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

by Mariah Dietz

  “Pizza, no toes,” I say, holding her tighter to make up for her loose grip.

  “Extra cheese!” she exclaims, her eyes lighting up like her dad’s.

  “How did olives ever get named toes?” Robert wanders into the room. He looks stronger and more comfortable as he crosses to the only recliner in the room and sits down in the adjoining living room.

  “She used to put them on her fingers and toes, but fingers was too long of a word,” I reply. “She got her table manners from her dad.”

  Mercedes pulls away with a scowl.

  Kash feigns being offended for only a second before holding me in place with an arm around my shoulders as he tickles me. The gesture has been repeated numerous times previously, but I feel as rigid and nervous as I did the first few times and a few later when I thought something more was transpiring between us.

  When I pull his hand free using both of mine, Robert’s stare is heavily resting on us. He’s smiling with fondness. It should erase the unease I feel about being around Kash and Mercedes in such a relaxed setting, but it doesn’t.

  “How many pizzas should we order?” Taking a step back, I reach for my phone.

  “Four,” King says, carrying a box into the dining room. “And however many you guys want.”

  “What’s that stuff?” Mercedes wanders closer, her neck stretched.

  “Fan mail.”

  “Dad’s?”

  “Um…” King’s cheeks color. “Mine, actually.”

  Lo walks in behind him, her face split into a smile. She raises her arms in the air and squeals with uncontained excitement.

  We follow suit and cheer.

  All of us.

  Loudly.

  Pizzas are spread across the dining room table we’re seated around with content smiles. Amid the array of pizzas we ordered is one with the same concoction I recently discovered and loved from my me day.

  While I have always believed in King and recognized the level of talent he possesses, I am so glad to be here to witness his first box of fan letters that have managed to completely overwhelm him. Lo, however, is proud and intrigued, leafing through letters with a mixed array of responses as she silently reads over them.

  “Can you photograph me in, like…” Lo drops another letter into a pile, “every single picture from here forward?”

  “Is that jealousy I hear?” Robert taunts as he reaches for his fourth slice of pizza.

  I think we’re both surprised when no one says anything regarding him breaking his diet.

  “Pretty much.” She scans over another letter while chewing on a pepperoni, not catching the grin that spreads joyfully across King’s face. “Half of these aren’t fan letters, they’re proposals. Proposals for marriage, obscene pictures…” her lips purse, and her eyes lift from the letter to meet mine, “and other … personal things.”

  She stabs the letter after she drops it into another pile, and King’s grin spreads impossibly wide.

  Kash has a publicist who handles all of his now, but I can recall different letters that were saturated in perfumes and frilly handwriting—a skill I never mastered. My writing still looks like a twelve-year-old boy’s. Usually, the letters never bothered me because they had little to no effect on Kash, other than the occasional chuckle. It was the letters from die-hard fans and aspiring kids that always motivated and pushed Kash to improve and grow.

  “What did it say?” Mercedes asks, reaching for the white sheet of paper.

  Now, nearly every letter received is typed, rather than written, creating a sea of monotony.

  Lo firmly places a hand atop the pile and smiles sweetly. “That they need to see more of me, apparently.”

  As we laugh, I look around, noticing how many lights are switched off. I know Kash keeps the thermostat several degrees lower than mine, yet even with my increased temperature and constantly lit house, I never feel this sense of warmth that I experience while here.

  I PLACE THE last slice of pizza into a Ziploc bag and seal the sweet and spicy scents inside before tossing it into the fridge while Mercedes slumps out of the room, finally accepting she has to go to bed.

  “I have to get going too.” My fingers lace together in front of me. It feels awkward and unnatural, and I have no idea why I’m doing it.

  “Or … you could stay,” Kash suggests, standing from the table.

  Everyone averts their attention from Kash and me. It’s so blatantly obvious that it makes standing here, looking like some cheerleader or perfect ’50s housewife, even more uncomfortable. I have no idea in what context he’s suggesting this since I have stayed over dozens of times, yet I have hardly been over since we slept together.

  Does he really want things to return to the way they were a few weeks ago?

  I hate that once again, Kash has me overthinking and second-guessing nearly everything.

  “I need to go home.” It doesn’t come out nearly as convincing or strong as I intended, but I’m relieved I was able to say the words.

  I head toward the front door, each of my steps weighted with the silence of the room. It’s so awkward, and I absolutely hate it. “I’ll see you guys bright and early. We have that meeting at seven.”

  The called good-byes are more uncomfortable than the silence was, each with a tone too loud and too friendly to be genuine. When Kash makes no effort to say anything, I consider looking back to see what he’s thinking and how he is taking my response because like always, I am so concerned with his feelings that I allow them to negate my own. With a swift turn, I look to see him watching me, his brown eyes stretched and heavy, reflecting defeat. His mouth is drawn down in a frown, solidifying it.

  Kash is easygoing, lighthearted, happy. Moody is not a side of him I see often, nor is deep consideration or annoyance unless he’s had a bad ride, yet all of them are currently apparent.

