Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3)

by Andrea Hopkins

  “Please,” I beg, cringing at the desperation in my voice.

  And still, nothing but the sound of breathing and the rampant pounding of my heart.

  I knock again and again. I knock for so long, my knuckles begin to crack and then I knock some more.

  My forehead rests on the door as I take a deep breath against cold and lifeless ebony wood.

  “Cady… Please, please talk to me. Say something. Yell. Call me an asshole, ’cause goddess knows I deserve it. Anything. Just. Say. Something. Anything. Anything but this—this silence. This isn’t you. I’m the quiet, brooding one, remember? Not you. No, you don’t know when to shut up. Ever. That’s one of the many reasons I—it’s one of my favorite things about you. So just, please, say something. I need you to—”

  The door swings open again, cutting off my words, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I finally got through to her. But the feeling is short-lived as my eyes fall onto hers and I’m able to see the damage that I’ve caused.

  Fuck.

  I’ve pissed Cady off many times. I’ve seen her angry and irritated, even sad. But never like this… She looks hollow. Broken. I think I broke her. I broke my girl.

  I don’t think she has slept or eaten in days; her cheeks are sunken in. Her silken curls are a ratted mess piled on top of her head in an even messier bun. She’s wearing sweats. Sweats. I didn’t even think she owned a pair, much less wore them. The girl doesn’t even wear jeans. I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen her wearing anything but a dress, a skirt, or shorts.

  Sweats.

  But it’s her eyes that make me want to kick my own ass. They’re so puffy it looks like she hasn’t stopped crying for even a moment—tinted pink and as lifeless as the damn door half-open between us. They’re staring back at me dully. Like she isn’t even seeing me, like I’m not even here. And that—that hurts more than my throbbing hand.

  “Cady—”

  “You want me to speak? To say something? Fine. Here you go, but this is the last time you will ever hear my voice directed at you.”

  My mouth moves to object, but she holds the back of her palm up to silence me.

  It does.

  “I should have known better. I don’t know what I was thinking, loving you. Which I did, I loved you every single day for ten years. Even as I heard the stories of your conquests—fucking almost every girl in the senior class and half of mine. Watching you flaunt them in my face like I didn’t exist, like I didn’t matter—”

  “No, Cady, it was never like that—”

  “No? Holly. Stace. Jo. Meagan. Meghan. Megan. Ashley. Keisha. Melinda. Kayla. Lilly. Chivon. Shall I go on? ’Cause there are plenty more and you…” Her voice breaks and she turns her face away so I won’t see the fire disappear from her eyes in exchange for a single tear she lets roll down her cheek. “You asked them out in front of me, kissed them while I was sitting two feet away from you in our living room. I don’t have girlfriends because you’ve slept with all of them. All I had was Luce and you…you fucked her, too. Was that your goal? Fuck every single girl at Lincoln but me?”

  “Jesus, no! Fuck no!”

  “Do you hate me that much?”

  “Fuck, no, Bug—”

  She holds her hand up again, and I have to bite my lip so hard to stop myself from talking, the taste of copper floods my mouth.

  “Don’t. Don’t ‘Bug’ me. You don’t get to call me that anymore. You don’t get to call me anything. I am nothing to you. You were everything, you were my everything, Ben. And you made me look like a fool. Weak and so fucking pathetic. I hate you.”

  I hate you.

  Those last three words are a cracked whisper. The dam keeping her tears at bay finally breaks and the salty moisture begins to flood her face so rapidly, I doubt she can even see me anymore. I take a step forward and she lets me. Then on a deep inhale, I boldly reach my hand out to wipe some of the wetness pouring down from her sea blue eyes. But the instant my finger touches her skin, there’s a loud crack as my face whips to the side and I feel a red-hot sear in my cheek.

  She slapped me.

  I turn my face back to hers, eyes wide with shock. Her hand is covering her mouth and her eyes match my own, as if she also can’t believe what she just did. Once she remembers that I deserve far worse, her hands drop to her sides as her eye fall to the floor.

  The right side of my face burns in pain and humiliation. But if hitting me will take an ounce of her pain away, then I will gladly be her punching bag.

