Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3)

by Andrea Hopkins

  Once I’m in the car, I sync my phone and dial Cady’s number.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Cady’s phone. If you’re hearing this, it most likely means I’m screening and don’t want to talk to you, so don’t even bother leaving a message. But in the off chance I actually am busy and you’re feeling confident in our relationship, then feel free to drop some words and if I like what I hear, I just might call you back.”

  Despite the situation, I manage a tiny tilt of my lips at her outgoing voicemail. I hadn’t heard this latest rendition, and it simultaneously makes me want to roll over in laughter, punch something, and weep like a baby.

  Fuck, this girl slays me.

  I redial. Over and over, knowing full well she will never answer, but needing to hear her saccharine yet sarcastic voice. It’s my air. I can’t survive without it.

  Without her.

  I’m so fucked.

  I weave in and out of traffic recklessly, going at least fifteen over the speed limit but honestly, I’m not even paying attention. All of my focus is on getting to Cady. I just need to see her. Explain myself, even though I have no fucking clue how to do so. I just know…I know I have to fix this.

  I pull into our driveway in record time, almost hopping out of the SUV before I put the damn thing in park. Barging through the front door of the large two-story craftsmen house I’ve happily called home for the last ten years, I scream out Cady’s name, which only echoes right back at me through the foyer. I take the stairs three at a time, yelling her name with each step. I race to her room first, throwing the door open, only to find it disappointingly but not surprisingly empty. I work my way through each room, searching desperately for the girl I never wanted to hurt but always seem to manage to.

  Fuck.

  I run back downstairs, shouting her name once more, praying like hell that sweet as sin voice answers my call.

  “She’s not here.”

  A deep, familiar voice speaks from behind me. I whirl around to find a grave-looking Dylan sitting on the edge of our living room chaise. Once his bright blue eyes—the same sea blue as Cady’s—meet mine, I know he knows.

  “Where is she?” I demand. He answers with a shake of his head, which really only pisses me off. I take a deep breath, trying to contain my anger, the raging disappointment in myself and the most fucked up decision I could have ever made. I speak slowly and with intent, my eyes blazing with ten different emotions. “Dylan. Where. Is. She?”

  Silence.

  “Where the fuck is she!”

  He curses under his breath, mumbling something about fucked up straight people problems before finally giving me the information I need.

  “She’s at Dad and Angel’s.”

  I turn on my heel without a word and head back to the front door, but he jumps out of his seat and stand in front of me within seconds. Did he turn into the Flash without me knowing? I try to sidestep him but he meets every damn dodge. What the actual fuck?

  “Dude, get out of my way.”

  “No. I can’t let you go over there.”

  “Dylan.”

  “No.”

  “Dyl, I love you man, but so help me God, I will fucking plow through you if you don’t move out of my way!” I growl at my brother. I literally effing growl.

  “I don’t give a shit. Plow through me then. Fucking beat the shit out of me for all I care. But you’re not fucking going there. Not now. Not like this. She doesn’t need to see you like this.”

  “Fuck!” I scream, my voice raw and unrecognizable. I throw my head back and close my eyes, not realizing until that very moment that I was crying. I can’t remember the last time I cried. I furiously scrub any evidence of the betraying wetness rolling down my face, but I know it’s fruitless.

  “So, it’s true? Fuck, Ben, please tell me Cady was wrong? That she somehow misread the situation. That you didn’t fuck Lucy goddamned Vonn…”

  My shoulders slump at the words. I reluctantly open my eyes to meet his and what he sees must give him the answer my voice couldn’t. It wasn’t the one he wanted, either.

  “Goddamn it, Ben!”

  “I know, okay? I know I fucked up. I never…I never meant to hurt her—”

  “Hurt her?” Dylan asks incredulously. He shakes his head in disbelief—his eyes staring back at me in a way I have never seen nor thought I ever would see directed at me. Rage radiates off his steel-like body, coming through his eyes like lasers, melding me to the floor. “You fucking destroyed her. I’ve never seen her like this, not even a fraction. And you’ve done some shitty things to her, but this, this fucking takes the cake. She’s…she’s a mess, man. You don’t even fucking like Lucy! No one does! I don’t understand why. Why the hell did you do this?”

