“I don’t even know what to say to that,” Blaine says, looking as perplexed as I feel.
There’s a long moment of silence in which we ingest the insane verbal vomit that just spewed in front of us and then with collective glances toward each other, we start to laugh. And not the polite, girly-giggle kind. Nope. This is full on, spit-vegan-lasgna-onto-Miles’s-plate-of-mutilated-poultry-while-tears-stream-down-your-face-in-waves kind of laughter. And damn, does it feel good.
After the bellowing cackles and undoubtedly attractive snorts die down to simmering chuckles, Blaine asks to sit down with us and we oblige.
“I’m Blaine, but everyone calls me B.”
Blaine turns his seemingly perfect body toward me, his dark jean-clad knee brushing with mine underneath the table. He holds his hand out for me to shake and I do just that. There’s no jolt of electricity shooting up my spine, leaving trails and trails of goose bumps on my skin from the contact. But there’s also a warmth, a soft glow and calmness that washes over me. I instantly feel safe, and it makes me smile gratefully.
“You two looked like you were having way too much fun over here. I’m afraid it made me a little jealous. Had to see what was up.” B says this without once taking his eyes off of me, and I know my cheeks officially match my lipstick—Crimson Crush.
How fitting.
“Aw, B, you know you’ll always be my first love,” Miles once again interrupts our little game of ‘who can make the other person melt into a sopping puddle of brewing infatuation and enchantment with only their eyes first.’ In case you’re wondering who’s winning…it’s Blaine.
Stupid sparkles.
“But see, Cady here, Cady is a game-changer,” Miles finishes with a wink thrown my way.
Blaine tilts his head toward me, those damn hazel eyes shimmering at me as if he’s never seen an average girl with way too many curves and penchant for red lips, a healthy dose of sarcasm, nerdy glasses, and a circle skirt before. Now that I think about it, he probably hasn’t seen many of my kind of breed. Although, we do live in Portland… Anyway, you get the gist. I may be overstepping or misreading, but in this fleeting moment that I hope isn’t too fleeting at all, he looks at me like…like he’s been waiting for far too long for someone like me to come around. And when he speaks, his voice is low and deep, just above a whisper, and if I’m not mistaken, it sounds a little bit in awe. “Miles, my good friend, I think you just may be right about this one.”
And with those magical words, Ben Catalano-Moretti all but ceases to exist, becoming nothing but a distant memory.
Fuck, okay, so that’s a total lie, I’ll admit it. Definitely too far. I mean come on, I just met the dude. But from the way Blaine keeps looking at me with a full-on smile—no half-smiles here, homies—a perfect, wide, and genuine smile that displays an even more perfect set of teeth conveying nothing but kindness and definite interest—I think that maybe, just maybe, things might be looking up for Cady Adams.
Plus, for the first time in a really long time, I feel like myself again.
And that, my friends, is how Cady Adams got her groove back.
Things are definitely looking up.
Which means I am definitely not thinking of Ben and what he could be doing right now that takes up so much time that he can’t even drop a text to me so that I know the asshole is still alive and kicking and still a complete and total cunt-face.
Yep, things are—fuck, I’m so totally fucked.
Part Three
Summer
Seventeen
Song to listen to:
“Coming Home” by Leon Bridges
Ben
This year can go fuck itself. Up the ass with no lube or foreplay and with a hard and extra veiny eight-inch dick—which coincidently is the size of my own. It’s not extra veiny though, in case you were wondering, just the normal, run of the mill veinage. Nor is it hard and it hasn’t been for an embarrassing amount of time—at least in the vicinity of a woman who is real and not a piece of withering photo paper—glossy, of course. If you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ve guessed correctly that I have become celibate.
And if you also guessed that my right hand is now stronger than it ever should be, then you’d be right again. Why has this year sucked giant, hanging, horsey balls, you might ask?
Cady.
