Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3)

by Andrea Hopkins

  “Oh, how I’ve missed our witty banter and your excellent use of ‘fuck,’” Ben says with a smile, a really grotesque smile that is having no effect on my lady bits whatsoever. Yep, not one single bit.

  Ugh.

  Traitorous vag.

  “Answer the damn question, Ben!”

  “I moved back,” he says with a shrug, and I’ve never wanted to poke his eyeballs more than in that moment. But then he starts to move toward me and I stand corrected. Now, I really want to poke his eyeballs…right before he pokes me with something else…nope. Stop. Asshole. Ben is an asshole. And hold up, did he just say he moved back?

  “What do you mean you moved back?”

  “Well, I think that’s pretty self-explanatory. I was living in New York yesterday and then last night, I flew here, back home to Portland, with all of my stuff.”

  My head starts shaking. My curls are bouncing and swaying every which way. I’m sure I look like I’m thirty seconds away from having a seizure and at this point, I’m almost praying for one because then I wouldn’t be living this nightmare; I would just, you know, be foaming out of the mouth and probably getting rushed to the hospital. But Ben wouldn’t be there, telling me he moved back here, and hold the fuck up—did he call me ‘roomie’?

  I cease the shaking and look up at Ben, who is now standing a good six inches away from me. I can smell him, and he does not smell good at all. Nope. Nothing like rainy days spent splashing in puddles and making mud pies. Nope.

  I can see it, the moment he realizes that I’ve realized what he said.

  Roomie.

  As in—

  No.

  NO!

  “Ben, why are you in my apartment?” I repeat the question even though I know the answer. Always a glutton for punishment.

  “C’mon Cady, you’re a smart woman. You know why.”

  “You’re Bee, the new chef Jake hired? ‘Bee’ who needs a place to stay. Bee who he said he trusted. Bee as in Ben. Ben motherfucking Catalano-Moretti,” I whisper in disbelief.

  “Bingo! That’s my girl!”

  “I’m not your girl!” I growl, and he just smirks. Smirks! Arrogant sonofabitch! He takes two steps. Two steps and he’s no more than an inch away from my body. I can hear his heart pounding, or maybe it’s mine. I can’t tell. Everything goes hazy when he’s this close to me. No, it’s not him, he has no effect on me at all, remember? Zilch. Nada. My vision is clouding over and my skin is on fire because I’m angry and I didn’t eat breakfast this morning. So, you know, low blood sugar and. That’s the only reason, the only logical reason. Anger and low blood sugar.

  And when he wraps his forefinger and thumb around a wayward curl, tugging it lightly before moving his mouth to my ear, my eyes drift close, my knees nearly buckle and I inhale sharply because—shit.

  Anger and low blood sugar?

  “Maybe for now you aren’t, but things change,” he whispers. His breath is hot on my skin, practically sweltering, sending tremors down the length of my body and causing a clenching in certain place that should never be clenching around him.

  When he steps away, I almost lose my balance but quickly right myself, only to be met with another knowing smirk that makes my hands fist at my sides with an intense need to use them, preferably in a punching manner.

  But first…

  “Mom! Jake! Dad! Angel! Dylan and Miles, I know you’re out there! Get your lying asses in my apartment—”

  “Our apartment,” Ben amends smugly.

  “Fuck you!” I reply brightly.

  My family of conspirators cautiously file into the apartment that seems a lot less warm and inviting than it had just minutes ago.

  “Please tell me this is a fucking joke?”

  “Language, Cady.”

  “Oh, c’mon Mom! This,” I point to Ben and the band of double agents shuffling uncomfortably in the front doorway. “This deserves the use of ‘fuck.’ How could you do this? You went behind my back and planned this bullshit sneak attack!” I turn to my twin, the boy I shared a womb with. The boy who picked me up off the floor every day for months and held me as I cried my eyes out on his baseball jersey. “How could you do this? You’re my brother!”

  “And I’m his, too.”

  “Cady, sweetheart. We all thought that it was time for you two to settle your differences—”

  “And by ‘differences’ you mean when I told him I loved him, he kissed me, and then proceeded to fuck my best friend hours later? Is that the difference you’re talking about, Mom?”

