Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3)

by Andrea Hopkins

  And goddess only knows what I would do once I shut that door.

  Am I that girl? The girl who blindly forgives all sins and indiscretions for the sake of…what? Attention? Little morsels, scraps, minuscule moments of what could be, you know, if he wasn’t a selfish manwhore? But maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he has changed. Turned over a new leaf. Hung up his slutty vintage Nike Air Force One’s. People are capable of change, right? Right? Ugh, you’re no help. I wish I could know for sure. But even so, then what? I have a boyfriend. A really sweet and sexy and dependable boyfriend who loves me. Why would I give that up? Especially for a boy I can’t even trust to cook a simple pasta dish without almost burning the apartment down, let alone going anywhere near my heart. Ben is unpredictable. Flighty and high-risk.

  He also happens to set your body on fire with just one damn look. One. Damn. Look. And damn, that look is…hot. Really freaking hot.

  By the time Ben comes back out, I’m sitting comfortably on the ghetto-rigged couch compiled of my twin mattress, my brand-new Breakfast at Tiffany’s comforter (I made it myself, thank you very much!) and so many pillows, it’s almost embarrassing. The contraption is propped against the back wall, facing Ben’s TV that he left back home when he moved to New York. I already have Some Kind of Wonderful queued up and ready to enjoy for the hundredth time or so.

  The smile he gives me when he sees me almost drowning under a gaggle of pillows in various patterns and shades of red, wearing leggings and my I Heart John Hughes For Life off the shoulder t-shirt I also made a few years back—is disarming. Damning. But shit, it sure is beautiful. It’s also a little bashful. His cheeks, uncharacteristically, take on a slight shade of pink. And that’s when I forcefully remove my eyes from his curved mouth and gasp, and then bust up laughing.

  His cheeks heat even more. And I laugh harder.

  Ben motherfucking Catalano-Moretti is wearing gym shorts (no surprise there, he lives in those damn things, much to my dismay). But here’s the kicker…he paired those atrocious shorts with none other than the t-shirt I made him for his 17th birthday, which reads: Team Duckie.

  And just like that, the foundation of my wall splits in two.

  “Truce?”

  He bites his lip anxiously, rocking back onto his heels and stares at me deep in thought. Concentrated. Weary. And dare I say, vulnerable. And because I’m a stupid, stupid girl, I open my mouth, about to say the one word I know I will regret.

  Six seconds.

  One second. with those green eyes burrowing under my skin

  Two seconds staring at the t-shirt that is instantly making me forget things that need to be remembered for the sake of self-preservation.

  Three seconds to get duped by that damn crooked smile.

  Four fucking seconds to un-think and undo everything I have built up between us.

  Five fucking seconds to take the risk, knowing that the reward might not be worth it.

  Six seconds.

  I smile, hold out my hand, and foolishly take a sledgehammer to the wall I meticulously built between us. I’m so fucked.

  “Truce.”

  Twenty-one

  Song to listen to:

  “I Won’t Give Up” by Jason Mraz

  Ben

  I’m so fucked. And up way too damn early for a Sunday morning. I think I maybe managed a solid two and a half hours of sleep last night. And not for lack of trying, either. My mind just wouldn’t quit. Neither would my dick, which by the way, couldn’t stop painfully reminding me that the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen is sleeping right next door, without any chance of parental or brotherly interference on the horizon.

  Yeah, let’s just say my dick was not happy I told him to just shut the fuck up and get friendly with my right hand and the bottle of baby oil in my bedside table.

  Twice.

  Why did I think moving in with Cady would be a good idea?

  Oh, yeah that’s right, because I’m a fucking masochistic moron hell-bent on living with at least a semi hard-on and an excruciating set of blue balls for the next three months.

  Even when she’s throwing insults or brutal honesty my way, I’m hot for her. It’s a bit disconcerting but inevitable. Cady is…fuck, Cady is so much. Too much, at times. But she’s also everything to me.

