling from the sky can’t make up for the emotional shitstorm that is this Christmas.

  I feel bad, leaving everyone downstairs to finish the cleanup, but I couldn’t stay down there for a minute longer. For the last five days, I’ve felt like I’ve been hanging on the edge of crying like a little bitch-baby, hurling anything I can get my hands on, or just fucking peacing out for the rest of winter break. But sitting there in the living room, watching Ben dole out hugs and fist bumps, joking around with our family with shining green eyes and a joyous smile without a care in the world, it was like my arms finally gave out and I just fell into this bitter pit of jealousy.

  Envy consumed me. How could he be so chill and collected? I feel like at any moment I’m going to completely break, crumbling at Ben’s feet, and there he is acting like he didn’t rip my fucking heart out with his large and capable hands six months ago. Does my pain mean nothing to him? Do I mean nothing to him? Did I ever mean anything to him?

  Fuck jealously.

  Now I’m just pissed.

  At him, Hell yes, but mostly I’m pissed at my own damn self. Because no matter what he does to me, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much it makes me want to knee him in the family jewels—his pain is my pain, and he will always mean something to me.

  After everything, he’s still my everything.

  I open my bedroom door and shut it softly behind me, sliding down until my well-cushioned ass hits the floor. I feel like banging my head against the wood, but I already have a pounding headache, and something tells me that would not be the greatest of cures. So, I settle for closing my eyes and inhaling deeply, allowing the exhaustion of the last week overtake me. Who knew pretending the love of your life doesn’t exist could be so draining?

  I should have.

  Ben has always commanded a presence. He’s strong and silent, but really fucking hard to ignore. He intrigues, leaving you wanting more and yet settling for less, just to get a fraction of what he’s willing to give. He’s perceptive, annoyingly so. A little dark. A whole lot dirty. And the sexiest fucking man I have ever seen, including celebrities. Thanks to Angel, I’ve met my fair share of musicians. No one comes close to Ben motherfucking Catalano-Moretti—not only are they not in the same league, they aren’t even playing the same sport. Hell, they aren’t playing any sport.

  There is only one Ben.

  And I hate him even more for it.

  A timid knock sounds behind me and I jolt away from the door, clutching my racing heart as I release a shuddered breath. Whoever is on the other side knocks again, this time louder and more assured. I stand up and move my hand to the knob but pause just before opening as his voice filters through the thick slab of wood between us.

  “Cady.”

  The way he says my name is like a breath of fresh air, a calm in the storm that rages inside of me. It soothes yet fuels the internal war between my head and my stupid fucking heart. I move my hand away from the knob but my body doesn’t move an inch. No, my round, duplicitous ass stays put, waiting breathlessly to hear his voice again.

  I curse crudely at my pitiful, spineless, dumbass self.

  “Can I come in?”

  I shake my head before realizing he can’t see through the damn door. Crap. I bite my lip, weighing my options here.

  I could open the door, give him the finger, and slam it in his face. The idea brings a small, satisfied smile to my lips.

  I could completely ignore him…not like I haven’t had any practice as of late…

  Or, I could open the door and let him say what he came up here to say…then slam the door in his face.

  I sigh heavily as my hand twists t
he knob. Ben’s piercing green eyes spear mine the instant the door cracks open. He gives me a crooked smile after releasing what looked like a relieved breath.

  “Hey,” he says softly, nerves barely concealed.

  I stay silent.

  “You don’t have to say anything. Like I said before, I get it. I deserve far worse, Bug. But that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna stop trying. Even if I only manage to hear one word spoken from your lips.” His eyes flick down to my mouth right then and his chest rises and falls dramatically before he brings his attention back to my narrowing eyes. He shakes his head free of whatever he was thinking and begins again, his voice slightly more strained then before. “Getting one word out of you would make me the happiest fucker in the world, but if I don’t, that’s okay, too.”

  Hearing him swear almost drags a smile to my face. Almost. But I manage to rein it in.