  She exhales deeply and I know her heart is hurting but I’m just too damn blinded by betrayal that I can’t seem to give a fuck. What is it with these people and their affinity to fuck each other over? Goddess damn it!

  “No matter what happened, we’re family. He’s your family.”

  “He broke my heart like it was nothing! Like I meant nothing!” I scream into the empty room, and a silence falls between us, the air thick and tense. I feel a hand grab mine, pulling my attention toward the offender. Ben. I drop his hand like he has a contagious disease but can’t seem to remove my eyes from his. Regret and pain, a cosmic amount, reflect in his emerald irises. So heavy and daunting that the urge to comfort him is almost too strong to deny. But somehow, I manage, clinging onto my hatred and self preservation.

  “Cady, I didn’t—I’m so…I made a mistake.”

  “So did I. When I told you I loved you—when I trusted you. When I trusted all of you! Fuck, I can’t be here anymore. I can’t look at any of you right now!” I shake my head in disbelief, utter fucking disbelief before walking purposefully to the door. Everyone moves aside, whispering apologies that fall on deaf ears. “I’ll be at Blaine’s!” I throw over my shoulder.

  “Who the fuck is Blaine?” Ben roars behind me, and I turn his way. His puppy dog eyes are now wild, frantically searching for an answer. I can’t help it, I laugh humorlessly. It sounds a little too close to Cruella DeVille, but at the moment, that seems fitting.

  Payback’s a fashionable bitch.

  “Looks like I’m not the only one our family is keeping secrets from,” I say with a smirk. Ben’s hands clench tightly, gearing for a fight—with the freshly painted wall, most likely—but a fight nonetheless. His chest is heaving and his eyes are promising a vocal lashing that will occur any moment now. My smile can’t get any bigger. “Oh, please,” I say to my family and now ex-best friend who are cringing with bated breath. “Please let me have the honor of filling him in?” No one says a word, so I take it as a green light. My smile grows even more menacing. “Blaine, my dear Ben, is my boyfriend.”

  “The fuck? Boyfriend?” His voice is so loud and angry, it thunders, and I swear I see the walls shake but before I can investigate further, I walk out and slam the door behind me.

  What was I saying about moving day?

  Oh yeah, moving day can suck my dick.

  You know, if I had one.

  Which I don’t, just so we’re clear. Although, there wouldn’t anything wrong with it if I did. I just, you know, don’t.

  Oh my goddess, shut up Cady!

  Nineteen

  Songs to listen to:

  “Sign of the Times” by Harry Styles

  “Sour Times” by The Civil Wars

  “Ain’t Nobody Taking My Baby” by Russ

  Ben

  Rage.

  I have never felt such blinding, hot rage prior to this exact motherfucking moment.

  “Ben, deep breaths, honey. In through the nose, out the mouth. C’mon,” Mom says calmly, mimicking the action herself. I hear her. I can see her right in front of me, attempting to put her hands on my shoulders, but since she’s so small, she can only reach my bicep—standing on her tippy toes. Evangeline has a way of making you feel like everything will be okay with just the slightest touch of comfort, a flick of her warm eyes or a few gentle words. But right now? Right now, the only person who could pull me out of my anger is the one person who put me there. And she jus
t walked out the damn door.

  A boyfriend. A fucking boyfriend!

  Blaine. What the fuck kind of name is that? It’s the name of an entitled prick and poor man’s James Spader, that’s what it is. I already fucking hate him. And he’s a dead man walking; well, right after I verbally murder my entire family. I shake off my mom’s hands, walk over to the nearest wall and before I know it, I’m punching a hole straight through the plaster to the sounds of gasps and choice words, followed by a scolding from both Mom and Angel.

  Shit, that hurt!

  The whole lot of Benedict Arnolds rush toward me but I hold my good hand up, halting them from coming any closer, because honestly, I have no idea what I’m capable of at the moment—not that I would actually physically hurt any of them, but damn, I could use another go at the wall.

  “How long?” I finally ask.

  It’s Dylan who answers. “Four months.”

  “Four months? She’s been dating this asshole—”

  “He’s not an asshole—”

  “He’s dating Cady—my Cady! He’s an asshole. Fuck! Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve—” I trail off, not knowing how to even finish that sentence.

  “You would’ve what, Ben?” Angel asks softly, and I know she knows that I have no fucking clue. No, that’s not true, I know exactly what I would do. I throw my head back and release the longest sigh in history.

