Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3)

by Andrea Hopkins

  More anger.

  Boiling hot anger.

  My hands have been clenched in fists since I saw the asshole standing in my hallway. How dare he come back here all aloof with his lame half-smiles and looking better than he ever has—seriously, how does he keep doing that? He’s always been hot, but holy fuck balls! Apparently, rejection and hatred that has spanned months and miles does his body good. Real good. Too damn good. And his face…specifically, the sexy stubble that no matter how hard I try to not think of, I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like against my skin—scratchy and a little rough but in a good way, a really good way. Especially between my—no! Nope. There will be none of those thoughts, Cady!

  “So, are you finally going to tell me why your Chucks have been burning tracks on my floor for the last hour? Or will I have to continue guessing?” Blaine asks, tearing me away from thoughts I will never think again. Nope. Never.

  I stare at my boyfriend. My sweet, considerate, male model-hot boyfriend who’s currently looking at me with deep, genuine concern—his dirty blond eyebrows are furrowed as his shimmering hazel eyes pursue mine, silently grasping for answers I just don’t want to give. I can’t. Not about Ben or the raw ache I feel in my chest just from the mere mention of him in my own thoughts. Goddess, Blaine doesn’t even know much of anything about Ben. Only that he’s my step-brother-cousin, as Ben affectionately calls himself, and that he’s studying to be a chef in New York.

  Was, he was in New York.

  Now he’s here. In my apartment. As my new roommate.

  Fuck me sideways and down under.

  A heavy sigh leaves my lips as I finally plop down on Blaine’s bed and turn to face him to deliver the truth. The partial truth. Okay, like a quarter of the truth. The least messy parts of it, at least. I know, but shut it, okay? He doesn’t need to know the true extent of our fucked up relationship, or non-relationship in our case. There’s no point. I’m with Blaine. I’ve never been with Ben, nor will I ever be. We’ve both made that abundantly clear.

  Keep repeating that and maybe one day you’ll believe it.

  Fuck off, inner Cady!

  “It’s Ben,” I say and watch his forehead crease even more.

  “Your step-brother?”

  I nod silently while he continues to stare at me, perplexed and waiting for me to elaborate. I do, but I really fucking don’t like it.

  “Apparently, he moved back to town and now, thanks to my parents, it’s looking like we’re going to be roommates for awhile. At least until he can find his own place.”

  “And you’re upset about that? I thought you all got along, no?”

  “We did—we do, for the most part. But Ben…”

  Fuck, think Cady. Think, think, think. Goddess, just say something, woman! Anything. Form words and push them out of your mouth. You do remember what words are, right?

  “He’s just…he’s an asshole. A womanizer. Stoner. And a bit of a kleptomaniac.” Okay, I know what you’re thinking. The klepto thing is a bit of a stretch, but is it really, though? I mean, he may not have stolen money or other random valuables, but he sure as fuck stole from me. And what he took is irreplaceable and far more precious than jewelry or a five-spot. He took a chunk of my heart, after he thoroughly broke it, nonetheless; he took it and every single damn time I have to see him or hear his name mentioned, it’s like that chunk of myself is dangling in front of me, just out of my reach. No matter how hard I push him away or try to forget, let go and move on, it’s still there, firmly in his grasp, taunting me. Calling to me. Fuck, Ben’s been back for a few hours and I’m already turning back into Miss Emo.

  I rub my face with my palms, thankful I decided to forgo makeup today. “Bottom line, I don’t trust him.” Or myself. But that little nugget I keep to myself. And it’s the most painful to admit, even if it’s just in my mind. But it’s the truth. And it’s fucking terrifying. I hate Ben. I hate him with every fucking fiber of my being. But herein lies my problem, why my entire body hasn’t stopped shaking since my eyes collided with his. There’s a fine line between love and hate, and I’m smart enough to know that the Ben Catalano-Moretti effect has the power to not just nudge me over that line but to fucking toss me so far over it, it wouldn’t exist anymore. There’d be no going back. And once that happens, once he pushes me that far, backs me into a corner, forces me to see, to feel, to forget, to remember, I’d be long gone under his spell once again. Willingly, pathetically his. Whether he wants me or not. And the thing is, the thing that pisses me off the most, is that knowing all this, knowing all of the inevitable pain that will be inflicted on myself and quite possibly the boy who is currently wrapping his comforting and safe arms around me—knowing this, the masochistic urge to go back to my apartment and see this shit through, play the game, and gamble with all of the hearts on the line is palpable. Exhilarating. And just too fucking tempting to ignore.