  “I don’t know! I have no fucking clue!” I shrug lamely, feeling so damn deflated and…shit, I don’t even know. I feel like a million different emotions—none of them good—are getting hurled at me like a game of dodge ball. I try to move out of the way, to catch one, to hold on to one fucking emotion, but they’re too fast, too powerful. All I can do is stand here and let them hit me, one by one.

  “Well, maybe you should figure it out before you hurt anyone else.” Dylan sighs, his frustration clear. There’s already a distance between us. I can feel it—the strain, the disappointment. It sucks. It really effing sucks. I swallow down the shame that just keeps on coming.

  “Dyl, I’m—”

  I was about to apologize when his phone starts vibrating on the coffee table, playing a song—her song. I turn my head to the device and suck in a breath when I see Cady’s picture flash on the screen. My chest tightens as her still smile taunts me, the image of her this morning flickering behind my eyes—the crushing realization of what she walked into, the innate sadness etched into her breathtakingly soft features, marring her face with disbelief and betrayal. She looked nothing like the beauty lighting up our brother’s screen.

  Dylan looks at me once, indecision plaguing him for a brief second before vaulting over the couch to answer the call. I know I should walk away, give them privacy, but right now, I really don’t give a fuck. I know, really living up to that asshole thing, right?

  “Hey Bug. What?” Another quick glance in my direction. “Yeah. I know. It’ll be okay, all right? It’ll be okay. Yeah, I’ll be right over. No, I won’t let him near you until you say it’s okay. Don’t say that, Cady. Because…just, he’s family. I know. I know! Yeah, okay. I love you, too.”

  Dylan hangs up, then slips his phone into his back pocket before clenching his fists so tight his knuckles pop—something he only does when he’s pissed.

  “How is—”

  “Don’t. You don’t get to ask how she is. And honestly, I can’t talk to you right now without wanting to punch you in your face and deep down, I know I really don’t want to do that but fuck, man! Fuck!” He takes a deep breath, throwing his head back just as I had done a few moments ago before picking up his gym bag and walking away from without another word or backward glance, slamming the door so hard in his wake, the hinges rattle.

  “He’ll get over it.”

  The sound of Evangeline’s voice brings up every one of those emotions I’ve tried to dodge all morning and I just…fucking…break.

  “Mom.”

  The moniker croaks out of my mouth as barely a whisper. I all but rush into her arms, enveloping her tiny frame with such force I’m afraid she’s going to keel over, but she stands tall and somehow manages to hug me even tighter. It’s an awkward embrace due to the fact that I’m about eight inches taller than her so I have to kind of squat to be able to encircle my arms around her shoulders, but it’s still one of the best damn hugs I’ve ever had. It always is.

  If you’re confused, shame on you, you should know the story by now. But because I’ve reached my asshole quota for the day, I’ll give you the Cliff’s notes version of the epic love story that is Evie and Jake. My birth parents died in a car accident when I was six years old. Uncle Jake became
my guardian and after eight months of wallowing in shared grief we decided we needed a change. So, we picked up our shit and moved from Seattle to Portland. We met Evangeline, Dylan, and Cady on our first day here. Jake says it took him three seconds to realize Evangeline was it—the missing piece to the puzzle that was his life. Only problem? She was still with Cady and Dyl’s dad, Cole. It got real and really messy there for a while, but in the end, it all worked out for everyone. Evangeline chose Jake and I swear, they get happier as each year passes. Cole met Angeleigh, his guardian angel and the only woman who can turn the burly mountain man into a Disney character. Anyway, over the years, Evangeline became so much more than the woman who married my uncle. At some point, she became my mom.