  “Something stupid and rash and drive her even further away,” I admit. Without even looking at them, I know my family of colluders are wearing matching smiles of smug triumph.

  “Looks like you answered your own question, kid,” Cole says with a small smile peeking through his mountain-man beard.

  “Besides, telling you beforehand wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun. That was some serious juice I just witnessed—like Bravo TV worthy. Of course, I probably just lost one of the only good constants in my life, so I’m not entirely sure it was worth it—shit—oh shit, sorry Miss Evie, bad habit—but shit, I should probably go find Cady,” a tall, dark-skinned dude rambles on next to Dylan, who can’t seem to keep his eyes off him. That action leads me to believe the mystery man is in fact Miles. Also known as Cady’s new BFF and the source of Dylan’s upheaval. Seriously, Dylan is naturally moody, but fuck me, the last few months have been overkill and I just got the long-distance version. I don’t even want to know how it’s been living with the Abercrombie ogre.

  Fuck, and now I’m realizing that all three of us OGC’s (original gangsta children) have been complete assholes this past year and we’ve pulled at each other and our parents in every which way. Epically disappointed them (all me). Worried the shit out of them (Cadybug, but again, because of my doing), and irritated the fuck out of them (Dylan and fuck, me too). So really, I’ve been the biggest asshole of all. Of course, that doesn’t really come as much of a surprise. I guess I’m just realizing I was an asshole to the group of people I love the most and who have worked really hard to keep this family together and happy and as normal as we can be despite the abnormal circumstances in which we became a family.

  “It was nice to meet you, Ben, even though we didn’t officially get to meet. It was a pleasure to watch—” Miles rotates his hand animatedly before continuing, “this, whole thing. God, I love your family. And may I add before Miss Grumpy Panties over here, yeah Dyl, I’m talking about you, honey, blows a freaking artery. You are like model gorgeous, but I can tell you have something up here,” Miles taps the side of his forehead before throwing a wink at Dylan, who incidentally looks like he’s seconds away from either covering Miles’s mouth with his hand or with his lips. “Kinda like Ansel Elgort in Baby Driver but with better eyes. Remember that movie? Damn, he looked good—”

  “Miles! Get to the point!” Dylan shouts, and everyone turns to him with wide eyes and raised brows. Well, everyone but Miles, who goes on like his quasi-boyfriend didn’t just yell at him. Which makes me smile because I know that’s getting under Dyl’s skin. Miles knows it, too, judging from the wink he just gave me.

  “Anyway, what I was getting at—with a slight detour—is that yes, Cady has a boyfriend who is charming and rich but still humble and eco-friendly, and really funny and loyal, caring—”

  “Dude, are you trying to make me feel worse?”

  “What? No, sorry. I love those detours. Despite all of the wonderful things that are Blaine Kensington, Cady has never looked at him the way she just looked at you.”

  “Like she wanted to murder me in my sleep?”

  “No. Well, maybe a little, but I was going with passionately. Like she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to kill you or have her wicked way with you.”

  “And I’m out,” Cole declares with a grimace. “Ben, I’d say sorry, but I’m not. This is the one and only chance I’m allowing you. You’ve got three months, don’t fuck this up. I’ll be outside, unloading Bug’s stuff. Anyone else care to join me, or are we gonna throw more tantrums?” Cole looks at me with a challenge in his blue eyes and a crooked smile playing behind the fur ball on his face. I match it.

  “I’m in. Um, after I wrap this hand up. That wall was hard as hell,” I reply with a wince and with a single nod of approval, he’s out the door with everyone but me following his lead. And just like that, all is forgiven. At least, for the time being.

  We spend the next hour and a half bringing in all of Cady’s shit—which aside from her sparse furniture was unsurprisingly mostly clothes and books. I’m almost positive she raided Mom’s library and “borrowed” at least a third of her literary stash. I’m carrying the last box into her room—the master suite, which is really just a slightly bigger room with a walk-in closet—when I notice a familiar penguin staring back at me from a gaping box on the floor. Its bright red polka dot hat and cheeky little grin causes my steps to unexpectedly falter, thus making Dylan ram the load he’s carrying into my back.

