Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3)

by Andrea Hopkins

  Or he’s going to murder me and dispose of the evidence.

  It could really be either one with the blue-eyed Man Beast.

  Angel and the kids climb the few stairs to the porch. She opens the door and shoos my cousins inside with promises of French toast and presents. Before she follows suit, she closes the distance between us and stands on her tippy toes to place a kiss on my cheek. Her arms wrap around me, a little awkwardly due to the size of her puffy coat and her braided bun which knocks me in the chin more than once, but feeling the familiar comfort of her embrace—that motherly touch—releases some of the tightness inside my chest that just doesn’t seem like it’s willing to relent anytime soon.

  “Breathe, Ben. It’ll be okay. Just breathe.” Her words are whispered into my shoulder as I am about a foot taller than she is and I nod my head because words seem to be failing me at the moment. Plus, the icy glare zeroing in on me from her husband is enough to freeze over my vocal cords.

  She gives me one more squeeze and then releases me from her hold. Cole’s eyes finally leave me and I feel my body sag in relief but only slightly. Cole Adams is not the most forthcoming with words but I have a feeling he has plenty for me now and I will have the terrifying honor of hearing said words in about ten seconds.

  His eyes follow Angel’s as she walks the five steps to the door. She turns the knob, places one foot inside, and then turns her head back to Cole. His whole face changes with that one look. The crease in his forehead straightens, his glowering eyes brighten a whole effing shade, and the grim line of his mouth upturns into a smile that would charm anyone, even with the thick beard he’s sported for year. He went from grizzly to GQ with just one look from his angel. If I wasn’t about to piss my pants and/or have an anxiety attack on top of frostbite from the bitter cold, I’d be smiling right now, maybe even crack a joke about being whipped or some shit. But I can’t talk. Cady’s had me on the hook for the last ten years, and I’m just waiting to be reeled in.

  Or thrown back.

  “You,” Angeleigh points her slender finger at Cole, narrowing her golden-brown eyes. “You be nice.” His eyes widen and he opens his mouth to defend himself but she puts her hand up, halting anything he was going to say. He knows better. We all do. Women, man. “I know. But he’s hurting, too. And it’s Christmas. Christmas is about family and love and giving, and maybe even forgiving. What better day to make amends than today?”

  Cole grunts his response, she raises her eyebrows, and he blows out a breath before nodding once. Angel gives him a gleaming smile, the red of her lips spreading across her face in a triumphant win. He shakes his head good-naturedly as the corners of his mouth rise to another grin. Then he tips his head to the direction of the house, indicating she go inside. Angel turns to me, giving me a reassuring smile and a little wink before stepping all the way inside the house.

  The harsh sound of the door shutting amongst the quiet hum of cold air feels like the final nail in the coffin.

  My eyes are still trained on the door but I can feel his on me, observing. Intimidating—something he doesn’t have to really try hard, if at all, to do. He just has that presence about him. Until you get to really know him and then you realize he’s a fluffy marshmallow on the inside. Unless you piss him off. Then that marshmallow hardens and grows spikes or some shit and unless you want to risk internal impalement, you best stay out of his way.

  I am not so fortunate today. Of course, I deserve everything he’s about to my throw my way and the dude was an all-American pitcher with a badass curveball, so I know this is gonna hurt.

  But I can take it. And I will.

  I have to.

  I roll my shoulders, lift my chin, and root my feet to the spot, never breaking eye contact even though all I want to do is cower. Yeah, I admit it. Cole scares the ever-loving shit out of me. So, I’m a little (read: a whole fucking lot) terrified, but I won’t show it. It’s time to man up and fake it ‘til I make it.

  He begins to move and continues walking until he’s standing right in front of me. He’s only an inch or so taller, but he makes me feel six effing inches tall. And then he does the unthinkable.

  He…hugs me.

  He. Hugs. Me.

  The fuck?

  I startle and then tense up, completely taken by surprise. Is he buttering me up before he chokes me out?

  I mean, I know I fucked up but damn, that’s kinda salty, right?