  Which is why I find myself leaving Blaine’s side fifteen minutes later with a chaste kiss, a few words of gratitude, and another half-truth of reasoning that I just wanted to get this shit over with. I promise to call before receiving a tender kiss to the forehead and I’m out the door, in my car, wildly keyed up to let the games begin.

  Although, I’m not entirely sure what I’m playing for.

  Or am I?

  ***

  It takes me forty-five fucking minutes to drive ten miles. I’m pretty sure I would’ve gotten here sooner had I walked from Blaine’s. Seriously, can’t another city become the “new Portland” already? It’s getting ridiculous. Scratch that, it was ridiculous ten years ago; now it’s just fucking infuriating, but I digress.

  Oregon native problems.

  Once I get my residual road rage in check, I make my way inside the overpriced but clean and trendy building that is my new home. No less than a minute later, I’m standing outside my door, our door, trying to gather up the bravado I lost on the drive over. My hand hesitates over the knob and I take the moment to breathe, inhaling and exhaling forcefully a few times before opening the door and sealing my fate along with it.

  He’s in the kitchen. Of course he’s in the kitchen. He’s rarely not in the kitchen. The myriad of smells emanating from the open concept space is nothing short of divine. And right on cue, my stomach rumbles so loudly that had Ben not been listening to music, he no doubt would’ve heard it. A nostalgic smile tugs at my lips as I close my eyes briefly, inhaling the rich aroma of cuisine ala Ben Catalano-Moretti and whispering the words to a familiar song. One of my favorites. One of our favorites.

  “Try a Little Tenderness” by Otis Redding.

  The summer before 8th grade, while Dylan was perfecting his curve ball, Ben and I became obsessed with ’80s Brat-pack movies. It was a dismal start to summer vacation—nothing but endless rain and pure boredom. We were in the attic, rummaging through dust and old boxes looking for anything that could hold our attention for longer than an hour. After what felt like an eternity we eventually found a box of old DVDs, along with a player and some random CDs we also ended up swiping. We started off with Sixteen Candles, which I loved from the start. Jake Ryan was…let’s just say he was a prominent fixture in my dreams that summer. Throw in a tit-shot, and Ben was on board pretty quickly. And then there was Pretty in Pink and I swear, Molly Ringwald as Andi was my feathered hair soul-sister; well, without the depressed drunk of a father. And then there was Duckie. With the bolo tie, sarcasm that was just too witty for Andrew Dice Clay to comprehend, wingtip loafers, and his undying and genuinely devoted love for Andi… Duckie was everything.

  Duckie also introduced us to Otis Redding. And from the moment he serenaded Molly Ringwald in the back of the record store we were hooked, line, and sinker. I’m pretty sure we hit the rewind button at least a dozen times. After we finished the movie, we downloaded every song Otis ever recorded, and he’s kind of been our thing ever since. Shitty day? Throw on “The Dock of the Bay,” and everything will look much brighter. Need a good cry? “These Arm
s of Mine” will do it.

  Later that year, Ben taught me to slow dance to “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long.” His hands loosely held my waist, like he was afraid to touch me. My fidgety arms slung around his neck. Our eyes looked anywhere but at each other. And a good foot of space was left between us. It was awkward and slightly mortifying, but to this day, still one of my favorite moments in my life thus far. Because through the gawkiness and discomfort, there was a tenderness that lied between us—a pull I could feel, even then, and with every word sung around us, that pull tugged closer and closer until we were only a few inches apart. It was the second time I thought—this is it, this is the moment. Our eyes met, just for a second, but it was enough to steal my breath. His grip tightened. My lips grew dry. He leaned. I leaned. And then the song was over and the moment was nothing but wishful thinking. Hope. Stupid. Fucking. Hope. He released his hold on me, turned the Bluetooth speaker off and hightailed it out of my room, of course not before telling me he was going to go over to Mariah Conner’s house to see if he can get to second. Yep, hope is a fucking bitch.

