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

by Mariah Dietz

  Still smiling from King’s threat, I turn to exit the kitchen and find Lo sitting at the bar, a large chunk of charcoal balanced between her fingers. Riding bikes was the first passion I fell in love with, and still am, but over the past seven years that I’ve been doing photography, there are moments like now when I wish I had my camera in my hands and not twenty feet away by the front door. I want to capture Lo in her pajamas, fitting in so seamlessly, something I know she still struggles with, and Mercedes at King’s side with an apron tied around her waist while she waits for the waffle iron light to turn green. And I want to snap shots of Robert sitting at the head of the table, like a beacon for the family.

  Lo’s stare brings my attention back to her, and I realize she wasn’t glancing up from her drawing for inspiration. Her gray bluish-grey eyes are slit with concentration and perception. She isn’t smiling or frowning. In fact, her lips show so little that I don’t have any idea what she’s thinking. Why does this bother me?

  “I’m going to go wash the humidity out of my hair and get more sleep.” I don’t mention that I’m more emotionally drained today than I have been all week. “I’ll catch you guys later.”

  “What about donuts?” Mercedes yells as I’m halfway to the front door.

  “I’m good.” Wrenching open the front door, I’m met with a typical November morning in Portland—rain. Lots and lots of it. Puddles are forming in the driveway from where Parker peels out every day, and a few more where our tires have created enough of a groove. There’s a large one near the back that we all refer to as Lake Knight. Mother Nature begins building it in October, and it sometimes lasts until August.

  My truck keys were on Kash’s nightstand. Thankfully, he drops everything from his pockets there, so while I did have to sort through some stray wrappers, change, and a few bottle caps, they were relatively easy to find. The cab is cold, and the gray seats seem to blend into the skies.

  I actually kind of hate my truck. It was one of the first purchases I made after placing in my third competition and landing my first endorsement contract for an energy drink that I guzzled several times a day for numerous months simply because it was easily accessible, as all I had to do was open the door to my garage to procure one. The gig didn’t only land a zillion cases of the heart-racing, sleep-reducing drink at my fingertips; it also came with one of the largest checks I’ve ever received. Why? Because my ass was voted as the sexiest. Sleazy, huh? In what world should men have the right to not only stare, but also rate a woman’s body—specifically, her ass? I hadn’t signed up to wear feathered wings. When a hashtag circulated about feminism, things were made “right” when they allowed women to vote on the sexuality of the men. ’Cause an eye for an eye makes people even, right? Or maybe it continuously lowers our values and morals to the point it’s acceptable to say terms like, Rape me, and people find it funny rather than offensive.

  No one wanted to hear my bitter diatribe about people watching the wrong sport if they were judging for anything besides technique. And, when I took to social media outlets and began responding to the disgusting things women were saying to my friends, my PR team went on red alert and banned me from that obligation as well.

  Kash tried to help me see the bright side of placing third, and took me to buy my first large-ticket item—my truck.

  I wanted something small with a smaller cab, and I wanted it to be as red as the lipstick my mother had always bought for me to wear to attract men. My truck doesn’t meet any of those parameters, and at first, I thought that was a good thing. Healthier not to choose a color to spite my mother or something small with the intention that I would remain single.

  This morning, I wonder how many things I’ve done simply because of Kash.

  Have I lost myself?

  Is that an effect of loving someone?

  EVEN AFTER EVERY light has been flipped on, my house feels dark. The rain falling against the skylights in my living room makes it feel cold and much later than 10 a.m.

  I head to the thermostat and crank the temperature up before collapsing on my couch and flipping on the TV. Habit has me sending Kash a quick text, informing him that I’m going to catch up on sleep.

  THE SKY IS pitch-black when I finally stand up, my muscles feeling like I’ve been inactive for far longer than a single day. It brings back a rush of memories from when I had to lie in bed while my body was healing with time, medicine, braces, and finally physical therapy. I feel angry with myself for losing the day. I promised myself long ago I wouldn’t take life for granted again. Now, I feel like I’ve lost not just the past twelve hours, but also possibly the last eleven years.