  Now, don’t get me wrong, I miss birth mom every effing day—but this woman, holding me tight to her petite body, drawing soothing circles on my back while practically cooing as my own body wracks with near silent sobs, has spent the last twelve years making sure I knew I was loved, that she may not have given birth to me but in all the damn ways that counted, she was my mother and I was her son.

  She gave me hope and a family—a really effing amazing family.

  So much so that I am terrified that I will fuck everything up and lose it all…for a second time.

  Although, right now, it seems like I’m one fucking misstep from doing just that.

  “How are you even holding me right now? Shouldn’t you be consoling your daughter?”

  “I’m right where I’m supposed to be—consoling my son.”

  See? How could you not love this woman?

  “I fucked up, Mom. I fucked up so fucking badly.”

  “Yeah, you did.” She agrees honestly, making me chuckle softly despite this fucked up situation I put myself in. “But you didn’t eff up so badly that it can’t be fixed. I mean, yeah, you’re going to have to grovel until there is almost no end in sight. But eventually, she will forgive you. It might not be right away. In fact, I know it won’t, she is Cole’s daughter, through and through, but she will forgive you. You just need to prove to her that you deserve that forgiveness.”

  “Shouldn’t you be yelling at me? Or, I don’t know… grounding me or some shit, or er, shiz? I mean, I know you love me like your own—”

  “You are my own.”

  “You know what I mean. But you have to be pissed, right? I hurt her. I really hurt her.”

  “Ben, baby, of all people, I am the one person who knows how fucked up love can be.” I take a step back at her use of ‘fuck,’ which is extremely rare and not to mention ‘the L-word.’ “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m a grown woman and I can say fuck if I want to. And trust, I’m not blind, Ben. I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at Cady since you were seven years old. It has not changed. You may have masked it for her eyes, but not from mine. I’ve seen you, son. We all have, except for her. I don’t know how she hasn’t. As perceptive as she is, with you she’s as blind as an effing cat with cataracts. You’ve loved that girl from day one. The question is, why do you continue to deny it? To sabotage it? I mean, I know love can be twisted and dark and scary as all hell, but it’s also really effing worth it.”

  “You’re lucky BB8 wasn’t here to hear you say that.”

  “Oh, that cat is as deaf as she is blind. She can’t hear a damn thing. Girl’s being a snooty bitch too so she can effing suck it. I don’t care what she hears me say. And nice subject change, by the way.”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that.”

  “Well, you should have known better. Do you know who you’re talking to?”

  “Good point.” I blow out a huge puff of air and shake my head, at a loss. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know why I did what I did—why I keep fucking her over.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “What?”

  “I call bullshit. You know the answers to all of those questions. I know you do. You’re just too chickenshit to admit it.”

  “Dang, Mom.”

  “You know I’m right,” she says with a shrug and a smug little twinkle in her eyes, knowing full well that I do, in fact, know she’s right.

  She always is. Our whole damn family can attest to that.

  But, I’m not going to give her the satisfaction. Not today. Even though it’s futile. My silence only makes her grin spread wider across her intuitive face. She stands on her bare tippy toes (seriously, the woman only owns like two pairs of shoes, and it’s like pulling teeth to get her to put a pair on) and tries to kiss my forehead, but she only manages to reach my chin.

  “C’mon kiddo, let’s go make some tea and we’ll figure all this shit out.”

  “You’re really loving that word today.”

  “In times like these, a little shit-drop can go a long way.”

  “Shit-drop? Mom…I-I don’t even… What?” I trail off, having no clue what to say to that.

  “What?” She looks at me over her shoulder like I’m the crazy one.

  All I can do is shake my head and smile. I don’t know how she does it, but somehow, no matter how shitty your day is, no matter how impossible you think it is, Evangeline Moretti can make you forget everything. She has perfected the art of distraction.

  “Sit, drink, think. You know the drill.” She says, handing me a steaming cup of herbal tea. This has been our family thing since as far back as I can remember. Mom believes any and all problems can be solved with a little tea and a whole lot of reflection—that by the time the cup is empty, we will have clarity. Unsurprisingly, it works about ninety-eight percent of the time. The woman is a freak of nature.