  She surprised me last night. I had expected more of a fight, especially after her little outburst once she realized our living situation. But I have a sinking suspicion or intuition, you might say, that last night was a fluke. Or a lapse in judgment or resolve. I did lay it on thick, especially after the epic pasta fail. I’ve known Cady practically my whole life, longer than I haven’t known her, and with that comes knowledge. Cady Adams knowledge. I know her triggers, just the right buttons to push and when to push them. I know it sounds a bit like manipulation, but I swear that’s not it. Everything I said to her was the truth, the honest to goddess truth, I just know when and how to sprinkle that truth so that is beneficial to the task at hand. I have goals to meet. And in case you’re not following what’s going on here, I want her back. And before you say anything, yes, we technically weren’t ever together, but we all know that’s bullshit. She was mine three seconds before she threw that mud pie in my face twelve years ago.

  Yes, you read it right. Three seconds before.

  One second to see her flaming red Chucks tied up with sparkly black shoelaces splattered with mud.

  One second to meet her blue eyes, sparkling with mischief and curiosity. Kindness.

  One second to feel her smile warm the entire length of my seven-year old body, giving me the sudden urge to do something I hadn’t done in the six months prior—smile.

  So yeah, okay, I may have white-lied a little bit when I said I’d be willing to settle with her friendship, ’cause nah, that’s not good enough. It would never be good enough. But I knew if I told her the truth, the whole truth, that I came back home to woo her (yes, fucking woo), and I guess now, steal her from her ass-face boyfriend, she’d shut down as quick as a butcher shop in a zombie apocalypse.

  And she almost did. But I pushed; granted, pushing caused her to metaphorically uppercut me straight to the gut before landing a solid hook to the head, but it was worth it. When I left her in the living room to soak in my words and marinate in her thoughts, I called Jake the instant my door shut.

  It took four unbearably long rings before the hostess finally answered and a lifetime—five minutes—before I got him on the line.

  “What do I do?”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific, Ben.”

  “Bug.”

  That’s all the clarification I need. That nickname, compiled of three little letters speaks volumes. Louder than any SAT prep word in the books.

  Jake sighs. But I have a feeling it’s more about work than me and my continued drama. At least, I hope.

  “What happened this time? Did she finally manage to poison you? Am I your last call? I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. Is it like a ‘save the best for the last’ type of thing? Or does it mean more if I was your first call? Like you had to make sure you got to say goodbye before the cyanide kicked in.”

  “Dude, it’s official. You’ve turned into Mom.”

  He guffaws. Yes, guffaws. Loud and proud. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, kiddo. I suspect you understand a little about that. So, no poisoning then?”

  “Nah, just a shit-ton of bearing my soul and resisting the urge to tie her up until she agrees to be mine again, oh and I also almost burned the apartment down making pesto penne.”

  “It happens. Them Moreno women. Fiery distractions.”

  “True that, Dad.”

  “Oh shit, you pulled the Dad card. You okay? Is this roommate idea too much?”

  “No! No, it’s not that. I actually think it might work out, as long as I play my cards right. But the thing is, I don’t know what game we’re even playing, you know? I have an idea, but honestly, I don’t trust myself—my gut or internal compass or w
hatever it is, is broken. It’s like she has the rulebook in the palm of her hands, it’s within arm’s reach, but I just can’t get there. I’m supposed to be ordering food, by the way—veggie primavera, chicken Marsala, and ciabatta—and we’re going to watch a movie—”

  “Seriously? A few hours ago, she was ready to go full Snapped on your ass.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t count that out just yet. She’s barely tolerating me at this point. The line we drew is thin and flimsy as eff. I plan on taking advantage, I’m just afraid I’ll push her too far and it will all backfire on me. She’s waiting out in the living room, and I’m kind of regretting the movie idea. How effing stupid was that? How the hell am I going to be able to sit next to her, in the dark, alone, and make no move whatsoever?”

  “You’ve done it at least a thousand times. You two spent an entire summer doing just that.”

  “It was different then.”

  “How so?”

  I know what he’s doing. He thinks I don’t, but I do. He wants me to admit my feelings, my intentions. What he doesn’t know is that I’m done hiding my feelings. Done hiding behind cowardice and fear. I’ll fucking shout it from the top of Fremont Bridge if he wants me to.

