The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2)

by Mariah Dietz

  “For what?”

  Lo blinks slowly and then glares at me. I’m tempted to laugh. Instead, I smirk. I can’t help it. There’s so little about her that is intimidating or bossy, and the few times I have seen either is hard to remember.

  “When are you guys going to get together and have another Mercedes?”

  “You aren’t serious? Do I seem like the motherly type to you?” My heart leaps out of my chest and into her hands, wishing and hoping she tells me that I can. That I already am.

  “Would you be on your way to Orlando right now if you weren’t?”

  My throat tightens with emotions, and I thank the ridiculous airline requirements when we’re instructed to look forward to the flight attendant as he begins going over safety procedures.

  “LO!” I SCREAM.

  “What? Are you okay?” She looks disoriented, her eyes growing wider with each heavy blink to clear them of sleep. Finally, she focuses on me and then closes her eyes. “Why are you naked and yelling for me?”

  “The water is freezing!” I exclaim from where I am huddled in the far corner of the shower in an attempt to avoid the spray.

  “What am I going to do about it?”

  “I’m serious. It’s going to kill me.”

  She doesn’t even crack a smile as she shuffles forward from the doorway of the bathroom, making me envious of the warm flannel pajamas she’s wrapped in. “Did you try turning it the opposite way?”

  “Yes, and it’s still cold as shit.”

  “Why did you get in?” she asks.

  “’Cause I needed a shower.” I can’t stop the sarcasm from coating my words. I’m freezing, my hair is awful from being under a beanie all day yesterday, and I can’t fully wake up without my morning shower. It’s a ritual. A requirement. I don’t care about coffee or breakfast or even if my clothes match, but I need my damn shower.

  “Yeah, but didn’t you notice there was no steam? Or at least feel it before diving in butt-ass naked?”

  “It’s four a.m., I barely slept last night, and I hardly ever get steam at home because my fan kicks some serious ass. Since this one sounds like a damn helicopter, I assumed it was doing its job. You can take your pick. What the fuck do we do?”

  “Are you sure you’ve tried turning it?” she asks, stepping forward without my reply and fiddling with the lever to change the temperature.

  “My nipples are ready to cut diamonds.” I shiver, my back still aching from sitting so long on our flight yesterday. It hurts worse with my muscles all being contracted.

  “I’ll sketch Kash a picture of that visual on our flight to Orlando.” Only Lo can say something with so little emotion, making it difficult to decipher if she’s joking or serious. Ironically, I don’t really care. “This is going to be like camping.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You know the campgrounds where you have to hit the button and the shower runs for like, thirty seconds, just long enough for you to think you might develop hypothermia, and then shuts off so you can wash your hair as you question if the water might actually be warmer than the air? Then, you do it again with lathering, forgetting about conditioner because you’ve realized it’s definitely not.”

  I used to think Lo couldn’t cut it with us. With her growing up out on a farm in nowhere Montana, I thought of her as being uncultured and small-minded, and for some reason, I equated that as being weak. How wrong I was.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll turn up the thermostat, so you’ll be warm when you get out.” She leaves me dripping with frozen water and shivering.

  My hair is tangled and dry to the touch, and my scalp itches because I never did manage to get all the shampoo out. Lo advised me too late to use less because it wouldn’t rinse as well with the cold water. I kind of hate her for being right. Compounding my bad mood is the fact that I’m going to die from a heatstroke when we land in Orlando. But I couldn’t stop shivering after my polar plunge; therefore, I dressed too warmly in one of my favorite pairs of dove-gray skinny jeans made of a forgiving material that makes sitting for the long flight slightly more bearable and a hoodie with Kash’s new logo, which Lo designed.

  We’re seated—thankfully, this time together without needing to beg or barter—with hot coffee in her hand and hot chocolate in mine and bagels still wrapped in our laps, so we can eat during takeoff. My phone buzzes from my pocket, and if it didn’t serve as a reminder to turn it off, I’d likely ignore it since it’s so early, I’m confident it’s another one of the zillion daily emails I receive and ignore. My eyebrows rise when I see it’s a text from Kash, and don’t hesitate in opening it.