  “Go,” she speaks softly, and I can barely make out the word.

  “No, we need to figure this out. I’m sorry, okay? I’m so fucking sorry. What I did…I fucked up. I fucked up big, but we can figure this out. We have to!”

  “We don’t have to do anything, Ben! Not anymore. You saw to that. Just as I am nothing to you, you are no longer anything to me. So, there’s no point, Ben. There’s nothing to figure out because there is nothing here. We are nothing.”

  “Don’t say that.” I take another step toward her, now fully inside the room, but she takes two steps back. I swallow down the building emotion trying to make its escape. “Don’t do that. Don’t do this.”

  “I didn’t do anything. You did this.”

  “Cady. Please, just tell me what to do to fix this. I’ll do anything.”

  “Are you suddenly unable to hear? There. Is. Nothing. To. Fix. Just go!”

  “No, I can’t. I’ll do anything, but I can’t leave. Not like this.”

  “That’s not your choice anymore. Now, get the fuck out!”

  “No! This isn’t how it ends! This isn’t over. We are not over!”

  “We never even began, Ben! Now, thanks to you, we never will.”

  “Cady, please…” I’m pleading with her now. But for what? I don’t even know. I just know we can’t leave things like this. It’s all too…final.

  “Enjoy New York, asshole,” Cady says grimly, right before placing her small hands on my chest and shoving me out of her room. The door slams in my face again before I even realize what’s happening. The sound of the lock clicking back into place is like the last nail in the coffin.

  It doesn’t stop me from pounding on her door again because, well, like she said, I’m an asshole, and I need her to forgive me. I need…her.

  I keep pounding on the door while calling out her name, my voice growing hoarse, pleading with her to hear me out, to answer me, to just open the fucking door. But she never does.

  Eventually, Angeleigh comes up the stairs and into the hallway—wrapping my split hand in her comforting one. Concern and sadness reflect heavy in her eyes, staining her angelic features.

  “I think that’s enough, Ben. For now, I think that’s enough.”

  I nod sullenly, my shoulders unfamiliarly slumping in defeat, and let her walk me down the stairs in tense silence.

  Once we reach the front door, Angeleigh pulls me into a tight embrace. I feel like I’m going to cry, but the tears don’t come and for that I’m thankful. I think crying to my mommy once this week is enough. So, I just squeeze her a little bit tighter, sighing into her long braids—extracting the heartened relief only a mother can give. It soothes and reassures without even trying.

  “Give her time and space. The wounds are still fresh. Still raw. Give her time to heal.”

  Time.

  Space.

  Fuck that, I’m giving her ten minutes at the most. Angeleigh must see the defiance brewing in my eyes because she shakes her head at me. Again, in the way only a mother can do.

  “You owe her that much. You can’t just barge in and demand her forgiveness. You have to earn it. And saying sorry, though a first step, isn’t good enough. You have to wait for her to want to forgive you, and in the meantime, prove to her that you deserve it.”

  “You and Mom need to stop hanging out so much,” I grumble with the tiniest hint of humor. But she’s right. Of course she is. Freaking Moms. “Could you, I don’t know, text me every once in a
while to let me know she’s okay?”

  She smiles proudly, nodding her head. “Of course.”

  “And about Cole…”

  “Don’t worry, Evie and I will handle Cole. We got you.”

  “Thanks, Angel.”

  “The kids and I will see you at the airport tomorrow, okay?” I nod with another tight smile. “It will be okay, Ben. This too shall pass.”

  Fuck, I hope she’s right.

  She has to be.

  I don’t think I’ll survive it if she isn’t.

  Part Two

  Fall and Winter

  Six

  Songs to listen to:

  “Burning” by Sam Smith

  “Two Ghosts” by Harry Styles

  “Circles” by Izzy Bizu

  “Drink You Gone” by Ingrid Michaelson and John Paul White

  “Before I sleep” by Joy Williams

  “The Way I do” by Bishop Briggs

  “Big Girls Cry” by Sia

  Cady

  The moment I shoved Ben out of my life, the rage, the fight I had roaring inside me, went with him. Once that door shut on his face for good, I felt like I’d idly walked onto the set of a shitty remake of The Body Snatchers. And every day since, an alien has been slowly taking over my body, inch by overtly curvy inch.