  “I forgive you,” he whispers. Although with Cole, it’s not really a whisper but more of a low, gravely rumble that practically vibrates between us. It takes me a moment to ingest his words and then before I know it, I’m gripping his coat and hugging him tighter as my body wracks in deep, guttural sobs.

  I’ve marginally held it together over all theses months, but all of a sudden, it’s like a scabbed-over wound has reopened.

  I know that’s a gross as fuck analogy, but that’s all I can come up with right now. I’m a little busy, you know, what with having an emotional breakdown on Christmas morning and all.

  Every pent-up feeling—the shame, the regret, the rejection, the love—it all just comes gushing out of me in the form of manly-ass tears that have no qualms in staining Cole’s navy blue coat. It’s unexpected but damn if it isn’t a relief.

  I’m not sure how long I break apart but Cole’s there for all of it, keeping ahold of the pieces until the tears stop and I can finally breathe again. I give him a pat on the back, signaling that my shit is firmly back together, and he returns the gesture. We break free and I blow out a long breath; it’s embarrassingly shaky, but I just effing let loose a nose-full of snot on to the dude, so if I’m gonna be embarrassed about anything, I’d say it would be crying like a little bitch over his forgiveness.

  Although, we both know that wasn’t the only thing that got to me. Those words were just the catalyst. Words I needed to hear in order to fully come to terms with the heaping pile of shit I left on my family’s doorstep.

  “I should have never shut you out like that, Ben. It was childish—”

  “I deserved it. I would have done the same damn thing. If I could do it to myself, I would. I fucked up. I not only broke her trust but I broke yours, too. You’ve been nothing but good to me. I’m so fucking sorry. You may forgive me and I will greedily accept that forgiveness but I will never forgive myself. I hurt her. And the more I try to undo what I did, to make up for it, the more pain I cause and resistance I feel.”

  “That why you were out here yelling at the snow like it kicked your kitten?”

  My mouth twitches, but it’s feeble. I nod.

  “I’m beginning to think there’s no coming back from this. She can barely look me in the eye. Hasn’t said a damn word to me and that’s fine, I’ll take it. If it makes her feel better, I’ll let her fucking stab me if that’s what she wants, but…”

  “It’s killing you.”

  I nod again.

  “And you feel like because you think you deserve this punishment, you don’t have any right to speak up?”

  “Seems like Mom and Angel’s super powers of perception have somehow creeped inside your big-ass body,” I muse with a half smile, deflecting his question like a pro.

  He smiles wide. “Answer the question, Ben.”

  Yup, he’s turning into one of them.

  “Fine. Yeah, so what? You can’t honestly tell me I’m in any position to bitch about how the woman I’m in love with won’t speak to me because I betrayed her in the worst way? I have no right to say shit. I—”

  “Love?”

  “What?”

  Cole’s eyebrows lift in clear amusement. “You just called Cady the woman you’re in love with. You’ve never said that before.”

  I shrug and turn away before whispering into the frigid air between us. “I didn’t think I had to. Besides, I wasn’t ready. No, that’s a lie. I’ve always been ready. Dying to say—no, scream the damn words until my voice gives out, but…I was too scared. Ironically, of losing her. And since
I’m a dumbass, by pushing her away, I lost her anyway. Men really are fucking dipshits, aren’t we?”

  “That we are.” Cole shakes his head, equally ashamed with the male species. “Just don’t let the females of the family hear you say that shit. Never hear the end of it.”

  “True that,” I agree with a lopsided grin. And then I remember the shit I’m swimming in and my shoulders slump. Cole notices.

  “It’s gonna be okay, kid. We’ve all known from the moment you and Cady met, even at six fucking years old, that the connection you had was the real deal. You’d have to be blind not to see it, but even then, you’d fucking sense it. This is just a road block—”

  “A big-ass road block.”

  “But you’re going to find your way around it. And now you have me back in your corner. Don’t get it twisted though, I’m in hers, too and if she really is over you—something we all highly doubt—but if she is, you have to back off, all right?”

  I nod in agreement, but it’s bullshit.

  I’ll never back off.

  I know it with every muscle in my body. And so does he. But he doesn’t call me on it and for that, I’m thankful.