  Kash: The hotel emailed me and said they were issuing a full refund. What happened?

  He’s thinking about me, paying attention to what’s going on. Is he awake because he knows we’re about to depart? Though it’s now 6 a.m. here, it’s an hour earlier in Northwestern Canada where Kash is.

  Me: They didn’t have any hot water.

  Kash: None?

  Me: I never want to go camping.

  Kash: ???

  Me: Why are you awake?

  Kash: You know why.

  My shoulders slump. I have always thought I knew Kash so well. A year ago, I likely would have known exactly what he was thinking and feeling and precisely what had him awake at 5 a.m. But, today, now, I don’t, and it sucks. It really, really sucks. Then it begins to suck a little bit more because I’m so tempted to clarify with him. But I’m afraid if I guess wrong, or have to ask, it will only make this division between us more apparent.

  What in the hell is going on with me?

  Lo leans back in her seat, smiling hugely. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks rounded, even her fingers seem happy as they tap across her leg.

  I know exactly what’s wrong with me. I see the love she and King share, and it makes me crave it so badly that I am now second-guessing nearly everything I do and or say around Kash. I want to be loved like that—so completely that I’m overwhelmed with it.

  At the same time, I can’t imagine it ever happening. It’s been eleven years. How long can I continue to hope for Kash to love me that deeply before giving up? And is there a point of wishing for it when I know it likely will never happen?

  “You all right?” Lo asks, her lips still teased with a smile.

  “How much do you think our pasts control our futures?”

  Not expecting my question, she blinks slowly, moving her attention from me to the seat in front of her as she digests her thoughts. Lo takes a deep breath and returns her gaze to me. Her bluish-gray eyes are crinkled at the corners, reflecting remorse. “I believe that we get to control our futures, but our pasts certainly play a role in forming our decisions.” Though she’s looking at me, it’s clear she isn’t seeing me as she falls silent with more thoughts. “Sometimes, I think we give our pasts and futures way too much credit. There’s so much that we fear becoming and failing at, forgetting and moving on from, that we fail to remember the time we have currently to either change the things we wish to or simply make the very best of what we have.”

  I stare at her for a couple of long moments, her thoughts still elsewhere. “You are an old soul, Lauren Crosby.”

  “You need to stop allowing your nightmares to haunt you.”

  Allowing? I’ve never allowed my past to haunt me.

  Have I?

  I am a confounding mixture of what I was taught and have practiced with what I refuse to continue being and wish to forget.

  I SQUEEZE MY eyes shut and then open them wide. The sun is bright through the small plane window, and my back is burning, likely the culprit of why I’m now awake. I used to always carry muscle relaxers and pain pills with me, but stopped because I refused to acknowledge the pain any longer. Hating that it’s louder and more persistent than my refusal of it, I try to sit up to offer some relief. Many of the passengers are surprisingly still asleep.

  Glancing over at Lo, I laugh. She’s wadded a sweatshirt up and placed it
against the window as a pillow, but even then she’s awkwardly bent. I wake her up with a gentle shake to her thigh. She looks reluctant and a bit annoyed to see me when she finally opens her eyes.

  “Your neck is going to hurt like hell if you keep sleeping like that.”

  “You’ve met me, right? My neck always hurts like hell. It’s one of the side effects of being an artist.”

  It’s the side effect of loving a Knight that has us both on this plane.

  AS EXPECTED, I’M dying the second we step foot out of the airport to grab a cab to the hospital, and there’s a rancid scent in the humid heavy air. “My God, I can’t breathe!”

  “This is bad,” Lo agrees. “I feel like I want to sit down again, like it’s weighing me down.”

  “Maybe that’s why things are slower in the South.” I attempt to take another deep breath and push forward with Lo at my side.

