But enough about Harry Potter. Back to Cady and the many ways she’s torturing me without lifting a non-manicured, nervously-chewed fingertip.
New Year’s Eve. I thought nothing could top the shit-bucket that was Christmas but damn, was I sorely mistaken.
Mom, Dad, Angeleigh, and Cole all went out to see some old-school band from the early 2000s and Dylan mysteriously disappeared all night, leaving me and the ice goddess to watch the younger clan. Ringing in the new year with a woman that literally hates your guts and could probably list ten different and most likely highly inventive ways to kill me at the drop of a hat, is nowhere near my kind of holiday. It was pure mother-effing torture. And not because of the silence or promises of hexing with her baby blues or just the scathing contempt that is clearly evident on her sexy as fuck cherub features—it was the way she was with our siblings.
Too fucking perfect.
Attentive and sweet—she literally listened to our sister, Stella drone on for over an hour about this little asshole Derek (who unbeknownst to him will be getting a not so warm visit from Dyl and I before I leave) with eyes of honey or some shit and why he has to ask her to the school dance or she just might die (gag me). There were no eye rolls (guilty on my part) or zoning out (plead the fifth). She really heard her out and offered advice and gave suggestions. It made me feel like an asshole (surprise, surprise) and want to hug the shit out of her. But from the murderous vibes she was giving off toward me, I settled with looks of awe when she wasn’t looking. She was goofy but not in an embarrassing way—in a way that is contagious and gives you no other option but to laugh, which we all did. She made sundaes and party hats no one wanted to wear but we did anyway because they were made by Cady and no one can say no to those eyes that are so bright and literally twinkling, I had to stealthily take a few pictures so I could remember that moment. Remember her. The Cadybug I fell in love with at seven years old—the Cady I miss every single fucking second of the day. The Cady I will fight my whole life to win back if I have to but fuck, I really hope it doesn’t take that long.
She’d be worth it, though.
We let the kids stay up until midnight but of course, they all passed out by eleven, all huddled on the couch watching Ryan Seacrest who I swear is a vampire or some kind of immortal being because the dude does not age what-so-fucking-ever. Stella was laid out between us—her head in Cady’s lap while her feet rested in mine. We weren’t so close that we could touch but we were close enough that I could hear Cady’s breathing speed up once she realized we were the only two awake—closer than we have been since I held her in my arms on Christmas. It was a blissful agony.
For that entire hour before the ball dropped, I didn’t move a single muscle or barely breathed for that matter, in fear of her running away like she tends to do while in the same airspace as me. But she stayed. She didn’t speak a word or even make a sound, seemingly engrossed in Seacrest and whatever shitty pop star was singing an equally shitty song at that moment. But she stayed. So, I took it as a win, albeit a so-tiny-it’s-almost-not-even-visible-win, but a win nonetheless. We continued this thrilling state of awkwardness until the countdown began. As each number ticked down, I could see the tension getting to her. She was fidgeting, her eyes still glued to the TV and her voice mute. But her body…her body was giving in. I turned to her as her name fell from my lips in a whisper. My own body moving of its own accord, carefully scooting closer until I could just barely graze her soft cheek with my fingertip. She fought it. She fought so damn hard but in the end, her soulful eyes met mine and I saw it.
Vulnerability. Three.
Hurt. Two.
Want. One.
Happy New Year.
The moment that dark-magic-wielding asshole Ryan Seacrest said the words on the screen, whatever that look, that moment we had, was dead. As dead as Seacrest will be if we ever cross paths. And that’s a fucking promise.
She hightailed it out of there so quickly that for a second there I thought maybe I imagined everything. But her signature scent—a heady mixture of what I can only describe as vanilla pine, sugar cookies underneath the tree on Christmas morning—lingered in the air so potently, I knew my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me. And that knowledge gave me hope. Stupid, stupid, hope.