  I’ve been staring at myself in the mirror of the girl’s bathroom in this shithole excuse of a high school for the last ten minutes. Stupid, hot tears stream down my face in a steady flow—something I’ve become accustomed to over the last few months. Only this time, it’s not directly Ben’s fault, though I blame him anyway.

  I survey every inch of my body in dim curiosity.

  I’ve lost weight.

  Sixteen pounds, to be exact. And to my surprise, it doesn’t look good on me. It looks…wrong. I don’t recognize this weak and hollow girl staring back at me. She’s frail and straight—the luscious curves I once wore are long gone. I hate it.

  This can’t be me.

  It’s an imposter.

  A cheap knockoff.

  A fucked up Cady Bizarro (yes, I love superhero shit, get over it.).

  How did I let myself get to this point?

  I mean, I knew things were bad. I barely said ten words that first month. I didn’t eat—my family had to practically force-feed me food and even then, it wasn’t much. Sleep rarely came, although I stayed in bed most days.

  I’m not blind. I know I had fallen into a deep, dark pit of depression, but I thought I was doing better. But maybe I was just fooling myself, just as I’ve been trying to fool everyone else.

  I’m a fake. A phony. And I hate those people. That’s not me. I’m as real as it comes. At least, I was. But I see right through me.

  And if I can see through this façade, what the hell does everyone else see?

  Which brings me to the here and now.

  I’ve been at school for two weeks, and I’m ready for it to be over with.

  As you would expect, over the summer I completely avoided most people unless we shared the same last name or lived under the same roof. It was pretty damn easy really, since I don’t have any friends and the one person I stupidly called my bestie is now dead to me.

  But apparently, I’m a ‘sensitive, pussy-hurt bitch’ and I should have gotten over it by now. Oh, and really she just did me a favor—Lucy’s words, not mine. And because I’m a sensitive pussy-hurt bitch and refuse to forgive her even though she ‘took me under her wing despite the extra fifteen pounds I needed to lose,’ she was none too pleased with me even though I did finally lose that extra weight. Insulted would be the correct term. And from what I have learned these past couple of weeks, you don’t insult Lucy Vonn. Or call her a ‘conniving bitch-ass ho’ who thinks she is God’s gift to this insufferable school, but really everyone only hangs out with her because of her daddy’s money and the fact that ‘her legs are open for anyone with a dick willing to risk VD.’

  Yeah, she didn’t like that too much.

  However, everyone in the school cafeteria seemed to think it was quite hilarious. It made it almost worth the repercussions of my big-ass mouth.

  Since day two, I have been completely iced out by every single girl in my school.

  By day four, “Fat Virgin Brother Lover Slut” was written on my locker. Not sure how I could be a slut if I’m a virgin, but no one ever called Lucy clever. A drunken whore, yes, but smart? Nah.

  Around day seven, the girls starting talking to me again. Well, whispering ‘fat-ass’ and ‘incestuous whore’ into my ear every chance they had.

  Day nine, my tablet was stolen.

  Today is day fourteen, and I now know why my tablet was stolen.

  I let my eyes fall to the stupid device sitting on the bathroom counter—glaring so hard that for a moment, I think it might actually burst into flames. But much to my dismay, I’m not Super Girl, and I certainly don’t have laser vision.

  If only.

  I found the tablet back in my locker this morning, looking seemingly untouched. But of course, that wasn’t the case, as I turned it on and found the background picture changed to a shot Luce took of me about five months ago. I knew my life was about to get a shit-ton worse than it already was.

  I had told her about Ben. That I thought maybe he was feeling the same feelings I had been. That maybe, just maybe, he wanted me as much as I wanted him.

  My eyes slam shut, creating a dam behind my lids, making sure those tears do not spill. It happens every time I think about him, which occurs way more than I care to admit. Fuck, I will not cry over him anymore. I can’t. And honestly, I haven’t in weeks. Not since I forced myself to forget he existed.