  She explains to the attendant where we’re going, so he can arrange a cab, and we stand in line with others. Peeling off my sweatshirt offers little relief because I layered a thermal on underneath, and it’s currently sticking to me like a second skin.

  “Did you text Kash? My phone died. I forgot to charge it last night.”

  “No, but I did text Mercedes.” I fumble with holding my sweatshirt, backpack, and suitcase to retrieve my phone from my side pocket. “I feel all disoriented from that glacier freeze this morning.” I press Kash’s face, the first person in my Favorites on my Home screen, and hold the phone to my ear.

  He’s breathless when he answers.

  “Sorry, I should have texted,” I begin.

  “You guys made it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That was a long flight. Was Lo bored?” Kash asks, knowing of my tendency to sleep whenever we fly. I can’t help it; the engines lull me into a peaceful state of dreamland.

  I laugh. “No, she slept too.”

  “Good. I’m glad you both were able to.” His response is courteous but veiled with something that has my eyebrows furrowing.

  I don’t know if this is a continuation of the weirdness from before this trip or from our fight yesterday or his ongoing frustrations with the crew doing the shoot. I feel like I’m on a land mine, wondering what the right answer is.

  “I should let you go, so you guys can get a wrap on things.”

  “You won’t believe this, but they had to delay the shoot. It’s been freezing rain all morning, so it’s slicker than snot outside. Tommy tried to go out there and nailed his shin pretty good, so King and I have been going through our schedules.”

  “Oh, I assumed since you sounded like you were out of breath…”

  “Nah, I had left my phone upstairs and was worried I’d miss you.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, the land mines changing form.

  “Please never move South. I don’t think I can take this humidity on a permanent basis.”

  “Is it pretty bad?”

  “It’s awful, Kash! I can’t breathe!”

  Lo eyes me, a smirk teasing her lips because I sound so damn girlie. This isn’t shades of the old me coming out, this is a side of me that only he reveals.

  “Let’s hope you guys don’t see any cockroaches down there. I hate those damn things.”

  I doubt we will. King is never cheap when he makes travel arrangements, and having Lo with me ensures he upgraded us. Still, I suck in a breath.

  Lo squeezes my arm to catch my attention and then drops it to grab my suitcase as a cab pulls up to the curb. She looks back at me and nods her approval for me to continue speaking to Kash, but the idea of talking to him in such a confined area and with an audience is unsettling, and I’d feel rude, so I quickly explain that I have to go, and make my way around the car to get inside. The front windows are down reflecting there’s no air conditioner, and the leather seats radiate heat. I hate admitting that the new programs to call independent drivers freak me out, because the few times I’ve rode in one with Kash, the cars were much nicer than any cab. My knees fall apart as my neck gives way to holding my head straight, and I lean back, sprawled on the seat.

  Thankfully, the drive to the hospital is brief, filled with only Lo and I discussing the news of the guys being delayed and how she too, is reminded of her trip home when King was injured. Our driver never makes an attempt to speak to either of us. Instead, he sings along to the radio and occasionally leans forward to catch the breeze emitted by the small fan attached to his dash.

  We’re both sweating as we make our way into the hospital. My favorite pants are no longer comfortable, but I swallow my complaints and follow Lo to the elevators where it hits me more deeply about why we’re actually here.

  Robert had a heart attack. This could require surgery, possibly more than one. He lives alone. What if another happens when no one is there? Who will remind him to be careful? And what about Mercedes? I can’t imagine what she went through when she saw him fall over, followed by the ambulance ride, the hospitalization, and waiting alone. All of it makes my heart bleed.

  The elevator doors aren’t fully opened when I step off, my strides wide and brisk. I pass several green doors before I’m at the right one, and I don’t even bother knocking before I push it open. Mercedes is on the narrow hospital bed beside Robert, her head lying in the crook of his neck, as he sleeps while she watches something on TV. Seeing me, she sits up, a frenetic energy passing between us. Carefully, she untangles from the bed and dashes the few feet to greet me, her arms tightly winding around my neck.

  “Are you okay?” My voice is raspy from emotions.