It also didn’t help that Cady seemed hell-bent on making me lose my damn mind by way of looking so fine, I had to start fucking hiding away from her this time around. And judging by the cheeky smirks she tried to stifle, I’d say the little minx knew what she was doing. I know she did. It’s her crafty way of punishment. She upped the ante this week walking—no, she was doing more than just walking—strutting is more like it. Strutting around this godforsaken house, wearing these tiny little dresses that fit all too well around her perfect set of mouth-watering tits before curving with the sexy dip at her waist and flaring out to accommodate the thick hips that have fucking haunted my wet dreams since middle school, ending right below her ass cheeks. But like the tease she has become, she wears these thick black tights that simultaneously infuriate me and turn me the fuck on.
I try to at least pretend that she has no effect on me—willing my eyes to look anywhere else but one damn swish of her near child-sized dress—and the possibility of getting a glimpse of her panties. Yes, I’m well aware of how pervy that sounds, but we’re talking about the ass all women strive for but will never achieve. It is because of this that my eyes follow her like an obedient puppy. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. She hates me. She told me as much at Christmas. But even if she hadn’t, I can see it. It’s like a dark cloud that surrounds her and every time I’m near, the scathing hate pours over her in buckets so vigilant, I can feel it on my skin no matter how far I hide.
So why do I do this to myself?
I’m a fool, that’s why. A piece of shit asshole who doesn’t know when to quit and I never will. Not with her. Not after all I’ve done. Not after knowing how it feels to lose the one thing—person—I never wanted to lose, even though I never really had her in the first place. But that’s bullshit, really; I had her. I always have. I just didn’t realize it until it was too late.
But now I know. I know the pain and the fucking nagging regret that won’t let up because I know I deserve to feel that. To live it. Breathe it every single damn day until she forgives me…until she’s mine, for real this time. And yet even then, I’ll hold onto that shitty feeling as a reminder to never take her for granted because losing her again is not an option. I won’t tolerate it, and I certainly won’t survive it.
Which is why I’ve been waiting outside her damn door for the last hour and a half. It’s only eight in the morning, so I know she’s still in there—she never was an early riser. For as far back as I can remember, she’s done almost all of her sketching late at night, usually going until the early morning, which made school mornings extremely non-pleasant when in her presence. Thank goddess for coffee. It saved our family and her from getting sent away to some boarding school in Switzerland. You think I’m kidding around, but trust, Bug at seven after getting no more than three hours of sleep—ridiculous mass of curls jutting every which way from her topknot that isn’t really a knot at all anymore but just a pile of matted curls, and those eyes, those blue as the sky eyes shooting daggers that feel like literal daggers being thrown at you for the slightest bit of noise whilst a slew of inventive and sometimes hurtful curse words are spewing from her full lips—yeah, it’s a terrifying sight. Although, now that I think back, it was also kind of a hot sight, too.
That fire in her has always been my kryptonite. Even if I never showed it. Even if I denied it. It got me. Every. Damn. Time. And that’s why I kept my mouth shut when she yelled at me at Christmas. Aside from the fact that I was just fucking happy to hear her voice—that sweet, saccharine sound with a hint of rasp that is undeniably sexy. It was the emotion behind it—even if that emotion was hatred. At least it was an emotion. It was something. It was brash and unforgiving. Passionate. Raw. Honest. It made my di
ck so hard, I had to run upstairs to talk him down like I was back to being that that thirteen-year old boy who just saw Cady in a bikini for the first time with all of her new curves. And by curves, I mean boobs.
All right, eff this shit. I have to leave here in twenty if I don’t want to miss my flight. Jake has texted me about fifty freaking reminders, even though he’s literally right downstairs. The dude hates being late. And I hate myself for needing to see her one last time before I take off—but goddess help me, here I am, after well over an hour of waiting patiently like the good, pitiful little puppy I am. I will still be here until the very last fucking second. But I’m done being a patient prick. Time to get shit handled.
I get my sore ass of the floor, walk over to her door, and just start pounding, barking her name through the door like the dog I am, demanding she come out right the fuck now, basically about a minute away from losing my damn mind. But she doesn’t come the fuck out. She doesn’t do anything. No sound. No cursing back, which I more than half expected. It’s just…nothing. Complete and utter silence. Does that stop me from continuing to yell at her? Absolutely not.