It all starts and ends with that bewitching minx. I haven’t talked to her since I left after the holiday. That was six months ago. Six. Fucking. Months. Yep, I’m going out of my fucking mind here. And you’re fucking right again, “fuck” has definitely become my new favorite word. It works with everything, especially the shitshow that is my life. Personal life, at least. If I can even call it that anymore. It’s more like a vast nothingness of pathetic and lonely despair.
Yeah, I’m there, people. I have reached that point. Surpassed it, even.
Fuck, I need to get laid.
I plan on remedying that. ASAP. Just as soon as I move back home to Portland and woo the fuck out of the beautiful but vengeful voodoo witch Cady Adams. Who, funny story, has no idea I’m coming back. Which should be a hoot. Maybe not for her, but for me. Oh, it will be the highlight of my year, which as you can tell, wasn’t exactly eventful. But still, the look on her face…it’s gonna be priceless. Especially once she finds out the teeny tiny secret I and the whole damn family kept from her. It’s kind of a dick move, but I begged and pleaded and fucking groveled to no end to get the ’rents to agree to this half-baked, sure-to-get-me-slapped-in-the-face-or-at-the-very-least-kneed-in-the-balls-but-it’ll-be-totally-worth-it plan. Well, that is if everything goes the way I hope it will. The way I need it to. And knowing Cady, in all her adorable stubborn glory, I have my work cut out for me.
Three months.
They gave me three months to befriend her. To gain her trust again. To prove myself, show her I’ve changed. That I’m willing to do better, to be better—for her and for myself. To make up for lost time and remind her of what we’ve always wanted but were too fucking scared to have. To love her—loudly and without fear or uncertainty. Just fucking love. Bare and vast. Profound and epic as shit.
Three months as her new roommate.
Three months of hoping like hell she doesn’t murder me in my sleep.
Or cut, punch, body slam anything below the belt.
Well, unless that body slam is a naked one and what’s slamming my body is her pussy, then yeah, I think I could get on board with that.
Fuck, she’s going to kill me. And everyone in our family. But mostly me. I’m definitely dead. Thankfully, I have three months to make up for this insane rouse.
Three months.
And if I don’t have her by the summer’s end, I’ll let go for real this time. For real, for real. Move back to New York and…move on. Fuck, those words are nasty to say. Also, complete and utter bullshit; there’s no moving on from Cady, just…moving aside. For her. To do whatever she wants. But damn, I really fucking hope whatever she wants to do involves me, in more ways than one.
In all the fucking ways.
No, fuck hoping. It will happen. She’s going to forgive me. And learn to like me again, because who am I kidding? Everyone, aside from her right now, likes me. No, they love me. And so will she. She just needs to see, to remember. To feel. To let go and fucking feel.
It’s happening. It’s going to happen. I’ll make sure of it.
As soon as this plane touches down. Oh, and you know, after she curses me out while jamming her elbow into my nose once she realizes her new roommate isn’t some girl named Bee who needed a place to stay while she was working with Jake, but it is in fact the one and only dude she has loved and hated more than anyone, probably ever.
Yeah, this is gonna go spectacularly. Or, at the very least, will be a spectacle of pure, unadulterated violence best suited for reality TV and viral videos.
Hope you have your phones ready, folks, this is gonna be one Hell of a show.
Eighteen
; Songs to listen to:
“Best Thing I Never Had” by Beyoncé
“After the Storm” by Mumford and Sons
“Lesson Learned” by Alicia Keys feat. John Mayer
“Sorry Not Sorry” by Demi Lovato
Cady
I did it! I finished high school—with a 3.9 grade point average, mind you. After the shittiest year I have ever had and hopefully will ever have, I yanked on my big girl knickers, stopped wallowing in self-pity, and ceased all spell conjuring that involved turning a stupid asshole boy into, well, an ass. Okay, so I might have bookmarked a few spellbinding sites, you know, just in case. But I’m definitely not active in the Wiccan dark arts. Anymore. I let go (for the most part) and moved on (yep, totally). Changing high schools ended up being exactly what I needed, and everything I hoped it would be. I have the greatest best friend in Miles. We are practically attached at the hip; that is, when I’m not with the other man in my life. And no, I don’t mean Dylan, although he will forever be my main man, homie for life, twin power and all that ish. But no, I’m talking about Blaine.
