Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3)

by Andrea Hopkins

  Dylan pulls away and scrubs at the emotion on his face that he doesn’t want me to see. He’s always been that way—so intuitive to the feelings of others, but so damned guarded of his own. I don’t know if it’s because he feels like he has to be to not stick out in the baseball world. I can’t even begin to understand the inner turmoil he must go through on the daily. I played basketball, I’ve been in the locker rooms, and I know what some of these douchebags say. Granted, they all know Dyl’s gay, but that certainly hasn’t stopped them from making careless, derogatory jokes.

  “A little, fuck, a huge part of me knows he’s right—”

  “Dyl—”

  “Nah, it’s the truth. You know it is. I know it is! I just—I can’t seem to find that balance, you know?”

  “That’s the thing though, Dyl. I think once the right guy comes along, you’ll take the time and the effort to find balance because he’ll be worth it.”

  He stares off at nothing for a good thirty seconds, actually taking my words in before his eyes flick back to mine. He tilts his head and smirks. “When the fuck did you become so wise?”

  My own mouth tips up slightly, but I’m anything but happy as I peek at the staircase, hoping for another glance of my girl. Unsurprisingly but no less disappointing, those hopes are dashed. I close my eyes and release a breath. “When I made the biggest mistake of my life.”

  Dylan nods in understanding. As pissed as he was with me right after the horrendous lapse of judgment that was Lucy Vonn, he forgave me, or at the very least, put it behind us. It took months of groveling and promises that I have every intention of keeping, but it was worth it. I don’t know what I would do without my brother. Dylan’s my homie for life. I love the dude so much that if I were actually into dudes, I’m almost positive I’d be going after his heart instead of his twin sister’s.

  Did I mention our family is weird as fuck?

  But I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “All right, enough about our depressing as shit love lives. You ready to come back to the asylum that is this house? Mom and Jake went a little overboard food-wise, which I am sure you already expected. All of your favorites are keeping warm—and by all, I mean all. Angel’s in the kitchen as well, and she may or may not have written a welcome home song for you.” I bite my lip and shake my head at the absurdity of these people. “Griff and Stella are somewhere in here with Ziggy, most likely being assholes to the poor girl.”

  The fact that he doesn’t mention Cole being here isn’t lost on me. It hurts, but I expected it. He’s not ready to forgive and forget, and I don’t blame him. I fucked up, and I need to own my mistakes and try my damnedest to repair them. I have every intention of doing just that over the next two weeks.

  Goddess, help me.

  “You ready to do this shit?” Dylan asks, pulling me away from my nearly impossible Christmas quest. My signature, asymmetrical smile takes its proper place on my face.

  “Never been more.”

  As we grow closer to the kitchen, I can hear the familiar chatter, clangs of pots and pans, and low music playing in the background. An intense feeling of contentment washes over me like a flood, and I breathe out a sigh of relief.

  I barely make it into the kitchen before a collective and loud as eff, “Welcome home, Ben!” greets my ears. And before I can even get a word out, I’m bombarded by hugs and so many greetings and questions—and yes, even a song from Angel, which was adorable and brilliant as usual. The voices all eventually blended together and made my head spin in the best way.

  Don’t even get me started on the food. Everything that I love is here, and my mouth literally waters as the most intoxicating smells permeate the kitchen. Warmth infiltrates my entire body, and I can’t help but to stop and just inhale, deeply and gratefully.

  Bruschetta with homemade Focaccia bread. Meatballs, fried to perfection and smothered in Jake’s award-winning sauce. Vegan mushroom risotto. Gorgonzola, fig, and Pancetta pizza. Pesto linguine. Vegan eggplant lasagna. And a slew of vegetable sides and bread galore, all set up family-style on the huge marble kitchen island. It’s like I stepped into Italian-carb heaven.

  As we all sit down and dig in, boisterous laughter and tales of the last six months fill the room between bites and sips of red wine. I look around at all the faces—my family—and smile as big as my face will allow it.

  Holy eff, it’s good to be home.