  “I think I’ve talked enough for the week. Let’s get inside, it’s cold as balls out here and I’m hungry as fuck.”

  I let out a chuckle when Cole drops another f-bomb. The dude has always had a love affair with the word ‘fuck.’ It’s something both Angeleigh and Mom have tried to break but the love is strong. Not that I can really talk. Lately, I’ve been building my own relationship with the uncouth word and I’m beginning to see the appeal. It’s definitely growing on me. Not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but honestly, I really don’t give a fuck.

  I tip my chin to the front door and tell him to go on ahead. I’m not ready to face my one-woman firing squad just yet. I just need a few more minutes of preparation, get my shit together. Cole nods knowingly and then turns to go back inside the warm house. I call out his name before he enters.

  “Thanks.” It’s lame, I know. He deserves so much more than a simple thank you but that’s all I can give him without having another full-on tear fest, which is something I never wish to repeat again. Once was one time too many. He seems to understand as his eyes read mine effortlessly. What is with the intuitiveness in this family?

  Bunch of nosy assholes.

  Through his thick dirty-blond beard, his mouth spreads to a full-fledged, Colgate-white smile. “Anytime, kid.”

  With that, he walks inside, leaving me to stew in a big-ass pot of uncertainty and for the first time in... ever, I’m left wondering if maybe my original instincts were right.

  I should’ve fucking stayed in New York.

  Maybe home isn’t where the heart is after all.

  Fourteen

  Songs to listen to:

  “Miss You Most (At Christmas Time) by Mariah Carey

  “Coldest Winter” by Pentatonix

  “Let It Go” by Idina Menzel

  Cady

  I’m so fucking sick of crying. I’m done. And yes, I’m well aware that this is not the first time I have made this vow. And I’m sure you think it won’t be my last—that I’m just blowing smoke up your ass. But I’m telling you. I. Am. Done!

  D.O.N.E

  Done with feeling like my heart is three seconds away from imploding inside my chest.

  Done with feeling sorry for myself.

  Done with wearing nothing but leggings and oversized sweaters. For goddess sakes, I do own other clothes.

  But most importantly, I am done with Ben motherfucking Catalano-Moretti.

  Done.

  Yep, shut up, I mean it.

  I mean, who does he think he is? Coming home looking sexy as fuck, I mean really, with the perfectly coifed bedhead hair and that stupid fucking stubble? Seriously, though? Can’t you give me something? An extra ten pounds, or I don’t know…an ingrown hair? Something! Anything but looking better than he ever has. Better than I thought was even humanly possible. And while I’m over here, shaking like a fucking salt shaker (not in a good way), absolutely terrified to meet his eyes, let alone speak a word to him, he’s nothing but sweet and charming and really fucking funny. But I resisted. I ignored. I scowled and silently plotted ways to torture him.

  And then, motherfucking Christmas morning rolls around and what does he do? He gives me a gift. After a week of the silent treatment and death glares, he gives me a damn gift! But not only that, he acts all…understanding. Telling me I don’t have to open it until I’m ready. Like he cares or something.

  Asshole.

  After I cried my last tears (for real this time) over Ben “dick face” Catalano-Moretti onto Dylan’s vintage Buddy the Elf t-shirt, I untangled myself from my worried twin’s arms and marched toward the offending box that was still in the same spot Ben left it.

  Glaring and slinging curses at the undeserving, unfortunate penguin, I picked up the gift—ignoring any and all urges to take a quick peek—and chucked it into the trash can. An audible sigh of relief left my lips. The tension in my shoulders lessened and the embarrassing stray tears dried on my cheeks.

  I could feel Dylan’s gaze on me and I knew without turning around I would find judgment in the eyes that match my own—scrutinizing my every move, questioning my decision. The thing is, though, no one else—save for ass-wipe himself—would see what’s lurking behind my brother’s eyes. He hides his emotions well. Growing up as a gay athlete—even in liberal Portland, amongst Millennials and hipster babies—he had to be guarded.

  Strong and impervious.

  But like I said, he has an Achilles heel…me. And Ben. He can’t hide shit from us, no matter how hard he tries. With us, his emotions are written all over his face. Which is why I’m opting to stay exactly where I am.