  And Ben is an asshole. I can’t forget that. I won’t. Even if he cooks like a top chef and adorably sways his hips to Otis while singing off-key. He’s an asshole. And I’m about to tell him so.

  Steeling my features, breathing through my mouth to prevent the euphoric smell from wafting inside my nostrils, I coolly walk to the kitchen, ignoring the fierce compulsions to either throw a tantrum like a three-year old in Toys R’ Us the week before Christmas, run away and lock myself in my room for the next three months, knee him in the balls repeatedly, or attack his face with mine.

  Deep breath.

  Here goes nothing.

  Or everything.

  “Why are you here?” I blurt out. He visibly startles at the sound of my voice, turns around from stirring something delicious on the stove, and shines those bright green eyes on mine. I have to look away because I’m chickenshit and those eyes are far too demanding. Instead, I focus on the steam rising behind him. “Is this some game you’re playing? Is that what this is?”

  He sighs long and deep. I sneak a quick peek at him again and note how tired he looks. Sexy as ever, but tired. Worn down. “No, Cady. No. As much as you think it, you have never been a game to me. Not ever. I swear to you.”

  “Then why are you here? And don’t give me the bullshit answer, okay? I’ve dealt with enough bullshit to last me a lifetime, and then some. Just answer me honestly, please. Why are you here, Ben?”

  His shoulders drop and he averts his gaze, his weary eyes looking at the empty wall to the left of me—eyebrows furrowing in thought before settling back onto mine with intention, making me instantly regret asking the question and maintaining eye contact.

  “I hated New York. Which still baffles me because for as long as I can remember, I wanted to live there. Study with brilliant chefs, brave the subways, rent a tiny-ass apartment for an absurd amount of money, eventually open up a restaurant that takes the city by its balls, and just breathe in the smoggy air full of promise and opportunity while nearly getting sideswiped by a taxi driver. It was my dream, and yet no matter how hard I tried to grab a hold of it, embrace it, shit, even believe in it—it was like this mirage, you know? It was there, right in front of me but it wasn’t real and it wouldn’t be. Not without you. You were supposed to be there, Bug. You were supposed to be by my side. Studying at that big fashion school, sitting between me and some naked rando on the train, sharing that overpriced shithole, holding my hand as we walk through the city like we own the fucking thing.”

  “Ben,” his name just a whisper on my lips—cracked and aching. His words, fuck me, that was not what I expected to come out of his mouth.

  “I know, I know. You asked for honesty, so let me just say my peace. I know I don’t deserve it, but please,” he begs. His eyes are pleading desperately, and I regret ever looking into those green pools of deception. If he only knew the power he holds with the will-bending-soul-stealers he calls eyes. They hypnotize and probe with just a single glance. I have to turn my head away before I do something I know I shouldn’t, but damn it all to hell, I crave it. I answer his plea with a nod and hold my breath as he slowly chinks away at my stone-encrusted heart.