  We sit across from each other at the distressed white kitchen table she calls her office, even though she has an actual office, but that room is really only used for housing the billion books she owns. The kitchen is dead silent except for the constant tap-tap of keys from her laptop and the intermittent slurping of decaffeinated magic.

  I stare into the cracks and grooves of the wood, tracing a worn line with my index finger and following it down to the underside of the table. Without even thinking about what I’m doing or how weird it is, I slide off my chair onto the cold hardwood. Being well over six feet tall, it’s a little (or a lot) awkward, but I manage to crawl around my mother’s feet and into the right corner, tucking my long legs into my chest as my back settles uncomfortably against the large bench behind me.

  I look up and a small smile teases at my lips when I see all of the chicken-scratch writing and random doodles above me. This table was our go-to fort base when we were kids and as we got older it kind of became our safe haven. I haven’t been under here in years. I forgot how comforting it feels. Odd, I know, but it has always felt like we were in our own little world down here. Hasn’t changed much.

  I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths. In through the nose, out the mouth, and let the memories I have held at arm’s length assault me. But only one comes to mind.

  It was one of the only times I’ve seen Cady cry. I was fourteen, and she was thirteen. It was a year after that first kiss that has haunted my dreams every day since and just before she got boobs, which ruined everything for me—especially my socks.

  ***

  Four years earlier

  “Dude, I’m about to tear up the fridge. Practice was no joke. You coming in?” I look back at Dylan, who has one foot on the bottom stair to the porch, the other planted firmly on the ground, and his face is twisted in indecision. I know that look. It’s a look he wears every day after baseball practice. He wants to practice more. The dude is barely thirteen and he pitches like he’s a junior in high school. He’s had three no-hitters so far this season, and we’ve only played four games. He’s a beast. But it’s never enough. I’m not sure it ever will be. “Dyl?”

  “I think I’m gonna head out back for a bit. My curveball felt off earlier.”

  It wasn’t.

  “Need me to stay out here? Catch for you?”

  “Nah, I’m good. Besides
the fridge is calling your name. I can hear that rumble from down here. Feed the beast, man.”

  We give each other a nod before heading in opposite directions. I drop my oversized baseball bag at the foot of the stairs, knowing full well it’ll piss my parents off, but they took away my phone last week so it’s really on them.

  I take three steps before I turn back around and pick up the dang bag and set it inside the coat closet. Mom’s been stressed about her new book and Dad’s been swamped at the restaurant. I don’t need to make life any harder than it is.

  Man, I really am dope as eff.

  My muscles ache with each step I take toward the kitchen, my stomach in a constant growl like I have the effing king of the jungle living inside. It’s so loud, I don’t hear anything but the incessant rumble and the glorious beeping sound of the oven as I preheat it. Sluggishly, I also grab a Gatorade, string cheese, a bag of white cheddar Cheetos, and two bags of frozen organic peas before sitting my ass down at the table, placing the peas underneath my sore as hell quads.

  Suicide drills. Mother-effing suicide drills.

  I sigh in relief as the makeshift compresses begin to work their magic—the biting cold soothing the consequences of having a tyrant for a baseball coach.

  “Dang, I can’t wait for basketball season,” I mutter to myself into the deserted kitchen.

  Sniff. Sniff. Hiccup.

  Well, at least I thought it was empty.

  Is someone crying? The sound is near. Like right next to me near but the chairs are empty. I swear to God, if there are effing ghosts in this house…

  Another hiccup, followed by a few more sniffles.

  That’s when I realize it’s coming from below me. With a wince and a painful groan, I lean down to look under the table and there she is. My…nope, not mine… just Bug hugging her knees into her chest as her body shakes with silent sobs, a rainfall of tears stream down her cheeks but dang, she’s still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, even with snot leaking from her adorable button nose.