  Movement in my periphery causes my hand to pause with the fork hovering in front of my mouth, linguine forgotten. Pretty sure my heart paused as well. I watch in a silent haze as Cady moves around the kitchen like a ghost, practically floating over the dark hardwood quietly. She gives everyone—aside from me—a small, almost unsure and definitely awkward smile. It’s so unlike her. About the only thing I can see that is still remotely Cady-like is that she’s still a vegan from the looks of it, as she surveys the meatless, dairy-free options in front of her. My free hand fists underneath the table as my eyes finally roam the entire length of her body.

  Fuck.

  Mom was right. She had to have lost at least fifteen fucking pounds. Cady has always been curvy, but in the sexiest way—soft and supple. Healthy. Now, even through the oversized sweater she’s sporting over her leggings, I can tell she’s practically skin and bones. Her long hair is piled on the top of her head and her face is bare, save for what looks like tear streaks. They’re barely noticeable; you’d have to search intensely to see them, but I see them. I see her. And it fucking rips my shitty, stupid heart right out of chest.

  It’s at this point in which I realize my breathing has accelerated, coming out in angry spurts—seething is more like it. Mostly at myself—or all at myself, but it all comes to a head when I watch with narrowed eyes as Cady scoops the tiniest portions in history onto her plate and takes a step to move out of the kitchen, I presume.

  Oh, hell no!

  I drop the fork with a clang and jump out of my seat, catching the attention of everyone in the room, including Cady. I stalk over to her and grab the plate from her hands and then begin to just pile on food. It’s probably a little overkill, I know this, but I just can’t seem to stop. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, but I ignore the attention. When every inch of the plate is covered, I hold it out in front of her.

  “This no eating shit has to stop, all right? Hate me all you want, but for fuck’s sake, eat, Bug! Jesus!”

  She stares at me with pure venom in those beautiful as fuck blue eyes. And for a second, I think she’s going to slap me again. And I’d let her, because I deserve it. I’m such a bastard. But all she does is grit her teeth, grab the plate from my hands and turn on her heel, mumbling something that sounds a lot like, “motherfucking asshole,” but I could be wrong. Probably not, though.

  I hold my breath as she leaves the room without a backwards glance, only releasing it with a wince when I hear her stomping up the stairs like a pissed off T-Rex.

  “Bro, if that’s how you plan on getting Cady back, you’re so fucked!”

  “Language!” Mom scolds at Dyl with that mom-look she perfected years ago, before turning her attention to me. “Although, after that display, I think everyone in this room would agree with that statement.”

  I throw my head back and sigh over the collective murmurs of agreement and pitying looks being tossed my way.

  Shit.

  As usual, my family is right.

  I’m so fucking fucked.

  Ten

  Songs to listen to:

  “Meet Me In the Hallway” by Harry Styles “Drift” by Galimatias & Alina Baraz

  “Mind Maze” by Katy Perry

  “Think About Me” by dvsn

  “Bad Liar” by Selena Gomez

  Cady

  It’s been four days since Ben came home, and my resolve to stay silent whittles down as each day passes. And it pisses me the fuck off.

  It started on that first day. That moment on the stairs. That st
upid lapse of will and restraint. He looked so good. I’d been doing my best to avoid even looking at pictures of him over the last six months, so I almost forgot how beautiful he is. I thought my heart was going to explode out of chest, it was hammering so fucking loudly. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He looked exactly how I remembered, and yet not. Same broad chest and shoulders, leading to a narrow waist. Tall and lean, wearing a simple white t-shirt, dark jeans that hugged his thighs in the best way, and his red Chucks. But his face…the sexy as shit two-day stubble covering his jaw that was clenching so hard, I’m surprised he didn’t crack any of his pearly-white teeth—that was new, and I liked it.

  Too much.

  I almost gave in, right then and there, after a single fucking minute of being in his presence. But then he spoke.

  Cady. My name, a gentle exhale from his lips that to me somehow felt like a violent gush of wind, nearly knocking me on my ass after yanking my head out of it first.