  She nods but doesn’t make any effort to speak or pull back, and I hold on tighter.

  When her grip loosens, I open my eyes and watch as she moves to Lo and falls into her arms. And, like a dam being broken, she falls apart.

  I’ve known her for nearly all of her life, and it wasn’t me she felt comfortable with letting her guard down.

  I hate that I’m jealous—not only because I’m glad Mercedes is at ease enough to stop holding everything inside, but also because Lo has become one of my best friends, and I don’t want to be jealous of her. Jealousy can lead to really ugly things, ones that I don’t want to tarnish anything between us.

  ROBERT WAKES WITH a smile that smooths his forehead, and has his shoulders relaxing back into the bed. “Is this weather better than what you were seeing up in Canada?”

  “It’s, like, eighty degrees warmer,” I tell him, taking a seat in the chair beside his hospital bed. It’s difficult for me to look at him though he doesn’t look sick at all besides the teal hospital gown. In the eleven years I’ve known Robert, I’ve never seen him wear anything but jeans and plaid shirts—short-sleeved in the summer, flannel in the winter, but consistently plaid. It’s strange how that now seems like a comforting constant when it’s so insignificant, and it has me looking around the room with unease.

  “How are you feeling?” Lo asks, keeping an arm around Mercedes’ shoulders.

  “Fine. I thought it was just heartburn. When the medic called in a heart attack, I thought he was a rookie.”

  My eyebrows dance with amusement, easily able to imagine that scene playing out. “What are they saying?”

  A long pause has my attention shifting to Lo and Mercedes. Mercedes stares at Robert, Lo, and then me, her chin dipped and eyes focused. She isn’t assessing me; she’s instructing me to look at him, and I feel guilty that my discomfort is so apparent. Trying to keep my sigh quiet, I shift in the seat so my entire body faces Robert and lift my chin as I look at him.

  His lips look dry as they curve slowly into a careful smile, one that I know is trying to reassure and comfort me.

  It doesn’t.

  “They want to put a stent in, and then if everything goes well, I’ll be released to fly home in three days.”

  “Surgery?” I ask, knowing the answer. I’ve been around so few people who are older than me that this is far outside of my comfort zone. I don’t know what this means or wh
at to expect.

  “Let’s go find something to drink. This heat is brutal.” Lo says, standing from her seat beside Mercedes. “We’ll be right back.” She grabs Mercedes’ hand and pulls her to her feet.

  “You’re so weird,” Mercedes declares before the door shuts behind them.

  “You’re looking at me like I’m a ghost,” Robert says, bringing my attention back to his crystal-blue eyes.

  I clear my throat and shake out my hair, attempting to regain my confidence and composure. “You kind of scared the shit out of all of us. We’ve warned you, we’ll get a new model if you start breaking down on us.”

  His smile becomes broader, drawing a road map of creases across his face, ones much deeper than those I noticed on Kash’s face just yesterday. “This is only a hiccup. Nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Especially after facing Disney World alone with an eleven-year-old, right?”

  The smile slips from his face faster than it appeared. “We didn’t make it to see Harry Potter at Universal Studios though. She’s acting like she doesn’t care, but you know she does. Mercedes is like her mother, she’s loved the possibility of magic. I think a small part of Arianna’s heart forever wondered if there really was truth in some of the old myths and legends that she liked to watch and read about.”

  It’s not as painful to hear Robert reminisce about his daughter as it is when I know Kash is silently doing so, and I’m grateful for that fact. The only guilt that pangs me is wondering if my own father would have felt the same if I had grown up with him.

  “We can take her.” The words fall from my mouth before the reality hits.

  I hate crowds. I hate crowds more than I hate the idea of going through a fake wizarding world.

  Robert’s brow furrows, before an awkward and tight expression covers his face. “You’re … going to take her to see … Harry Potter…?”

  I purse my lips and drop a leveling gaze to express my lack of amusement. “Don’t look at me like that. It hurts that you’re shocked. Give me a little credit.”