  A half-cocked smile teases my lips and Dylan catches it after walking around me, setting down a crate onto her nightstand. His confused eyes track my gaze before bouncing back to mine, a lazy smile on his face, showcasing his lone dimple that has always drove girls (and boys) crazy.

  “She kept the gift.” I whisper in relief, insanely grateful she didn’t throw it away like I was sure she had. And I wouldn’t have blamed her. If the roles were reversed, I can’t say for certain how I would’ve handled it, but I can tell you it wouldn’t have been pretty, that’s for damn sure. But it’s not in her nature to be destructive. She’s not a douche. Unfortunately, I am. Which is the sole reason I’m standing here, simmering down the urge to kiss the damn thing. Or Dylan. Or both. She kept the gift. I’m an asshole who doesn’t deserve her or her forgiveness, even if I have every intention of begging for both every single day until she either gives in or kills me. The latter is probably most likely, but I’m gonna gamble with my odds. She hates me and has every right to and yet…she kept the damn gift.

  Cady has no idea what’s inside. Although, I’m pretty sure she has an inkling that it’s a little more than some gift from Target. Which I’m willing to bet is precisely why I’m staring at it right now. She’s knows that it could change things. That it would change things. She’s too scared to open it, but even more scared not to. She doesn’t want to let me off the hook yet, let go of all this anger she’s harboring, but keeping the box just might mean she doesn’t want to give up hope either, and that’s the thought that will keep me going, trying, until I can’t anymore.

  I’m not good with words. Never have been. I can be social, I do well in small groups and with my family of course, but for the most part, I’m an introvert. The fewer words, the better. I speak through my actions, whether it’s with food, my dick, or my three-point shot—granted, some of my extracurricular activities of late have been assholery, but I’m trying to make up for that. Which brings me to this cheesy Christmas gift—this gift—it speaks louder than any words I could ever say.

  And she knows it.

  “She kept the gift.�
�� Dylan parrots my words, his perceptive eyes staring at me in a way that validates that deceitful sliver of hope beginning to permeate inside my chest.

  “This Blaine douche—and fuck off if you tell me not to call him a douche again. I have every right. I know it. You know it.” Dylan raises his hands in surrender and doesn’t protest, so I go on. “He has to go, Dyl. She kept the gift, man. That means something. It has to. And I’m going to find out what.”

  “Just be careful, bro.”

  “I’m not going to hurt her again. I promised you and everyone else, and I intend to keep it.”

  “I wasn’t talking about her.” Dylan murmurs, his eyes worried and thoughtful. He stares at me for a moment longer as a silent conversation passes between us, an understanding that leaves me releasing a long, unsteady breath before he walks out of the room in search of Miles and his keys—promising over his shoulder to call me later to ensure Cady hasn’t stabbed any parts of my body with her pins or crocheting needles.

  It’s probably wise, I thought, but couldn’t manage to say the words out loud. My mind is too preoccupied, and completely and utterly encroached upon by a fucking gift box. I barely acknowledge Dylan and Miles’s departure, or the rest of my family’s for that matter. I’ll apologize later for it, just add it to the surmounting list of shit I need to atone for in the next few months.

  She kept the gift.

  She kept the fucking gift.

  Hope. It’s a tricky motherfucker. And it’s currently growing at an alarming rate the more I stand here like a lovesick idiot. But this time, this time I won’t be fooled. No fucking way.

  Hope is about to get cashed in and fucking owned.

  My mamas didn’t raise no fool.

  Trust.

  Twenty

  Songs to listen to:

  “The Worst” by Jhene Aiko

  “Try a Little Tenderness” by Otis Redding

  “Same Old Love” by Selena Gomez

  “Take a Bow” by Rihanna

  Cady

  I’ve been pacing Blaine’s room for well over an hour now while he watches silently, save for a few attempts at distraction that have failed miserably. If I wasn’t so riled up, I’d almost feel bad for subjecting him to the ramifications of my certifiable family’s dramatics. Blaine has never seen me like this. He only knows the new-new Cady—witty, optimistic, and never without a smile. Which is a lot like the old Cady, the pre-Ben-the-manslut-and-his-counterpart-loose-Lucy-Cady. But in this current state, I am coming alarmingly close to post-manwhore-and-backstabbing-village-bicycle-BFF-Cady, only with a lot less crying.