  That stupid voice. I didn’t realize how much I missed it—craved it—until he spoke. I knew the levee was about to break, and I could not let him see the tears fall. Not again. Not ever. So, I did what any self-respecting woman who runs into her ex that’s not technically her ex—yep, I pulled a Miranda and ran the hell away as fast as I could without looking back.

  I could feel his eyes on me as I ran upstairs, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make my stomach flutter like I have a fucking infestation of moths up in there—treacherous creatures.

  Assholes.

  I threw myself onto my bed, shuffling my entire body under the covers like I was hiding from the boogeyman, but no—Ben is much scarier than that bastard.

  I waited a good forty-five minutes, making sure the weak-ass tears dried before I finally womaned-up. My stomach rumbled dramatically for thirty minutes before I couldn’t take it anymore. So, much to my dismay, I dragged myself out of my safe place and quietly made my way downstairs. There might have been some tiptoeing involved, and a silent prayer that I would find the cloak of invisibility on the way to the kitchen. (Spoiler alert: I did not.) I was focused on my mission—walk in, grab food, and walk out. Keep my head down at all costs. And for the love of goddess, do not meet those eyes.

  His eyes make me do stupid things…like forget.

  I was so close, almost in the clear, when I heard the chair scrape on the hardwood. Before I could even register what was happening, Ben was in front of me, angrier than I had ever seen him, and it was unbelievably directed at me.

  The balls on that dude…

  I had to bite the inside of cheek so hard, a hint of copper hit my tongue, just so I wouldn’t break my vow of silence. I stood there and let him berate and humiliate me about not eating enough before I ran from him yet again, only that time it wasn’t to hide my tears. No, it was so I wouldn’t throw the damn plate in his chiseled face. I was furious. Just thinking about it again makes my hands clench into tiny yet deadly fists.

  I had the strongest urge to boycott the food he piled onto my plate, just to spite him. But damn, it smelled so good. Jake’s vegan lasagna is the greatest dish ever created—even hardcore carnivores love the stuff. It’s that fucking good. I just didn’t have the willpower to refuse such delicacy. But as I ate, I closed my eyes and pictured myself smashing Ben’s face into the leftovers over and over. It felt like a win to me.

  The next morning, I awoke to a soft knock on my bedroom door. Half asleep, I groggily padded my way over to the door, opening it before my mind caught up with my limbs.

  And there he was, with his stupid, crafty green eyes that made my entire body freaking sizzle as they trailed down the short length of me. I cursed quite unladylike—although, I’m pretty sure no one would ever call me a lady—when I remembered I was wearing the thinnest, spaghetti-strapped cotton nightie in the history of pajamas. The thing barely covers my ass. My eyes widened in embarrassment as his found mine with nothing but appreciation and dare I say lust reflected in them, but they quickly flicked up to the ceiling as he realized his mistake.

  I moved to slam the door in his face but he was quicker, already anticipating my move. But at least then, the door acted as protective shield from his predatory eyes. I raised my eyebrows at him and he blew out a puff of air before shaking whatever thoughts were roaming around that thick head of his. When his eyes finally met mine again, they looked unsure. Ben never looks unsure. Ever.

  I was immediately on guard.

  He cleared his throat before speaking softly. “I’m a dick.” It took every single ounce of my willpower not to crack a smile at his admission. But I held my ground. I have no idea how, but I did.

  “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. It just—it made me so angry…seeing you look…not like you, and then seeing the little amount of food on your plate when I know damn well that you effing love that lasagna. I mean, if you could, you’d marry that shit and you know it. I just…I lost it. And um, I’m sorry.”

  As he spoke, my eyes kept drifting from his and down to his mouth, watching the words tumble from his lips, and then back up to study the genuine remorse shining through his irises. His rambling was adorable and seemingly heartfelt; I didn’t know if I wanted to cry or laugh or punch him in the face for being so goddamn charming.

  I settled for a curt nod, focusing all of my energy on the anger I had harbored for so long, grabbing hold and hanging on with all my might.