  I move to a spare bedroom where the walls are painted an obnoxiously bright yellow. Kash and King insisted that the glowing shade would encourage me to come in and work out. I don’t keep an empty bed and dresser in here but machines and weights to transform myself into a version of me I like—one that is strong, is capable of moving freely, has a tough stamina, and, yes, even has the best ass, like I was voted. Avoiding all the metal and barely padded seats, I drop to the floor and do forty push-ups. I used to do a hundred every single day before I could get back onto a bike. Now, I depend on my riding to keep me strong.

  Gasping, I stare at my reflection across the room and comb over every detail until I can’t face myself any longer.

  My bed feels foreign. I’ve spent so many nights lying here, looking at this same shadowed ceiling, while thinking about Kash. Thinking of what it would be like if one of us were finally brave enough to act upon things, knowing he cared for me nearly as much as I did for him.

  This.

  Tonight.

  Now.

  It feels nothing like I expected. Rather than relief and excitement, I am flooded with regret and confusion, and for the first time that I can recall, I feel resentful thinking about Kash, and it feels like a self-inflicted wound.

  BOBBING MY HEAD to the music, I retrieve a bowl and box of cereal with the conviction that I’m not going to think about Kash today. I have already turned my phone off to prevent myself from looking at it, and have decided that I’m going to drop by my uncle’s, so I can be immersed in the environment that set me free so many years ago.

  Someone knocks five times on my door before I can add milk to my breakfast, and my head cocks with curiosity. So few people know where I live. Fewer come by to visit, especially randomly on a Sunday morning. Leaving my cereal on the counter, I pad over the bare wood floors, each of my steps seeming too loud.

  Lo is on the other side of the door, a large gray sweatshirt hooding her hair though her hands peek out, holding a drink carrier and two trademarked white-and-green cups.

  “Hey,” I say, ignoring the borderline rude remarks and questions I want to ask about her getting lost.

  “I know you hate coffee, but when we were in Canada, I heard you mention hot chocolate, so I got you one with extra whip,” Lo shrugs, “cause that makes every drink better.”

  She doesn’t wait for me to decide if I want to invite her inside, instead brushing my shoulder as she enters and drops the messenger bag I rarely see her without.

  “That thing is going to make you a hunchback,” I say, kicking it to show that it doesn’t budge with the contact.

  Lo’s expression doesn’t change when she simply points to my camera bag hanging on the wall.

  I chuckle quietly and close the door. Leading her to my kitchen, I return to fixing my Cocoa Puffs. “What are you doing here, Lo?”

  She sits at my small kitchen table that only has two chairs. “I thought we could go to the art museum or Saturday Market or something.” I hate the Saturday Market that runs all weekend here in Portland. There are way too many people between the crowded booths.

  “Is King busy?”

  She shrugs. “I’m not sure what he’s doing today.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I stare at her for several seconds while she frees her drink, her nails painted such a dark red they look almost brown. It’s a si
de effect of living with her new roommates. Last year, her hands and nails were only ever painted with charcoals, pastels, and actual paints from her work.

  She sits back and stares at me, her face emotionless and calm, as though waiting for me to interrogate her and willing to accept it.

  It’s uncomfortable.

  I shake my head, and shift to break eye contact with her. “It’s raining.”

  “You’re worse than Mercedes,” Lo says. “I swear, it rains nearly every day here.”

  I chew my cereal slowly, still maintaining eye contact with her as she sits back, looking relaxed in this unfamiliar environment.

  “I need to shower and get dressed.”

  “Go for it. You already know I can entertain myself.”

