Shit.
It’s Sunday Fun-day Breakfast, a family tradition. Why would she get donuts if today is Sunday Fun-day Breakfast? Maybe she’s picking them up for Sunday Fun-day Breakfast?
You’re a fucking idiot.
Deep breath.
I stab at my phone, poking her digits onto the screen before slamming the device to my ear. As the phone rings, my eyes find a scrap of soft cotton and lace lying next to my feet. Her bra. The one I peeled off of her before burrowing my face and my dick inside of her. A growl escapes me just as a familiar voice sounds off in my ear.
“This is Cady. Whatever chain of unfortunate events has led you to dial this number, please leave your name and a brief story of why you felt the need to call and if it’s interesting enough, I might call you back. If you don’t hear from me, it’s probably because I don’t like you. Thanks!”
She’s had the same voicemail message for the last two years, and it’s never ceased to make me at least crack a half smile. Until today.
“Please tell me you didn’t do the one thing I asked you not to do. Please tell me you didn’t run. That you’re out getting donuts or walking the neighbor’s dog or something other than you running away from me after what we did last night! Please Cady, tell—”
Beep.
Fuck!
I clench my phone in my hands so I don’t fucking chuck it against the wall before dialing her number again. And again. And a few (five) more times after that. Plus twice more just to really drive it home that she definitely fucking ran and she’s ignoring me. She doesn’t answer any of my calls, and I don’t leave any more messages. I can’t. Not without completely fucking losing it on her, which as much as my heart wants to, my brain knows better.
I sit on her bed but immediately stand up and leave the room when the smell of her and I together wafts around me like a cruel reminder, overriding my senses and igniting my memory. I move to my room and pace the floor, surely wearing down the laminate with furious strides. She’s not going to answer. I can’t call our parents because they’ll worry and Mom will go all “Evie” on me. Cole is obviously out of the question, as is Angel. She’d just tell Cole everything, and I really don’t want a visit from the Hulk-sized Bear Grylls. I don’t have Blaine’s number, but honestly even if I did, there’s no way in hell I’d call him because even though Cady ran, she’s definitely not with him. She wouldn’t do that. I really hope she didn’t fucking do that.
So, that leaves two people.
I call Miles first.
“You’re lucky you’re an Ansel Elgort replica but like a hundred times hotter and in love with my girl—otherwise, you would be dead to me for calling at such an ungodly hour.”
“Is she with you?”
At the tone of my voice, I hear him rustling in bed. Most likely sitting up, a whole lot less asleep than he was mere seconds ago.
“No. Should she be? Why do you sound like she’s missing?”
“Because she left this morning,” I sigh, not wanting to get into this at all.
“She left this morning? How is that an—” he cuts himself off and I can actually feel the moment it clicks in his head. Three. Two. One. “Holy. Shit! Ya’ll went to bone county, and then she up and left you! I’m right, aren’t I?” He whistles, and I just know he’s smirking, the bastard.
“So, she’s not with you, then?”
“Nah, lover boy. I am sadly alone. Which means she’s most likely with her asshole twin.”
“Yeah, I figured. Was hoping I was wrong, though.”
“Don’t blame you. Good luck chipping away at that twin wall. If it helps any, I’m rooting for you two. Honestly. I adore Blaine and all, it’s hard not to. But he’s not her one and only, gorgeous. He was just keeping her warm for you.”
“Thanks, man. Once I get her back for real, I’ve got your back with Dyl. We’ll figure this shit out.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Miles’s voice cracks, just before he hangs up.
I take another deep breath. In through the nose. Out of the mouth. And then call my best friend. My brother. Her twin. And hope to John Hughes he’s Switzerland today.
Thirty-five
Songs to listen to:
“Heart Don’t Stand a Chance” by Anderson .Paak
“Mad” by Solange feat. Lil’ Wayne
“I Don’t Wanna Be You Anymore” by Billy Eilish
Cady
Ten calls and one voicemail.
A voicemail that will now be known as the voicemail. I knew I should’ve ignored it, like the calls. Deleted it instantly with barely a glance. But apparently, I needed to feel shittier than I already did.