  Ugh. Okay, yes, fine, that’s a total fucking lie, all right? Happy?

  I’ve tried—tried my damnedest to forget Ben motherfucking Catalano-Moretti. The way his piercing green eyes could make my feet breed roots, fusing me to the ground with just a quick glance. How he made my entire body somehow feel like it was set aflame, yet chills would run down my spine as wild goose bumps peppered my olive skin.

  The way his lips never fully stretched to a complete smile—always only reaching one side, and it was never the same side, either.

  The way those lips tasted—smooth, full, with a hint of whiskey and weed.

  No!

  No more.

  I have to stop.

  He’s gone.

  Even when he’s not.

  Anyway, five months ago, Lucy came over with a bunch of lingerie I would never buy, much less wear, but she insisted that I needed to prepare like I was going into battle or something, and a black lace Victoria’s Secret demi-bra with matching thong were my armor. She wanted to take pictures for ‘reference’ and ‘inspiration to lose the fat above my panty line.” And since I had learned long ago that it’s easier to just do what Lucy says instead of questioning it because in the end it will just happen anyway, I let her.

  Fuck, have I always been a pushover? I always thought I was my own person, and yes, to an extent I am, but damn, thinking back, I let her walk all over me. Jesus, frolic is more like it, like I was the goddamned yellow brick road and she was fucking Dorothy.

  The moment I saw my new background picture, I knew I wasn’t the only one looking at my nearly naked body. And sure enough, the flood of beep beeps, ringtones, and vibrations of incoming text messages surrounded me, quickly followed by laughter, wolf-whistles, and so many fucking crude comments the sounds became deafening.

  In a matter of seconds, every person in my school had seen a piece of me.

  Took a piece of me.

  Violated me.

  The walls began to close in on me as I ran through the noise—faces became a blur as the tears poured out of my eyes like pails of water.

  Who does this to people?

  And for what? Because I didn’t fall in line like all of the other spineless sheep? Because I finally stood up for myself? Does using my voice really merit public humiliation?

  “Cady? You in
there, Bug?”

  Dylan.

  It takes me no more than a second to fling the door open and rush into his awaiting arms. He wraps me up tight, sliding us down onto the undoubtedly disgusting tile floor. That means nothing to me right now, though. All I care about is my younger brother (by two minutes and fifteen seconds) and feeling the comfort of his strong and calloused hand as he rubs soothing circles on my back while cooing softly as I sob uncontrollably into his chest.

  “Those fucking hateful bitches. If I wasn’t a dude…”

  “I know,” I whisper hoarsely, wincing at the weakness of my voice.

  “But they’re gonna pay, Cadybug. I’m making sure of it. I already warned the entire fucking first floor that if they don’t delete those pictures, there will be Hell to pay. I may be the gay kid, but they sure as fuck know not to mess with me. And if they want another fucking championship win this year, they better fall in line.”

  Even through the veil of tears, I manage to give him a look as to say, I call bullshit.

  He pulls back and looks offended.

  “What? You don’t think I’d throw a game for you?”

  I sniff and shake my head. I really don’t. He may love me, but baseball…baseball is his whole world. And I can’t be mad at that; I get it. That’s how clothes are—were to me before the shitstorm hit—causing chaos and mass destruction of everything I knew…and loved.

  “Bug, seriously? Babe, I’d throw the whole fucking season if it meant I could get an inkling of my sister back.”

  Aaaaand the floodgates officially reopen.

  Damn, my brother and his sweet words.

  “Shit Bug, I didn’t mean to make you cry more. I just—I worry, you know? You got me worried. This isn’t you, babe.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t let these bitches get to you. Or the dumbass actions of an even dumber boy.”

  “That dumb boy is your best friend.”

  “So? Doesn’t mean I can’t call him a dumbass when he acts like one. And you of all people know he acts like one more than he doesn’t. I love the dude, he’s my brother as much as you’re my sister, but he’s not worth all of this. He’s not worth breaking for.”