  I finish my breakfast while Lo tells me about the latest exhibit at the museum—photographs done by an artist I have admired for years. I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned my admiration of the artist’s work or if the invitation is completely random, but as I climb into the shower, I’m excited for the day, and it’s a feeling almost as unexpected as last night.

  “How did you get here, Lo?” I ask, adding a windbreaker over my sweater.

  She stands and moves to my kitchen sink to brush the dust from her drawing. “The bus.” Once again, her voice is completely level. She doesn’t even look at me though I’m certain she knows I am wondering if she’s here of her own accord or if she’s worried about me after I disappeared yesterday morning.

  “Sometimes your lack of inflection concerns me. Deeply.”

  Lo raises her chin, a smile lifting her already high cheekbones. “You hate those people. They annoy the hell out of you.”

  “What people?”

  She laughs. “The kind who would ask you what happened between you and Kash.”

  I barely catch the image of King as she closes her notebook and carefully places it back into her bag.

  “Ready?” she asks.

  I’m still slightly bewildered by her previous statement, but I try to hide it by grabbing my purse and palming my keys.

  “When you get a chance, I’d like to see some of the pictures you got from Florida,” Lo says as she buckles her seat belt.

  “Yeah, I can get them loaded tonight.”

  “I’m not in any hurry.”

  The music turns on as my truck starts, and I let several songs play at the same too loud of volume while wondering if she is really here only to find out what happened.

  Lo says something, but I can’t hear her over the bass of the music, causing me to reach forward and turn it down.

  “What?” I ask.

  “What got you into riding?”

  I glance from the slow traffic to her. “My uncle is actually a coach.”

  “Really?”

  Looking back to the wet streets, I nod.

  “Why don’t you enter competitions anymore?”

  Again, my focus bounces between her and the road. “Does King seriously never talk about me?” I don’t know whether to be insulted or impressed.

  “He said it was a personal choice you made.”

  “Remember last fall when you fell in the shop and hurt your ankle going down the big bank?”

  Lo looks at me and says a quick, “Yes,” understanding making her eyes peer over me, as though she can see visible scars.

  “I got too confident.” I thought I was invincible. “I tried to do a trick when I didn’t have enough speed.”

  “I had too much,” she says.

  I smile guiltily. “Yeah, you freaked yourself out, locked your arms, and then made the mistake of hitting the brakes.”

  “Believe me, I remember.”

  Laughing, I nod. “I bet you do. It’s hard to forget your first fall.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I told you I didn’t have enough speed, right? Literally, seconds after pushing away from the ledge, I knew I wouldn’t have enough momentum to land the jump, but thought I could do a single pass in an attempt to save face.” Ten feet above the cement rink I knew my bike was going to be damaged, and I would be broken. “My bike started to fall while I was still in the middle of my rotation, and I was so shocked from it all, I never let go of my bike, so it landed on me.”

  Often, I wonder if I’m broken mentally more than physically. My hip and back still get stiff from overuse, and the rain seems to make them especially ache—worse when it’s cold—but even on the days when the dull pain is barely a memory, I can’t convince my hands to turn the steering wheel or my feet to pedal fast enough to take me to the largest bank. Most days, I am completely content with using only the small bank and riding around the shop. Other times, I’m so frustrated and ashamed of myself that I have to spend a few days away from it all because I feel like everyone else will see me as nothing but a failure.

  “I had a burst fracture of three vertebrae that they had to do surgery on, and snapped my ulna and radius.” I pull up my sleeve and expose the scar that runs four inches along the inside of my arm beginning at my wrist. I know Lo has noticed the mark because she’s drawn it before. “I also fractured two ribs, and my bike hit with enough impact that it tore my patellar tendon.”

  Her lips pull back with a nearly silent pull of air as she winces. “Your cojones are bigger than I realized.”

  “I quit, Lo.”

  “You ride every day. How’s that quitting?”

  “I haven’t competed since that accident. Fans remember me leaving the rink on a stretcher. No one says, ‘Oh yeah, Summer was ahead of her time and dominated the female races seven years ago.’ No, they say, ‘Damn, she crashed like you’ve never seen!’”