“Dude, what in the holy Hell are you doing?” Dylan bellows over my obvious meltdown. His hulked-out body appears at the top of the stairs, sweat dripping down his face, making a beeline for his old, battered Mariners tee he’s had for far too long but refuses to give it up. He reeks of hard work and B.O.
“What the Hell does it look like? I’m trying to wake her ass up!” I bark out the last part toward the door before resuming my assault on the red wood.
“She’s not in there, bro,” he says, and I look at him like he’s grown a third testicle.
She’s not in there my ass.
“Fuck off, it’s not even nine yet. She’s in there.”
“That’s the second time I’ve been told to fuck off in the last two hours. I don’t know why I deal with this shit. This family is made up of a bunch of hetero assholes with way too much drama.” Dylan sighs, looking tired as Hell and fed up with all kinds of shit—which I am almost positive is mostly my shit. Mine and Cady’s. If I wasn’t so keyed up right now, I would feel bad, but as it turns out, I kinda just want to punch him in the face for whining like a dick. I tell him as much.
“What the Hell are you whining about?”
He rolls his eyes and for real, he doesn’t know it yet, but he’s about another annoyed sigh away from getting decked in one of his bright blue eyes.
“She’s. Not. In. There.”
“Again with this BS? She has to be! I’ve been waiting here for an hour and a half! There’s no way she’s not in there. She’s just ignoring me!” I yell again at the stupid door that will likely be the bane of my existence.
“Well, I’m telling you, she isn’t. I saw her this morning in the kitchen, gulping what looked to be her third cup of coffee. That was like, seven, dude. Asked her what she was doing up so early. She gave me some bullshit answer about needing new books for school or some shit. I called her on it, which of course initiated an elaborate curse fest from both parties, resulting in her affectionately telling me to ‘fuck off to fuckland’— wherever the Hell that is—while flipping me the bird and storming out the back door to who knows where.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Dyl winces at my tone and has the decency to look apologetic. “Fuck! I should’ve known she’d do this.” I punch her door in frustration…repeatedly. Inhaling the throbbing pain that is now viciously ailing my hand. But I embrace the feeling, curling my torn and surely bloody fingers to my chest as I slide down the wall and turn to face my brother. It’s like six months ago all over again. “What the Hell do I do now? I’m leaving in…fuck, ten minutes, for six more months!” I don’t even try to hide the desperation in my voice. I just let it all hang out between us, not giving a single eff.
He sighs and shakes his head—clearly over our “hetero bullshit,” but since he’s the best man I know—aside from my dad and Cole—he walks over to me, sliding down the wall right by my side.
“You do the only thing that’s left to do…you let it go. You let her go.”
“You know I can’t do that. There’s no—”
“Not forever, idiot. Just give her more time—”
“Fucking time! That’s all anyone ever says to me! Time can suck big, wrinkly, elephant balls! I don’t want to give her time! I want her back now, damn it!”
“That’s not your fucking choice, Ben! You should have thought of that before you decided to get your dick wet with her best friend’s likely diseased vagina! Which, by the way, I really hope you got your ass tested, ’cause until then, you’re for real not going anywhere near Cady’s lady bits.”
“Of course I got tested, asshole! I’m not completely stupid. And yes, I’m clean, thank you very much. But Jesus, bro, please don’t ever say vagina or lady bits around me ever again. That will forever haunt me.”
“Understood.” We exchange small, doleful smiles in agreement.
I inhale deeply before blowing out a fraction of the stress and seething anger (mostly at myself) that’s been plaguing me for much too long. And unfortunately, from the sounds of it, it’s not gonna stop anytime soon. The thought makes my fists clench, which in turn makes me spew out a string of curses that normally would only come out of Cady’s mouth, when I feel the excruciating pain of what’s left of my right knuckles.
“So, what? I just give up? I go back to New York and pretend I didn’t leave my heart outside of her door? What if she meets someone, man? It’s only a matter of time.”