“You need to talk to him, Cady. Jesus, girl.”
“And you need to talk to Miles,” I snap back at him, even though I know he’s right. “Fuck, we’re the worst. We. Are. Literally. The worst. Plus, we’re twins, which just makes it even worse for some reason.”
“This, I can agree with you on.”
Dylan and I are sitting in the dugout at our old high school, staring off into the empty field, contemplating our shitty life decisions. You know, a typical Sunday morning in the Adams-Moreno-Moretti family
My phone has finally stopped ringing for...four minutes. Not that I’m counting or anything. Liar. Shut up. Blaine has also been texting me and yes, you guessed it, I’ve ignored him, too. Really top-notch start to the day, Cady. You’re really nailing this whole adulting thing.
“What are you going to do?” Dylan finally asks. I’ve been waiting for that question since he picked me up hours ago and I gave him all of the dirty details. Well, the synopsis version, anyway. I can feel his eyes boring into the side of my face. They’re an almost identical blue, but if you look closer, you can see a faint ring of green, causing his eyes to look turquoise at times. I sigh for the millionth time. Seems like that’s all I’ve been doing all morning. That, and making fucked up mistakes. Mistakes I’m not sure I can remedy.
“I have no idea. I’m a mess. My thoughts are scattered everywhere and…and—and I don’t know how to isolate them long enough to decipher how I’m feeling or, what I need to do. I just…all I know is that last night, it was—”
The sound of Dylan’s phone shuts up my rambling.
He stares at the screen and then at me and without a single word from him, I know that it’s Ben calling. Dylan answers the phone without taking his eyes off me. I mouth for him to put it on speaker because even though I know Ben’s angry and upset, the need to hear his voice drums unbearably loud and deep inside me.
“Is she with you?” Ben asks, the accusation and hurt coming through loud and clear.
“Yeah.”
“Put her on the phone.”
Dylan raises his eyebrows at me and I shake my head. He sighs again.
“I can’t, Ben. I’m sorry.”
“Dylan! Put. Her on. The fucking. Phone!” Each word out of Ben’s mouth is like a punch to the gut—pronounced and mad as hell.
“I can’t.”
“Goddamn it! Dylan, c’mon. Don’t do this. Just let me talk to her. Let me fucking talk to her!”
“Look, she’s with me. She’s safe. You’re angry, and you have every right to be. What happened last night was major. She just needs a minute to gather her thoughts, man. I think you should, too. Breathe, dude. All right? Get your shit together and we’ll see you at breakfast.”
Ben doesn’t say anything, but I can hear him taking long, measured breaths. Exactly three before he ends the call.
“You two sure know how to fuck things up, don’t ya? Two stubborn-ass bitches in a pod.”
“That doesn’t even make sense, and you are far worse than any of us. Dad included.”
“You lost your damn mind, girl. Dad? Really?”
“Nah, you’re right. Cole Adams is the definition of stubborn. Angel is an angel for handling his brand of shit.”
“Amen, sister. You ready to face the music?”
“No, not even close, but I know
if we’re late for breakfast, Mom will send out a search party.”
“Fourth of July Barbeque of 2022. Good times.”
“If by ‘good times,’ you mean being grounded for two weeks without a phone, TV, or my sewing machine, then yeah, it was a fucking blast and half.”
“Well, in that case, Sunday breakfast will be like getting a lap dance from Russell Wilson and Chris Pratt.”
“Awkward as fuck?”
“Yeah, but really fucking entertaining—for me. For you, this will be a complete shit-show.”
“Sometimes, I don’t know how we shared a womb.”
***
Ten minutes later, we pull into Mom and Jake’s driveway, and my eyes zero in on a familiar car parked in front of us. Two familiar cars, to be exact. Nope, not just Ben’s, because that would make it easy…ish. Nope, the other car—parked right next to Ben’s Camaro—definitely belongs to Blaine. My boyfriend. Whom I cheated on. Exactly sixteen hours ago. Then again thirty minutes after that, and let’s not forget, once more around forty-five minutes after that. Nineteen-year old stamina, ladies and gents.