  Ben stares at me for longer than anyone would deem appropriate, the silence filling the awkward space around us. I’m already uncomfortable around Ben as it is, but being held down by his gaze is…unbearable. It’s too much. It makes me feel too much. I raise my eyebrows expectantly, hoping he’ll offer up something. Or maybe he already said what he came to say. Or maybe he’s having a stroke, goddess willing. No, that’s horrible.

  Feeling guilty for thinking ill thoughts, I let him continue his solo staring contest for a few more breaths. Still nothing. Ohhhhkay, then. I turn my face away from him and close the door a mere centimeter before he suddenly shows a sign of life, his arm shooting out and thrusting a gift box in between the crack in the doorway.

  His eyebrows furrow and he looks slightly disoriented but he quickly blinks it away as his mouth curves into a sheepish half-smile.

  “I got you something. And don’t feel too bad about not getting me anything. You, giving me the finger at dinner last night, was gift enough,” he says dryly, his green eyes sparkling in renewed amusement. I have to turn my head to the side in order to conceal the smile that threatens to touch my lips.

  Once my mouth is under control, my eyes move to the offending box sticking between the door and entranceway. It’s a standard sized garment gift box—the lid pale green with a darker shade pinstripe and an adorable penguin wearing a matching red and white polka dot scarf and hat set. Coming from anyone else, I would jump at the box, rip through the flimsy cardboard and noisy tissue paper until I was met happily (or unfortunately) with whatever was hidden inside.

  But this isn’t coming from just anyone. It’s coming from Ben. The stupid boy I hate as much as I… No, just the stupid boy I hate. Immensely. Whatever is in the box that is currently taunting the shit out of me with its cuteness and curiosity-inducing ways…I just know I’m not going to like it. Not because it’s going to be the worst gift to have ever been given—no, because it will be the greatest. It will poke and prod at the last bit of restraint I have, yank the final strand that’s keeping me together, until I’m left vulnerable and at his mercy.

  I take a step back and shake my head.

  “It’s just a gift, Bug. It’s not going to hurt you.”

  My eyes jump to his, spearing him to the spot.

  His words are meant to give comfort, lighten the mood. But they do the exact opposite.

  The contents of that box won’t just hurt me; they will destroy every ounce of strength I have summoned over the months. No, what’s in that box is a trick, a ploy, a deception wrapped up in an alluring and oh so charming package.

  Just like the boy who’s holding it.

  “Cady?”

  His eyebrows curl in and he shakes his head just as I had done moments before.

  I hold his gaze for three seconds.

  One second, I suck in a stuttering breath. He takes a step forward. As do I.

  Two seconds, I push the box out of the door and onto the floor. He looks down. My lids fill with the tears I have held back all week.

  Three seconds, I let them spill over as our eyes connect for what seems like a lifetime but I know it wasn’t longer than a breath, before I shut the door on him and the box at his feet.

  I press my forehead onto the hard wood of the door as the stupid, weak-ass tears run down my cheeks, silently promising myself that this is the last time I cry over Ben motherfucking Catalano-Moretti.

  And then he pushes the box up against the door, halting the tears in their staining tracks.

  “Open it when you’re ready. Or don’t at all. But it’s yours all the same. Merry Christmas, Bug.”

  His voice is raspy and thick with a hurt that I know runs deep because I can feel it penetrating my soul, searing through my resolve and seeping through every barrier I put in between us, real and imaginary. And just like that, not for the first time, I break the premature promise to myself as the oblivious tears fall from my eyes once more. Only this time, the wrenching sobs follow.

  I try to rein it in but my attempts are futile—the gate is already lifted and every single fucking emotion I have kept at bay is stampeding out with a vengeance.

  Merry fucking Christmas.

  Thirteen

  Songs to listen to:

  “Cold December Night” by Michael Bublé

  “Tip of the Tongue” by The Civil Wars

  “Last Christmas” by The Glee Cast

  “My Gift is You” by Gwen Stefani

  “Lovely” by Billie Eilish & Khalid “Stand by Me” by Otis Redding

  Ben

  I fuse my forehead to the outside of the door, my eyes slammed shut, hands clenched into fists so tight my knuckles pop.