  “Our family drives me crazy. I love them, I love them more than I ever thought I would, but the meddling and sheer volume can be a little much. I know you know what I’m talking about. I thought, before what went down with us, I needed a break—not from you—from them, from the noise, from, I don’t know, I just wanted a minute, you know? But then, I fucked everything up and the quiet that I wished for and received wasn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. I missed hearing Angel sing in the kitchen during family dinners. I missed trying to outrun Dylan but failing every single damn time. Seriously, our brother is fucking Hercules incarnate. I missed watching Jake carry Mom upstairs to bed after she spent all night writing—tea stains on her shirt and indents on her cheeks from the keyboard on her laptop. I missed watching games with Cole and Stella, trying to sneak in sips of beer without his holy gruffness catching me. Listening to Zig and Griff argue over who has more chest hair—spoiler alert, they have one and a half, combined. But above all else, I’m here because I missed you. Fuck, Cady, I missed you so goddamned much. I missed watching you eat and somehow enjoy that vegan shit you call food. I missed peeking through your door and watching you sketch—colored pencils in your hair and your glasses slipping down your button nose. I missed all the creative ways you could use ‘fuck’ in a sentence. It would not only impress but also shock Quentin Tarantino, which is a near impossible feat. I miss your smile. That smile, Bug, it fucking lights my world on fire, and I’ve kicked myself in the ass on the daily for taking it for granted. I’m here because I tried, I tried to give you space, air to breathe and move on, but that’s the thing—I don’t want you to move on, not without me. I’m here to fight, for any part of you. For now, I’ll take whatever I can get. Anything is better than nothing at all. I just want my friend back.”

  I know the tear is coming before it slides down my cheek, followed by another. And another. I quickly wipe away the evidence, even though I know he saw but gratefully doesn’t say anything. He stands a few feet away from me, panting like he just attempted to race Dylan around the bases instead of thoroughly fucking my brain up. And don’t even get me started on my heart, feeble bastard that it is.

  Ben is staring at me. Waiting for a reply, but what do I say to that? What do I say without breaking the wall I devoted so much time and tears building?

  “Cady,” Ben whispers, taking a step toward me. I take a step back.

  “Dammit, Ben. Just, just give me a minute,” I mutter so quietly I wouldn’t have known he heard me had he not nodded his assent.

  I walk out of the kitchen and into the sparse living room. And by sparse, I mean completely empty aside from a few boxes and a lamp resting unplugged on the floor. I sit down next to it and hug my knees to my chest, thankful I’m actually wearing a pair of shorts today—vintage and on sale for eight bucks. I fiddle with the black cord for a few minutes, breathing in the silence and the weight of his words. And before I can think twice about it, words I may live to regret come tumbling out of my big-ass mouth.

  “We need rules.”

  “Excuse me?” Ben asks, walking into the living room. He props himself up against the wall facing me, looking at me quizzically.

  “Well, since our parents are nosy assholes, I don’t foresee us getting out of this little predicament until they’re good and ready. And I can’t afford an apartment in Portland unless I become a stripper or start selling my panties online or some shit—”

  “Panties?” Ben asks, eyes wide, looking completely dumbfounded.

  “Yes, panties. It’s a thing. Anyway, if we have to be roommates and want to come out of this unscathed, then we’re going to need rules. House rules. It’s a common thing.”

  “Like selling panties online?”

  “Ye
s, only less pervy.” I say it with a shrug of the shoulders, like the turn of this conversation is normal and not weird as fuck in any way.

  He smiles. But it’s not his usual half-tilted smirk. No, this smile spreads across his entire face, showcasing the slightly askew upper left canine, and leaving me completely and utterly breathless. And so fucking fucked.

  I’m staring. Fuck, I’m staring, but I can’t look away. I know I should. I need to. For my own good, I need to, but damn, I don’t think I have ever seen him smile like this. No, I would have remembered this. This is new. My resolve can only ward off so much. This, this foreign, megawatt, panty-dampening smile is too much. Far, far, too much.

  “Stop!” I yell loudly. And on accident. What the fuck is wrong with me? Which is exactly how Ben is looking at me right now. My insides cringe, along with my face. “You can’t…you can’t do that—”

  “Do what?”

  “Smile like that.”

  “Smile like what? How was I smiling?” he asks, knowing exactly what I’m talking about. His eyes are sparkling with amusement as his lips pull into another wide, full-motherfucking-smile.

  “That!” I point to his face. “That smile. Right there. You can’t do that!”

  “And why can’t I?”

  “Because. Because it’s…distracting. And misleading. And arrogant. And not at all attractive. It makes you look like you’re a little constipated and whole lot douchey. Not a good look.”