  “Because I love her. You know it. Mom, Dyl, Cole, and Angel know it. The kids know it. And I’m finally not too chickenshit to admit it. I’ve loved her for what feels like my entire life. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t love her. It’s ingrained in me. I fucked up so many times, I really don’t deserve another chance, but I’m going to try anyway. I have to. She needs to know. I just, I need to do this right. But every time I’m near her…fuck, I wanna do things, so many things, all the things, but I know I can’t. And there’s a good chance I invited myself to go furniture shopping with her and her boyfriend tomorrow, which should be a real fucking doozy. Basically, I’m flying blindly here, Dad. I need some eyes!”

  Jake goes silent, but I know he’s there, thinking, assessing, scheming. Finally, after one minute and eleven seconds (but who’s counting?) he bequeaths his minimal but successful knowledge of women and how to get and keep them.

  “Subtlety. It’s all in the small things. Those are the things women, especially the Moreno women, take note of.” He sighs in contentment, and I know he’s smiling into the receiver, no doubt thinking of the woman who changed his life—both of our lives—for the better. “Early into our relationship, I noticed that Evangeline had a habit of snacking whenever she wrote late, but then she’d always be so pissed the next morning once she realized she ate an entire bag of white cheddar Cheeto puffs. So, I started preparing healthy snacks for her every morning, leave them in the fridge for her so she’s good to go at two a.m. I put the tea kettle on the stove and set her favorite mug and a bag of chai right next to it before I go to bed. I always plug in her phone because she never remembers to. Hang up all of the clothes in the closets because I know she hates doing it. And the most important thing of all—making sure there is always, and I do mean always, a bottle of red in the fridge because she loves it cold. You don’t need grand gestures or to shove declarations of love down her throat every second. Listen. Watch, in a non-creepy way. Pay attention. Just enough to give a little nudge in your direction. Sprinkle a little of that love around and when she’s ready, she’ll see it.”

  “Damn, Pops.” To be honest, he just stunned the shit out of me, rendering me near speechless.

  “You got this, kid. It’ll all work out. Be smart, keep your eyes open, and your head up.”

  “I will, Pops. Thanks.”

  “Oh, and call your mother tomorrow. Assure her that you aren’t mad at her. She feels guilty for tricking you and Bug.”

  “Will do. Love you.”

  “Love you too, kid.”

  Subtlety. I can do subtle. And subtle I did.

  After the phone call with Jake, it took me another five minutes before I found what I needed. I hooked my fingers behind me and pulled my shirt over my head, replacing it with a new one. I walked over to my bed and grabbed my comforter, catching myself in the full-length mirror that’s propped up against a mini-tower of boxes, I smiled at the sight reflecting back at me.

  Team Duckie.

  The words, in all caps and a lurid white, contrasted against the soft black cotton. Cady made it for me when I turned 17. It’s a simple shirt, probably cost her no more than five bucks to make, but it’s my favorite thing I own—even beating out my signed Damian Lillard jersey. It’s the thought, the cleverness, the inside joke, the memories the shirt symbolizes that pushes it to the top of my list. It’s irreplaceable, and for fear of sounding like Gollum, precious. I haven’t worn it for over a year. I couldn’t bring myself to do so. But goddess, did I stare at it. I stared the shit out of this t-shirt. It was a significant reminder of what I lost and a catalyst to find it, her, again.

  When I walked out of my room last night, my eyes sought her out immediately, as they always have. I could barely make her out, buried amongst the blankets and pillows, far too many to count. But I saw her. And not for the first time, she stole my breath right from me.

  But then she laughed. And I’m pretty sure my heart stopped. Or sped up. Or skipped a beat or two or ten. I’m not really sure because all I could focus on, all I could hear, was the raucous and unbridled laughter coming out of her perfect mouth. The sound filled the room and pervaded my chest until all I could do was join her.

  So, I did.

  It was the single greatest moment I’ve had in the last year. It’s a moment I want to repeat. And I intend to, as often as I can. Making Cady Adams laugh is now my top priority. Making her mine—wholly and unwavering—is a close second.