  He meets my stare, silently demanding answers I don’t know the questions for and would likely never expose the answers to anyway.

  I turn my head without giving him a smile or anything to relieve whatever turmoil he’s experiencing. As his footsteps echo through the house behind mine, I wonder if I was trying to get him to follow me, to finally verbalize demands and answers that we seldom reveal.

  The door closes behind him, and I stop. Though it’s dark, I don’t feel like it’s encroaching on me, chilling me like it so often does. Kash warms and brightens the space, even with my back turned to him.

  “Tell me how to fix this.”

  My shoulders fall. My heart rate spikes. I turn to face Kash, but I don’t look at him.

  “I know you want me to just know how, but I don’t. Every time I try to make things better, it seems to piss you off even more.”

  “I’m not mad, Kash. I’m upset!” My cheeks heat.

  “Same difference.” He throws a hand out with irritation ringing in his words.

  “They’re not the same.”

  “Can you at least tell me why you’re so upset?”

  My glare grows more intense as I look up to meet his eyes. “Because I’m realizing you have no idea who I am.”

  “Of course I do!” He looks baffled, his eyes wide as they desperately search for something other than the anger I’m feeling. “You’ve been my best friend for eleven years. I tell you everything.”

  “I didn’t say I don’t know you. I said you don’t know me.”

  Kash shakes his head as his eyes close, like he’s trying to shake sense into this moment. “I know you.”

  “Then who am I, Kash? What do you see when you look at me?”

  “You’re Summer. You’re my best friend. You’re the most infuriating person on the planet!”

  “You don’t know what you want, and I am tired of being a placeholder. It’s not fair to me. I will always care about you. I will always be here for you guys, but I am done wasting so much time and energy on waiting for you to realize what we have—what we could have had.”

  His eyelashes fall closed and then open se
veral times. The muted lighting makes his eyes appear nearly as dark as the full lashes that keep obscuring them, hiding so many truths, and while I have thought for several years that knowing what those secrets were was enough, I now know it’s not. He’s been hurt, but I can’t allow him to hurt me. I’m not seventeen. I’m not trying to prove to myself and everyone else that I can make him care for me.

  “Things shouldn’t be so hard. It should be natural and easy. Maybe we’ve been trying to force things for way too long.”

  “Summer.” He sounds defeated.

  I feel defeated as I stare at him, waiting for him to disagree.

  He can’t.

  He doesn’t.

  I want to make more promises—ones about how I will always be here for Mercedes and always care for him in some capacity, how the past eleven years have and will always mean so much to me—but looking at him, I know he can’t hear them any easier than I can speak them.

  The walk to my truck is long and slow as I keep wondering if he will follow or call out for me, do something, anything to make me stop. Stop leaving, stop erecting walls, stop creating a clear division between us. Just stop.

  Again, he doesn’t.

  He remains on the porch as I get into my truck and start the engine. He doesn’t move, only stares after me.

  Driving down the long driveway, I think of everything that has transpired since meeting Kash.

  Eleven years of friendship.

  Eleven years of a family I never knew possible.

  Eleven years of learning to care about others more than myself.

  Eight years of perfecting a craft I thought would be my future and life.

  A fall that I thought would destroy everything.

  One year of rehabilitation where Kash helped and encouraged me to grow stronger.

  Another year of defeat until he revived my confidence with a new skill.

  Learning acceptance and how it felt to be accepted.

  Eleven years of feelings that have led to an incomparable exhaustion.

  Thousands of thoughts taking millions of minutes.

  So many emotions are swirling in my mind, yet I don’t feel the effects of a single one. All I feel is a gap in my chest where my heart used to be.

  I PULL UP to Uncle Toby’s shop and take a deep breath.

  For the past two days, Kash and I have worked tirelessly at pretending nothing is wrong, that nothing ever happened, and we’re back to being friends. I know he feels the differences as strongly as I do. Everything feels off, and the harder we work to ignore it, the more prominent that feeling becomes.

  Coaching is the last thing I want to be doing, but staying at the Knights or going home are my alternatives, and neither option is preferable.

  “Don’t fuck with my stereo,” Uncle Toby says as I clear the doorway.

  I flip him off, not bothering with any exaggerated or teasing gesture, just allowing my flag of dismissal to fly high, while I cross to the doors to the box.

  The music is louder than normal as it plays old eighties rock, his own way of flipping me off. In the bike closet, I choose a heavier bike and clip a helmet into place. The clock allots me thirty minutes of free time until the class will arrive. Two riders are inside, practicing until they’ll be kicked off by my students. I still don’t have any desire to do anything besides ride around in hopes that the gears will allow this array of thoughts to fall into place.

  I pedal, and pedal, and pedal, and don’t lose a single ounce of distress before my first student enters the box. It’s Bentley, his red hair as bright as his smile. He fastens his helmet and rides around, joy carving each of his features as he gets his first taste of big air. I remember that feeling, the one where it seemed like I had waited forever, counting down the seconds to get to experience the freeing familiarity that came with riding. I miss it.