  Facing away from him.

  From what’s reflecting off his model-like features, burning through his eyes straight into the back of my head, singeing and leaching inside the weakest parts of me.

  Nah, I know better.

  We’re twins, after all.

  “Don’t say it. You don’t need to. I can feel every piece of shit your mouth wants to spit at me. I know, okay? I know I’m being a bitch, but I’m also being smart. I can’t…I can’t let him back in, Dyl. I can’t. I’m not ready. I don’t… I can’t let him in. If he—I can’t go through that again. I wouldn’t survive it. I barely—”

  My words cut off when I feel Dylan’s arms wrap around me from behind. My shoulders sag against his hold.

  I didn’t even realize I was crying again (goddamn it!) until he swept the tears from underneath my eyes with his right index finger. Reassurances and apologies are murmured into my hot mess of a hairstyle.

  Seriously, when was the last time I washed this ostrich nest of frizzy-ass curls?

  Oh, my goddess!

  It was like a fucking week and a half ago.

  All right, that’s enough now. The solo-as-fuck pity party extravaganza is officially over today.

  I tell my brother as much and his hearty laugh bellows into the somehow equally dry and greasy mess of a top knot struggling to stay in the confines of the elastic band.

  He pulls back and gives me that boxer brief-dropping smile that could turn any straight guy gay for a day and I return it with a less than stellar rendition. But it’s better than the perpetual scowl/wobbly lip thing I’ve had going on for far too long.

  “That smile or whatever you wanna call it needs some work, babe.” He muses as if reading my mind—which he very well may have—twin power and all that shit. My mouth slants upward just a fraction more and his goes full blown dentist ad. “Better. You good?”

  I nod.

  “So, I don’t need to kick Ben’s ass? ’Cause I will. I don’t want to and frankly, it would make this Christmas even more awkward than it already is, which is awkward as fuck, by the way. Like Jesse Eisenberg and Kristen Stewart in a remake of Romeo and Juliet kind of awkward. But if you asked, I’d do it. Withou
t question. Besides, I think we can all agree he deserves a little ass beating. At the very least, a bitch-slap.”

  That garners an actual smile from me and Dylan pumps his fist in the air a la Jake and Jake’s idol, the infamous John Bender from The Breakfast Club.

  “As much as I would love to see you bitch-slap Ben, I don’t think it’s necessary. Not today, anyway. Ask me again once we get through this shit-fest holiday.”

  “So, you’re good? Really?” Dylan asks again. Concern is still evident in his voice.

  I give him a small but reassuring smile. “I’m good.”

  He nods and turns to leave but stops just short of the trash can. His gaze zeroes in on the gift box as his eyebrows furl in thought.

  “What are you gonna do with it?”

  I let my eyes follow his and blow out a huge puff of air. “I have no fucking clue.”

  “May I offer a suggestion?”

  “By all means, twin brother.”

  “Don’t actually throw it away. Like he said, you don’t have to open it. But knowing Ben and how much he’s trying to change and make up for his mistakes—”

  I give him a glare of certain death.

  “Don’t look at me like that. He is. You may not want to admit it, but I know you see it. Feel it. And I know whatever is in that box means something. To you and to him. So, hide it. Store it. Leave it where it is for all I care, but don’t actually throw it out. I have a feeling you’ll regret it if you do. And that regret will run deep, girl.”

  My blue eyes rolled and I made a not-so-ladylike sound but in the end, I relented because he’s right. He normally is.

  It’s annoying as fuck.

  Which is the very reason I kicked him out of my room. Of course, not before wrapping my arms around his oversized body. I barely made it around but somehow, I managed.

  Seriously, the dude needs to lay off the protein shakes.

  I said as much and his laughter floated down the hallway along with him.

  Which brings me to the present.

  I’m showered and looking as close to myself as I can manage given the circumstance of my mental health/crazy-ass schizophrenic emotions—decked out in the cherry red high-waisted circle skirt Mom handed to me this morning, a white cotton cropped blouse under the softest cream cashmere cardigan with little red bows scattered all over it and navy-blue flats adorning my feet.