  Once the laughter died down and the previous tension in the air lessened enough to breathe almost evenly, Cady pulled back a few of her blankets, carving out a spot for me on the other side of the mattress with a silent smile. I greedily accepted, parking my ass on the makeshift couch.

  The next forty-five minutes was spent watching a classic ’80s film that I’ve seen no less than twenty times, although, instead of ogling Mary Stuart Masterson and her badass fingerless motorcycle gloves and crop tops, my eyes kept finding Cady. She had a habit of whispering lines so low you can barely hear unless you were trying to. And I was. Her eyes shone bright and her face expressive and animated as each familiar scene played out like it was her first time watching the movie. It was infectious and I found myself mouthing the words alongside her, through bites of pasta and sips of the wine Dad sent over.

  Aside from our mirrored murmurs of John Hughes dialogue and a quiet “thank you” when I handed over her takeout container, we didn’t speak a word to each other, too scared to disrupt this unofficial pact of comfortable silence.

  That’s exactly how most of the night felt: comfortable. Well, until it wasn’t. Until the scene. Cady’s favorite. The greatest kiss of any teen movie in the history of teen movies, according to her. When Watts tells Keith to pretend she’s Amanda and kiss her for the sake of practice. We’ve watched this scene more than a dozen times and almost every time, there has always been a semblance of tension surrounding us, and it increased as we got older with our raging hormones and the growth of certain attributes. But it was always manageable—easy to brush off, clear our throats, and move on. This time, however, this time the tension was…palpable. A heady force that compressed and encumbered every inch of me until I was squirming in my seat, unable to keep my eyes away from her. Cady’s wouldn’t dare to leave the screen, but I knew she could feel my gaze, and I also knew it burned, befuddling her senses. Her concentration was forced, her breathing measured—gulping down the coiled pull between us that has never waned, even when she hates me.

  But then she turned.

  Our eyes met, my breath held, and everything disappeared. My fuck-ups, her boyfriend, the distance between us—gone. For about five seconds, it was just us. No words. Just …seeing. Feeling. All the feels, ladies. All the feels. I leaned. It was stupid, ballsy. But automatic, I lit
erally had no control over my damn head. It just moved. But then she leaned too. It was small, tiny, barely noticeable but I noticed. I saw. When it comes to Cady “Bug” Adams, I always see. My breath escaped me and the moment was gone.

  Cady popped out of the blankets, her tightly wound resolve finally snapping.

  “I have to go to bed.” Her words were spoken to the TV screen as her eyes left mine. She didn’t wait for my reply, but simply nodded like I’d answered her, grabbed her Audrey Hepburn blanket and ran, tripping on said blanket a few feet in but she recovered with an adorable “fucking Audrey” before speed-walking the rest of the distance to her room. “Goodnight,” she threw over her shoulder, her eyes quickly greeting the floor before refocusing on the task of running away. The slam of her door was loud, probably louder than she intended and I couldn’t help it, I smiled. It was a good smile. I’m still wearing it, eight hours later as I sip my freshly brewed coffee and flip banana-apple pancakes.

  I ended up finishing the movie and sitting in reflective silence afterward before throwing out the takeout boxes and turning our one measly lamp off. I’d like to say I went straight to my room but I’m trying not to lie anymore so, I’ll admit, I spent a good half hour standing outside her door, hovering like the creepiest of creepers, listening for any sounds on the other side. I also may have pressed my ear against the dark-stained wood and my mouth kicked up on the left when I heard the unmistakable whirring of a sewing machine.

  She’s sewing again.

  The revelation was both joyful and disappointing. I’m thrilled, elated even, that she’s getting back to herself. She’s far too effing talented not to be creating wearable art because that’s what it is, her clothes are nothing shy of extraordinary and it pierced something deep inside me, ripped me apart from the inside out, to know that my actions were the cause of her to stop doing what she loves. But the selfish part of me—which happens to be larger than it should be, but I’m working on that—the self-serving part of me is irrationally upset because I’m obviously not the one who brought her back to herself. From what it sounds like, her asshole Andrew McCarthy-knockoff is. And fuck, that’s infuriating. I really wanted to be that guy. Needed to be that guy. But he stole that from me.