  I raised my eyebrows again, looked down at his running shoes, then back to him expectantly. He moved his foot, but before I could turn away and shut him out, he called out to me.

  “Wait! I, um, made you breakfast,” he said softly, again sounding so unsure of himself. My eyebrows creased, not sure how to handle this side of him. It’s been years since he was like this—reserved and stuck in his head. It was unexpected. I don’t like it.

  “It’s a peace offering for…last night. For being an asshole.” He held the plate up in front of his face and through the small gap, I could see the vegan French toast with peanut butter and bananas and I couldn’t stop the tears from rushing to the surface, though I tried. I really did. But he knew where to hit me and it was direct fucking shot to the heart.

  Ben used to make this for me whenever I was sick or sad or on my period and cranky as fuck.

  “Bug,” he whispered, sounding so pained it all but broke me. All I could do was shake my head and shut the door before I did something I would regret.

  I stood there for three minutes. My left hand splayed on the red door as silent tears streamed down my face. I knew he was still there on the other side. Waiting. For what, I don’t know. For me, I suppose. But he knows me. To say I’m stubborn would be an understatement.

  It wasn’t long before I heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.

  I waited another thirty seconds before I opened the door, finding the plate at my feet.

  I ate every last bite. And had to fight the urge to ask for more.

  I hid in my room for the rest of the day.

  By hiding, I mean I stayed in my room, and everyone but Ben paid me a visit. It’s kind of become the norm in the house as of late. I know they all wanted to ask me a million questions—I could see it in their eyes—but they held their tongues. And for that, I am grateful. Fuck, I’m grateful for everything my family does. And puts up with.

  On the third day of Ben’s visit, I stayed in my room until noon, knowing Ben would be out on his pre-lunch run. But I’ve been in homeschool for so long, the days kind of blend together, and I completely forgot it was Thursday. Ben takes Thursdays and Sundays off from cardio—has since freshman year when he made Varsity basketball. Believe it or not, he practices yoga with Mom those days.

  I made it three steps, three mother-fucking steps before smacking right into his hard, sweaty, absolutely perfect and bare chest. I was so distracted, I didn’t realize my right palm was molded to his left peck until his voice rumbled low and too sexy for his own good…or mine.

  “If you wanted to touch
me, all you had to do was ask.”

  I nearly jumped a foot away from him, wincing in embarrassment, knowing without a doubt that I am beet red from head to toe. My hands curled into fists—something I seem to be doing quite often around him. I wanted to glare at him or hurl a plethora of creative and downright nasty expletives, but all I could do was stand there, looking at my chipped royal blue toenail polish. Pathetic.

  “Hey, Bug, I was just kidding,” Ben said softly, hooking his thumb and forefinger underneath my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. “Is this silent treatment gonna last the whole time I’m home?”

  I bit my lip nervously and turned away. But not before catching his eyes drift down to my mouth. He sighed in frustration, but I could also hear the resolve in it. He moved around me and I thought that was that but then he stopped, brought his mouth to my ear and whispered.

  “Okay. If this is what it takes, I can handle it. For you, I can handle anything.”

  A deep shudder rolled through me when I felt his breath on my neck, hot and unnerving. There is a possibility that I swayed a little, but I would never outright admit it, even though he saw every betraying reaction.

  I closed my eyes tightly, cursing silently and blowing out the breath I knew I was holding but couldn’t help myself. I made it another three steps before his voice rang out behind me.

  “Meatless meatballs and zucchini noodles are on the stove. Focaccia bread warming in the oven. Eat, Bug.”

  The corner of my mouth tipped up and I couldn’t even be mad about it.

  Today is day four. Christmas Eve.

  I’m hiding out again. Every time I see him, I feel the ice surrounding my heart begin to thaw and I can’t let that happen. He’ll take it, the second it melts, he’ll take it and I know he’ll never give it back. And I’d let him; I’d let him keep it because when it comes to Benjamin motherfucking Catalano-Moretti, I’m stupid and weak. And he knows it.