As I am sure you saw coming, Blaine and I started dating a month after we met. And it’s been pretty damn amazing. He’s kind of the perfect boyfriend, which doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. He’s pretty much perfect in anything he does. Except sewing. A few months ago, he taught me how to nail a three pointer—although, I technically already knew how to do that. Ben taught me years ago, but I didn’t have the heart to tell Blaine, not with those sparkly eyes looking at me, so full of excitement at the prospect of showing me something new. So, I faked it.
I know, I know. But the smile on his face when I hit nothing but net after net after net was totally worth the teeny, tiny deception. Anyway, since he “taught” me something, he asked me to show him how to sew. Yeah, there was no deception in this lesson. The dude, for as graceful and precise his hands are with a basketball, couldn’t even master a simple basting stitch. The lesson was over before it even started. But since we were in my room, very near to the bed, the day didn’t turn out so bad. In fact, it was very, very good.
I know what you’re thinking, you filthy jezebels! And you would be thinking wrong. Get your dirty and grossly inappropriate sex-riddled, smut-reading minds out of the gutter. My V-card has yet to be swiped, okay? We haven’t even done any under-the-clothes stuff. Yeah, I know, the dude is a saint. And no, he is not gay. Both Miles and Dylan have reaffirmed this. Blaine is just…like I said, perfect. Apparently, I am worth the wait. So, waiting we are. Why? I don’t know. I truly care for him. He’s become one of my favorite people in the world. I just…I don’t know.
I do know that now is not the proper time to be sorting out my non-existent sex life. Why, you ask? Well, for graduating with honors despite the downpour of shit that rained upon me last year, all four of my dope as fuck parents got me an apartment as my high school parting gift/beginning of adulthood fresh start. And since I will be staying in town attending the Portland College for Design and Dylan will be in Eugene, pitching his ass at for the University of Oregon, my bestie Miles will be at Portland State living the life of luxury courtesy of on-campus housing and well, to be honest, I wasn’t entirely ready to live on my own nor move in with Blaine, I needed a roommate.
But I don’t really know anyone, outside of my family and small group of friends. And I certainly wasn’t about to post an ad, so I asked them for help and magically Jake came through. Apparently, he hired this girl named Bee from New York who was recommended by a friend, she was desperately looking for a place to stay, and voila, new roommate for Cady.
“You lucky bitch! Seriously, I officially hate the ’rents for making me live in the dorm for a year. Goddamn it, I wish your crazy family would just adopt me already!” Miles whines as we pull into my very own parking space.
“Well, when you and Dylan finally grow two sets of balls and actually admit your feelings for each other, I think at least a fostering situation could be put into place. Until then, you’re stuck with your own family. You’ll always have me, though.” I wink at him and he and flips me off before winking back.
Miles and Dylan. Over the last six months or so they’ve been playing a tired-ass game of “he likes me, he likes me not.” Blaine and I set up a double date with them and I thought it had gone well. Really well. They were together all of two weeks and then BAM! No more. But the split has not stopped the pining looks and insane sexual tension that has been brewing for the last month. Anytime I try to bring it up with either of them, I get shut the fuck down. I know something is still going on between them but I’m just not entirely sure what that is and what it means. Apparently, it’s on a need to know basis and I guess I don’t need to know. Yet. So yeah, it’s infuriating to say the least. Not that I can really talk; I spent twelve years playing that game but damn, you’d think after watching the train-wreck that was the asshole and I, Dylan would know better. This game only ends in heartbreak. But, they are both stubborn men who won’t listen to a damn thing I say, so it’s looking like they’re going to learn the hard way. Or maybe, just maybe, they’ll work out their shit and live gaily ever after. I won’t hold my breath, though. Especially from the icy looks they’re throwing at each other from across the parking lot right now. If I wasn’t so busy basking in my moving day orb of glowing joy, I’d stick my nose where they act like it doesn’t belong but deep down know it’s where it’s supposed to be. But like I said, it’s moving day, muthafuckas! And I’m going to enjoy every single second of it.