  Cady’s crying.

  No, it’s more than that, she’s fucking breaking down and I can’t do shit about it because she doesn’t…she doesn’t want me.

  Goddamn it. I run my fingers through my hair, pulling on the strands in frustration as her sobs fill the quiet hallway. I place my palm onto the refurbished wood, wanting nothing more but to comfort her—to tear this effing door off the hinges and wrap her in my arms, whispering words of solace and penitence.

  I’m so sorry, Cady.

  Instead, I take a deep breath, in through the nose, out the mouth, regretfully peel myself from the door separating myself from my future and run down the stairs in shame to find the one person I know she’ll let in.

  I find him in the kitchen drinking a protein shake. He looks up once I walk in, our eyes lock, and I don’t have to say a word. He sets his cup on the island with a curse and an especially icy glare before he bolts out of the room, bounding up the stairs two at a time. I follow closely behind and watch as he taps on Cady’s door. Her sobs are still violent, squeezing my heart like a vise, unwilling to give the organ one fucking second of reprieve.

  “Bug? Baby girl, it’s me. Open up.”

  A heartbeat later, the door opens and her cries grow louder then turn muffled as I assume Dylan pulled her into his arms. I couldn’t watch. I didn’t want to violate her trust any more than I already have. And frankly, I’m just too chickenshit to see the damage I’ve caused once more.

  I’m on a fucking roll here.

  Numbly, I turn away from the door and make my way back downstairs and into the kitchen in search of coffee. My steps falter as I enter. The scene playing before my eyes is one I’ve seen many times before but it doesn’t make it any less perfect. Jake and Evangeline Moretti take relationship goals to a whole new level.

  I stand back in the entryway, quietly observing. A touch wistful, a little envious, but more than anything an immense rush of joy fills my body—a stark contrast to what I was feeling a second ago and it’s very much welcome, so I cling to it with fierceness, as I watch Mom put the French toast casserole into the oven. We’ve made it every Christmas morning since the first holiday with Evangeline and the twins. And somehow every year it tastes better than the last.

  She closes the door and sets the timer while humming a song that sounds familiar but for the life of me, I can’t remember the name or even who sings it. Jake is behind her sitting on top of the isl
and, his green eyes practically effing twinkle, watching her every move. His lips begin to mouth the lyrics to the song and I realize it’s theirs.

  The Civil Wars’ “Tip of my Tongue.” I don’t know how many times Dyl, Cady, and I have heard that song over the years—it has to be in the thousands and frankly, I’m shocked as Hell I didn’t recognize it right off the bat. But, my head is slightly off-kilter right now, so I’m giving myself a free pass.

  Dad hops off the granite and grabs her hand from behind, twirling her around to face him. A loud but endearing giggle escapes Mom’s mouth as he tugs her close to his chest. He lifts her hand up, encircling it with his, while his free arm wraps around her tiny body. He practically engulfs her but she doesn’t seem to mind as she wraps her arms around his back before resting her cheek against his chest. And then, they begin to move to the sound of her hums and the accompanied words whispered from his mouth.

  A sharp pain stabs my chest and suddenly I feel like I’ve forgotten how to fucking breathe.

  I gotta get out of here.

  I turn my back on my parents and their adorable display of affection. I don’t stop walking until I’m out the door. The frigid air whips my face forcefully and I gasp in shock, sucking in a breath like it’s the last one I’ll take.

  I throw my head back and scream. Low and raw—more growl than shout. The sound rips out of my throat, desperate and powerless, straining every muscle in my body until I am left feeling boneless and tired. So effing tired.

  My head rolls back down and I’m met with multiple pairs of familiar eyes, looking each bit concerned, scared, and pissed the fuck off.

  “Angel, baby, why don’t you and the kids go inside? I think I need to stay out here for a minute.” Cole says, placing a kiss into her braided bun but keeping his undecipherable eyes trained on me.

  Fuck me. This should be good.