Yep, this is gonna be awesome.
Not.
Dylan is amused by this discovery. “Wow, just when I thought you couldn’t fuck up any more…”
“Why did I call you, again?”
“Because I’m your twin and I love you more than anyone ever could even imagine and because of that love I’m going to stand by you, even if I think you’re being a dumb-ass bitch who needs to swallow her pride, pull up her big girl thong—”
“I’m not wearing any underwear—”
“And finally open her eyes and see what we all see.”
“And what’s that?”
“Despite all of the inane shit he’s done, Ben loves you in a way that seems almost unreal. Untouchable. A kind of love we’ve only seen three times in our lives. Gram and Gramps Adams. Angel and Dad. Mom and Jake. It’s the kind of love people search their whole lives for and most never even come close to finding. It’s great and mighty and a fucking beast and I know you’re scared that you can’t tame it but damn it, girl, you’re Cadence motherfucking Adams-Moretti. Belle ain’t got shit on you, and it’s about time you realize it! You may not know what to do, but everyone else around you sure as hell does. So, get with the fucking program. Woman up and make a goddamned decision!”
“Damn, bro. If baseball doesn’t work out, motivational speaking just might be your calling.”
“I know, right?” We share a small smile before exhaling dramatically in the front cab of Dad’s old Ford pickup. “Seriously though, I just want the both of you to be happy. You may be with Blaine, but even when you hate Ben—when you’re giving him the silent treatment and ignoring everything that comes out of his mouth—when you look at him, even just a brief glance, it’s like no one else is there. And believe me when I say that he looks at you the exact same way. Maybe even more so. He has for as long as I can remember.”
“I get it. You’re Team Bady.”
“For life, babe.”
“Whelp, let’s get this shit-show started then.”
“Lead the way.”
I hop out of the truck and make it about two steps before my feet forget what they’re supposed to do and just totally stop working. I feel Dyl sidle up next to me, and I already begin to shake my head at the pep talk he’s about to spew out of his mouth. He grabs my hand and gives it a good squeeze.
“Walk.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. And you will. Show Belle who’s the baddest, beast-tamer bitch. Move that ass, sister, and do the right thing.”
Do the right thing. I can do that. Right? Yeah, I can totally, definitely, do that.
Once I figure out what the right thing is.
Thirty-six
Songs to listen to:
“Break Apart” by Bonobo feat. Rhye
“If You Keep Leaving Me” by Anderson East
“What Would It Take” by Anderson East
“The Scientist” by Coldplay, “Pink Lemonade” by James Bay
“Love Until It Hurts” by Sam Palladio
Ben
I’ve been glaring at Blaine from the moment I saw his dick-face in my parents’ kitchen ten minutes ago. My. Parents’. Kitchen. Which really makes it my kitchen by marriage, and in my kitchen, there’s only a few rules, but number one is most definitely: No broke-ass Andrew McCarthys who want to stick their micro-dicks into my girl’s lady flower allowed. Period.
I know he can feel my eyes on him every time he helps Mom place a dish on the kitchen island. Just as I feel his eyes on me every time I glance at my phone to check the time. I gave up on waiting for a text or returned call an hour ago. But I talked to Dylan twelve—nope, thirteen minutes ago. They should be here any minute.
Everyone else is already here. The kids are setting the huge farmhouse table while sneaking pieces of bacon or hiding mini muffins behind their backs. Cole is grumbling about last night’s Mariners game—we lost. Fucking Dodgers. Jake is staring at Mom like he’d much rather have her for brunch than Belgian waffles—and yes, it’s about as disturbing as it sounds. Angel is passing out mimosas to all of the ’rents so they can raise their glasses just high enough to inconspicuously throw concerned looks my way while at the same time attempting to extract any information they can. Which will inevitably result in all four of them being drunk-ish by noon and still not knowing a damn thing.
Typical Sunday Fun-day breakfast.
Of course, when I came here sans Cady, looking like I was three seconds away from upturning this table and stomping on the food while throwing murderous looks at Blaine, I had to give the adults something—otherwise, I’d spend the entire morning getting grilled instead of being momentarily left alone to stew in my anger.