  Stopping at the edge, I push my bike over the lip and rest it against the wall as I prepare for the next hour.

  Uncle Toby used to make me practice fundamentals twice a week. They were practices I usually loathed because the simple actions often felt more complicated after doing it a dozen times. I would compare the feeling of each movement, constantly questioning if I was improving or digressing, and then I would start watching others, critiquing, comparing, wondering who was a stronger rider. I hate to admit that I long ago realized the reason he used to do it.

  As more students arrive, the two who stayed to get in extra time leave without a word. Luke, the obnoxious kid who could use a few blowouts to humble him, is ragging on Austin for missing his pedal when making a landing. Bentley quietly yammers something, his face defensive, assuring me he’s telling Luke to shut up in a likely offensive manner.

  Lisa appears in the box, her lips pursed. I wish she wanted to be here. It’s the only thing that keeps me from considering investing in more time with her.

  Chase, the rock star of the group, is the last to enter, and I’m grateful Tommy isn’t accompanying him.

  I clap to gather their attention and wait for them to ride to my side. “Who rode their bike around this week?” I ask.

  “It rained most of the week,” Luke objects.

  “Yeah, it, like, poured at my house,” Johnny agrees.

  I stare at each of them, waiting for a better excuse. “If you’re going to allow the weather to stop you, than you’d better save your parents the money of putting you through classes, because believe me, there are far bigger obstacles than the rain.”

  Turning to look at the others, I stop on Lisa. “Did you ride this week?”

  Her lips remain pursed as she nods with a tight jerk of her head.

  “Where?”

  “School. A few parks. Through downtown.” She shrugs, never meeting my gaze.

  “Good. What about you?” I ask Austin.

  His long arms cross over his elongated frame that is tented with a shirt three sizes too big. “Bentley and I rode all the hills in the back of my house, took some trails, and went to the skate park three times.”

  I nod, giving Bentley a look of approval, and then I sweep my attention to Chase. “Did you ride this week, Chase?”

  He grins as he nods. “I ride every day, Coach.”

  I believe him. He’s a natural. Riding comes as expected to him as walking and is as necessary as breathing. He doesn’t practice because I’m demanding it, but because it’s a requirement for his own sanity. It is how I know he will be going places.

  “Good.” I sit back on the seat of my bike and look over each of them. “Who went home and Googled me?”

  Each of their heads dips, revealing they have. If they hadn’t, they’d just nod like a bunch of clueless assholes.

  “Falling is always a possibility, even when you do everything to prevent it, but part of my job is making sure you guys are trained to minimize those chances and help you know what to do if you can’t correct it.”

  Luke groans.

  I shoot him a glare. “I know you think you know everything, but I can promise you, even in eleven years, you won’t, especially when you allow everything to be an excuse.”

  His lips twist, trying to hide a smirk that makes me want to toss him out of the class and smash his bike. Assholes like him are not only a danger to themselves, but also to everyone else they ride with.

  I keep my stare on him. “We’re going to practice our fundamentals today, because as much as we all hate them, they. Will. Save. Your. Asses.” Pressing my lips together, I look over them again. “You can’t be afraid to ride, but you need to learn your boundaries and limits and then slowly work to push them. If you don’t know them, you will get hurt.”

  No one looks excited to begin, but I’m sure they’ve each watched my wreck on YouTube a dozen times; therefore, they don’t argue when I deal out instructions that have them lining up to begin.

  The frustrations that begin to mar their faces has me verbalizing more praises and assurances and then none, needing them to believe in themselves and their abilities.<
br />
  “I KNOW THESE practices aren’t fun. They’re hard work, and they don’t feel nearly as rewarding, but I’m proud of you guys for sticking with it and working so hard. You did a great job, and you should all be proud of yourselves. Next week we’ll do something more fun, but I need you to all commit to practicing this week while you’re not here, even if it’s only an hour a day.” I make sure to look pointedly at Luke and Johnny. “If you guys want to ride for awhile, the box is open for the next twenty-five minutes until the next class begins.”

  They nod and then break away, some diving directly back into the cement pit while others head toward their parents who have come to get them.

  Tommy is leaning against the doorway, his gaze focused on me. As soon as I acknowledge him with a brief smile, he kicks off the wall and strides over to me, wreaking havoc on my already distressed emotions.

  “Coaching suits you. You could do this for the pros.”

  “I kind of already do…”

  He nods, his attention falling to the ground as though he’s embarrassed, or doesn’t know what to say. The bruise on his jaw has turned a dark green with purple shadows.

  “So…” he begins, “are you hungry?”

  “I don’t really like beer,” I blurt.

  Tommy’s eyes are wide with surprise, his forehead creased. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  I shrug. “I don’t hate it. I just prefer wine.”

  “Red or white?”

  “Red.”

  He smiles. “I don’t know much about wine, but I’d be willing to let you teach me, Coach.”

  I scoff. “Flattery will get you everywhere with certain people but barely past hello with me.”