  “Bullshit.”

  Furrowing my brow with frustration, I park and turn off the ignition before facing her. “What do you mean, bullshit? Look it up! I broke my ass.”

  “You broke a lot more than your ass if you think that. Everyone knows you at the events.”

  “Because of Kash.”

  Lo shakes her head. “They respect you. Now, I understand why. You recovered from that. You still ride, and you have a successful career.” She opens her door, swinging her head to look out at the rain still coming down in Portland’s infamous large drops that burst when they land like overfilled water balloons.

  In typical Lo fashion, she lifts her hood and slides out of the seat without looking back to see if I’m following. I do, but I don’t tell her that her words serve as an instruction to forgive myself for making such an epically bad decision that day.

  Halfway to the entrance, Lo pulls off her hood and tugs each sleeve up to her elbow.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  She turns and frees my hood as well.

  I curse while cowering, trying to swat her hand away. “What are you doing?”

  “You need to stop hiding from the rain, Summer. And at some point, you need to talk about Kash even though you don’t want to.”

  Rain slides down my face, and though she barely seems to notice it from where she stands several feet away from me, I’m glaring at her through slit eyes.

  “If they sent you here to see if I’m okay—”

  “If you haven’t realized it yet, we’re friends, Summer. Yeah, I’m younger, and yes, I come from a tiny town, and you’re probably more experienced with everything than me, but we’re friends. I came here because when you came downstairs yesterday morning, you looked like you forgot your heart up in Kash’s room.”

  “I slept with him,” I blurt.

  Lo stares at me, lacking the look of surprise I was expecting. Instead, her eyes are seeking more information from my expression. “Why are you regretting it? I don’t get it. You love Kash.”

  “Because it changed everything.”

  “Have you considered that maybe that’s a good thing?” She doesn’t wait for a response, simply turning and resuming her steps toward the museum.

  Once inside, Lo’s concentration transitions like a switch being flipped. She is focused on the art,
ignoring everything including me. I’m angry with her and slightly embarrassed, which has me keeping to myself and barely acknowledging any of the pieces we pass for the first thirty minutes that I follow behind her.

  When we enter the exhibit for the photographer we’re here to see, my attention moves to the artwork rather than my discomfort. Then, Lo asks me about the artist and different images we stop to admire, and listens carefully to each of my answers, as though she’s an aspiring photographer, though I know she has no interest in doing so. As she laughs at a joke I make about the lighting resembling someone’s asshole, it registers that, while Lo might be King’s girlfriend, I started to like her before she was, and should stop seeing her as only that, as I so often do. I know she’s my friend, regardless of her reminder, but I’m realizing just how far into my heart she’s crawled. I haven’t had a close girlfriend in so long that it feels enormously comforting.

  “WHY DID I let you talk me into ice cream?” Lo asks, shivering as she takes the last bite of her ice cream cone that we bought after completing our tour of the museum.

  “You’re the one who said it looked good.”

  “The guy on the third floor looked good too, but you didn’t see me acting on it.”

  I laugh again, enjoying the strain of my cheeks.

  This has been such a great day. For so long, I’ve spent all my free time with Kash or working on projects for Kash. I’ve lost days like this where I’m not focused on accomplishing anything more than enjoying life—the lesson I first learned when I began riding sixteen years ago.

  My face is somber as I zip my jacket and push the door open with Lo by my side.

  I RECEIVE A text from Kash as I boot up my computer, drops of water still falling from my wet hair onto the towel I have draped over my shoulders.

  Kash: I’ll see you @ 10?

  I shouldn’t feel annoyed that he’s asking. This is Kash’s career, and I’m a freelance vendor working for him. But he never checks to ensure I’ll make an appointment. He knows how dedicated I am and that I’ve never missed a single appointment.