Mom calls out to the crowd, letting us know the food is ready and insisting everyone grabs a plate and pile on the grub. No one needs to be told twice. Well, aside from me. No, I’m going to stand here with my elbow propped up on the only space left on the island, brooding my ass off and staring into the hallway, awaiting my little marathoner’s arrival. Which should be in three…two…one…
“Honey, we’re home!” Dylan’s voice rings out from the front corridor.
My entire body tenses, going ramrod straight and pulsating with anger I can barely contain. Dylan strides through the kitchen looking as happy as a lumbersexual at a flannel sale. As if he didn’t aid and abet my girl without a call or text to me. As if he didn’t choose sides—whether he meant to or not. He chose. I’ve never wanted to punch my brother. Ever.
Until today.
I move so fast, I don’t even comprehend what I’m doing until it’s over. My hands are on his mammoth shoulders, pinning his body against the pantry door. I can hear the shouts and screaming of my name by multiple people in the kitchen, but it’s all white noise to the rage crackling inside me. Dylan’s eyes are on mine. Calm and collected, but also challenging. He raises an eyebrow and smiles. The dick.
“Where is she?” I bark, hating how much I sound like caveman but really giving zero fucks about it.
He opens his mouth to answer, but is cut off by the other asshole in the room.
“Bug! There you are, babe. I was worried you were gonna leave me hanging. Not that I would mind it, though. I love your family.”
Ben lays it on thick and my trembling hands leave Dylan’s Under Armor shirt and clench at my sides as I swivel around and lo and behold, there she is. The woman of the hour. My little curvy, sexy as fuck Forrest Gump. The escape artist who despite the puffy eyes, slightly splotchy skin, and wild mane, looks absolutely fucking beautiful. She’s wearing the same shorts as yesterday but she swapped out her tank top for an old Harry Styles t-shirt, a cream-colored sweater that is at least two sizes too big, and mismatched flip flops.
Goddamn it, she’s perfect.
Cady pushes her glasses up her nose and meets my eyes. Those jarring blues suck me in for three agonizing sec
onds, giving away nothing but confusion and unanswered questions, before dropping and moving to Blaine, the fucking bane of my existence. The dude whose face is about to get split by my fist.
She smiles at him and I take a step toward them, but Dylan grabs my arm and holds me back.
“Get the fuck off me, Dyl!” I roar, snatching my arm from his grasp and taking another step toward the nightmare being played out right in front of my eyes. Blaine wraps his puny arms around Cady, pulling her into his side before bringing his fish mouth to her ear and whispering words I can’t hear but know I already fucking hate.
“Just chill, man. Take a deep breath and fucking chill, okay? Now is not the time,” Dylan hisses at me.
Seriously, bro? I spin around on him, leveling him with my stare that I know is promising imminent bruising.
“Fuck. You. Dylan!” I seethe.
“Ben!” I turn to the sound of Cady’s voice and my heart seizes in my chest. Her blue eyes are pleading, weary and alarmed. She shakes her head as if begging me to not start this shit here. Yeah, well, I don’t answer to thieving runaways. Yes, I said thieving. You know damn well what she stole. As does she. “Don’t do this here.”
And there they are. The words I knew were coming, and yet still cause me to utterly lose my shit. Here we go.
“Seriously? Well, maybe instead of running like a coward—”
“A coward? Oh, fuck off, Ben. Hey, pot, meet kettle, asshole!” Cady fires back, and damn, that was a good one.
“What in the mother-eff is going on right now?” Mom yells over our tantrums. In the corner of my eye, I see her set down her mimosa, which is never a good thing, but the walls are down and the gates are open—there’s no stopping what’s about to come out.
“Yeah, Bug, what’s going?” Blaine opens his mouth and I thought I had lost it before, but nope, my shit has now officially left the building.
“Stop fucking calling her that! You don’t get to call her that! You have no fucking right!”
“Ben, stop,” Cady pleads, but I ignore it.
Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3) Page 34