“Then she meets someone. I know you think it’s true, but she’s not actually yours. Not entirely, anyway. Not yet. You solidified that, man. So, if she wants space, if she wants to test the waters, if she wants to hate you forever, then that’s what’s going to happen because she deserves that. She deserves to do and feel whatever the fuck she wants. You might have had a shitty six months, but hers? I don’t even know how she’s still standing, bro. You left her in pieces. So many, I didn’t think we’d ever get her back together. And after what that bitch did to her?”
Dylan takes a moment to gather himself as his words break and voice turns hoarse. His jaw matches my own—clenched so tightly, he’ll likely have to make a call to the dentist. He takes a deep breath and looks me straight in the eye. I wish I couldn’t see the inkling of contempt toward me, but it’s hard to miss. I know he blames me. And he has every right. I am to blame. But owning responsibility doesn’t make the astute accusation hurt any less.
“She deserves more than this shit you’re trying to pull, Ben. And if you really love her, like I know you do, then you’ll do as I say and wait. Wait until she’s ready. Until she realizes that no matter all of your fuck-ups—and there are plenty—that she loves you more than she will ever love anyone, which I know that she does. But she needs to figure that out on her own, man. You owe her that much. In terms your nerdy ass will understand, patience, young Padawan. Patience.”
“You know I hate you, right?”
“I know. I love you too, man.”
“Get the fuck out of here and into the shower before you take me to the airport. You smell like donkey balls, dude.”
Dylan shoves me playfully but damn, it hurts like a bitch, which I mistakenly tell him, resulting in me being called a little bitch. That leads to more shoving, which I will sorely regret tomorrow, and a good five minutes of rolling around on the floor before I scream “uncle” like the little bitch he calls me for a second time while he has my right arm pinned behind my back as his big, smelly ass is sitting on my freshly cleaned one. He finally lets me go and after dual flips of the middle finger, he leaves me to stew on the floor, mulling over everything he yelled at me.
I know he’s right. I know I can’t force this. You can’t force Cady to do anything. She’s even more stubborn than Cole, and that dude…that dude refused to trim his beard for an entire baseball season even though it was bothering the shit out of him, just because Jake made an of
fhanded comment about how the Mariners had been playing better since he started to look like he’s been lost on an island for five years. Thankfully, after they lost in the playoffs, Angel put her foot down and like always when it comes to her, he complied.
Can I really do this? Let Bug go? Even if it’s just for six months? Fuck, just the thought makes my entire body tense. But I don’t see that I have any choice in the matter. And shit, it’s not like hounding her is doing me any good. Nor was a text or call once a week since I left for school.
Shit, I’m really going to do this.
Fuck, I just hope I won’t regret it once I do. And if I do regret it, I’m gonna beat Dylan’s ass—assuming I can gain thirty pounds of pure muscle in the next six months or so.
I pull my own sorry ass up off the floor and walk to my room, grabbing my bag that is sitting right inside the door. I allow myself one last look at my childhood bedroom and take it all in.
I know I’ll be back at some point, but the knowledge doesn’t make leaving any easier. I have a feeling it will always feel that way. This place was my first real home since my parents died. Jake tried, but before the Moreno-Adams clan came into our lives, we were just two lost boys looking for a home to call our own. And we ended up with a family. A real family. A family I would do anything for and fight to never lose—a feeling I know my Dad experiences at least once a day.
With a small smile, I walk out the door and shut it behind me. Once I turn back, my breath leaves me as my eyes collide with Cady’s.
Goddamn, she’s beautiful. Even in Uggs, simple leggings, an old and faded Notorious B.I.G t-shirt, and a ratty knit sweater, while her untamable hair is piled almost artfully on top of her head and ginormous black-framed glasses hide at least fifty percent of her face—she’s still fucking perfect.
I stare at her for far too long, long enough to make her squirm under my gaze, but I can’t help myself. This will be the last time I see her for months, and I don’t want to forget a damn thing. She doesn’t move. I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe she’s doing the exact same thing I am—memorizing. Cataloging every freckle. She has four on her left cheekbone and six on her right, by the way.
Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3) Page 15