I know it sounds crazy, and it is. Who the hell likes to move?
Well, I’ll tell you who likes to move—how about a girl who has been surrounded by her genuinely loving but insanely dramatic, nosy as fuck and weird beyond comprehension family? I haven’t had a quiet moment since like, the womb. And even then, I wasn’t alone. I had to deal with Dylan and his mammoth-fetus body hogging all of the limited space, most likely reiterating baseball stats that my dad spoke to Mom’s protruding stomach. So yeah, moving day is the shit!
While Miles pretends to be searching for god knows what when really he’s just side-eyeing Dylan, who happens to be doing the exact same thing (ugh, boys), I nudge my bestie out of the way to grab a box from my sardine-packed car, aka my mom’s ten-year old Prius that is the ugliest hunk of metal on the road but still runs as smooth and earth-consciously as the day she bought it. I turn around to find both sets of my parents grabbing boxes as well, although they seem to be lingering in the lot for some inexplicable reason and from the looks of it, appear to be whispering amongst themselves. They look cagey, maybe even a little guilty, casting quick glances my way as I stare back at them. If it wasn’t for the waterworks Mom is displaying on her cheeks, I’d be more suspicious. So, I’m gonna chock this up to “getting the feels” over their firstborn (again, beat Dylan by two minutes and fifteen seconds, suck it little brother) moving out of the house.
I should have known better.
A girl ain’t got time for that. Not when I have my first apartment awaiting me. My first taste of freedom is now at my deep purple-painted fingertips. If I wasn’t carrying my most important box—the brand-new Brother sewing machine my grandparents bought me for graduation, still unopened and ready for my expert hands to stitch and embroider the fuck out of it—I’d be running at a dead sprint to the door. Alas, a careful speed-walk will have to suffice, leaving my family—who are growing more bizarre by the second—in my very stylish dust.
Once I reach my door that just so happens to be red (‘twas meant to be) I set the box down by my now bouncing feet, fish my keys from my back pocket and unlock the door.
I pick up the box and walk into the open space. The new-home smell—fresh and full of promise—permeates the air around me. I close my eyes and inhale, exhaling with a huge smile on my face.
“Hiya roomie!”
The voice comes from behind me, startling me half to death. I drop the box and let out a piercing, heart-thundering scream. Shit.
&nb
sp; No!
Nononononono. I know that voice. I used to love that voice. Fuck, no! Nope. Nah, it can’t be.
I whip around toward the direction of the voice and sure enough—Ben mother-fuckity-fucking-fucker Catalano-Moretti is standing in my hallway. My hallway. His tall (so damn tall), trim and sculpted (so damn trim and sculpted) body taking up the whole entrance. His strong arms are crossed at his broad chest that is under his perfectly draped basic white t-shirt. His right shoulder is propped up by the light grey wall and he looks like he hasn’t a care in the world. His mouth is curving slightly to the left, his green eyes—fuck, those stupid green eyes—are staring at me with intent, searching, gaging, undressing. Fuck.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I demand, finally finding my voice. Grateful that it sounded strong and steady, not anywhere near how I’m currently feeling at the moment.
Like I kind of want throw up.
Give him the worst titty twister of his life.
And kiss the shit out of him.
In no particular order.
Fuck. Nope. Just kidding. There will be no kissing. Ever. The first two are negotiable, though.
“Ah, so you’re speaking again. I was wondering which Cady I would get today. My money was on silent but deadly Cady, so this is a nice surprise. Sailor and deadly with hints of clumsy and confused—definitely in my top five favorite Cadys of all time. You wanna know what’s number one?”
“Shut the fuck up! What. The Hell. Are you doing in my apartment? Aren’t you supposed to be filleting some kind of encrusted salmon or some shit in New York? You do realize this is the wrong metropolitan city, right?”
Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3) Page 17
