“Jake! I was just going to ask if I—”
“Can borrow my car?” He finishes my sentence while jiggling his car keys in between us. “Figured you’d need them,” he offers with a smirk and shrug of the shoulders. I throw my arms around his and mutter my gratitude into his vintage band tee.
“You’re a really good dad, Jake,” I tell him as we part.
He looks down at his feet, but I can see the smile he tries to hide. It’s wide, yet bashful at the same time. But if you ever tell him that I used the word ‘bashful’ describing him, I will deny, deny, deny and then neck-punch you.
“Go get your boy, Bug.”
I snatch the keys from his hand, kiss his cheek, and head straight for his car, yelling back at him on my way. “I plan on it!”
I’m instantly drenched once I step off the porch, but it’s the last thing on my mind as I jam the key in the ignition and turn that sucker over. I swipe at the sopping wet curls stuck to my forehead, take a deep breath, and back out of the driveway.
Time to get my man.
Thirty-Eight
Songs to listen to:
“Not Afraid Anymore” by Halsey
“No Promises” (acoustic version) by Demi Lovato, “Chasing Pavements” by Adele
“Like I’m Gonna Lose You” by Meghan Trainor & John Legend
“I’ve Been Loving You For So Long” by Otis Redding
Cady
Or not.
I went to the restaurant first because I figured that would be his go-to hideout spot. No Ben. I went to his gym and searched the courts. No Ben. I called half of his old teammates and friends, including Jacks. No. Fucking. Ben. I called both of my parents and after a verbal ass-kicking from my mom followed by words of encouragement from both sides, they confirmed he was not with anyone in the family. So that left me with our apartment. Any shred of hope I had died the second I opened the front door.
I know without even walking through the entryway that he isn’t here. It’s too quiet. Too stale. Too cold.
But I search the small space anyway. I move further into the house, shutting the door behind me before holding my breath and praying he’s going to come bounding into the living room, furious, but here. I stand completely still for far too long, awaiting the arrival that will never come. And yet my eyes can’t stop sweeping through the living room and kitchen, not allowing a single nook and cranny go overlooked.
I come up empty, like I knew I would.
So, I move to the bedrooms. Starting with his. Which is wide open and completely fucking untouched. I glare at his perfectly made bed before I turn away and push open the bathroom door. My eyes sift through the darkness quickly, my shoulders sagging lower with each minute of silence that passes. I close the door again and turn to the room that makes my body shake and tears spring to my eyes for the millionth time today. I hesitate before entering. Snippets of last night and all of the beautiful, world-altering ways he touched my body flood my memory so fast and so fucking intensely that I lose my balance and stumble back a few steps, grappling for my miserable heart.
Fuck.
Another deep breath. In through the nose. Out of the mouth.
I wipe at the damn wetness coating my cheeks, straighten my shoulders, and push through my bedroom.
Even hours later, there’s still a lingering smell of sex here. It has clung to the air around me, causing my face to heat, my legs to wobble, and my core to clench with each inhale. My eyes zero in on the bed. The top left corner of the fitted sheet is off the mattress, the flat sheet is bundled into a ball of cotton in the middle of the bed, and the comforter is falling haphazardly off the end.
My body trudges toward the evidence of a night that will forever be imprinted in my mind, no matter what happens with Ben and I. I kick off my dripping shoes and fall over onto the mattress, my head hitting the pillow Ben claimed last night. I hug my knees to my chest, curling into a ball and breathing in deeply, sighing in contentment when his cologne hits my senses. It’s faint but there nonetheless, and I take advantage. I’m five minutes into creeper mode when my eyes come in contact with the box. The box. The wintery gear-clad penguin on the front is staring directly at me looking damned adorable and growing increasingly hard to ignore.
I sit up and chew on my lip, continuing my ridiculous staring contest with a gift box. Another five minutes passes this way before curiosity wins out and I’m hopping off the bed, conceding with a nervous smile on my face and the infamous box in my hands. I run my fingers down the surface, tracing every crinkle and crack, hovering over the worn tape that is barely holding down the edges. I slide my index finger underneath the sticky adhesive and hold my breath as I finally lift the lid, discarding the penguin-printed cardboard onto the floor by yesterday’s bra. I unravel the cherry red tissue paper and gasp as my widened eyes fall onto the contents of the package.
It’s…fabric.
I know at first glance that it’s silk, but once my fingers dare to touch the material, I realize it’s actually stretch silk, which is much easier to handle. It’s expensive, especially for the yardage he bought. But damn, is it beautiful. So beautiful, I’m afraid to take it out of the box. The color is a vibrant raspberry with black and mauve polka dots of all different sizes. The larger dots even have tiny white polka dots inside them. It’s fun, quirky, and so me that the smile on my face cannot be contained. This is going to make one hell of a dress. A flurry of ideas are already whipping through my mind at the thought of it.
Finally, I gain the courage to lift the fabric out of the box and I realize there’s something wrapped inside of it.
I unravel the silk, and I swear my pounding heart just fucking stops. My eyes instantly flood with even more tears, and an uncontrollable sob of so many mixed emotions wretches out of my mouth as my trembling hands pick up the picture frame that was nestled between the yards of fabric.
There are four pictures held within it. The top left and the bottom right ones are shots of rows and rows of gorgeous fabrics of all different colors and textiles. My hands itch to touch them, feel the varied textures underneath my fingertips. The top right photo is of Ben on the streets of New York City, standing in front of the Mood sign. He’s smiling—it’s not a full one, but it’s a little more than a smirk. It doesn’t reach his eyes, though. In fact, there’s a sadness reflecting in his green irises. A loneliness that steals my breath. I have to forcefully tear my eyes away and focus on the last picture. The look in his eyes is slightly less despondent with a dash of sparkle, but his smile, his smile prompts a shiver to roll through me—it’s genuine and wide, charming and so fucking beautiful. My eyes water, but now I’m smiling and shaking my head in disbelief and pure awe. He took a selfie with a framed picture of Swatch. He’s Mood’s famous English Bulldog who guest-starred on most episodes of Project Runway.
I stare at the pictures for a long time, tracing the line of Ben’s face, studying the emotion he tried so hard to mask but couldn’t fully master. I lift the frame from its fabric perch and my finger scrapes what feels like paper. I turn it over and sure enough, on the back there lies three neon-pink sticky notes. His messy scrawl is barely legible, but with some squinting and estimation, I manage to read his words, pulling the papers off as I go.
Bug,
I was walking aimlessly for hours, lost in my thoughts. Mostly of you. Of us. And then for some reason, I just stopped, looked up and there I was, standing in front of Mood. There was no way I couldn’t go inside. I just wish you were here. You should be here. I don’t know how much longer I can be, without you. I miss you, every fucking day. I know you hate me, and for good reason, but I hope for now I can at least push you to create again. Not for me, but for yourself and the sake of the world, because it’s a far shittier place without your polka dots and shine. Merry Christmas, Cady.
Yours,
Ben
Ben motherfucking Catalano-Moretti.
I hold the Post-it’s to my chest and close my eyes, cursing my damn pride for not opening the
gift sooner. I wasted so much time being angry, basking in the role of the bitter, jilted woman and then carelessly bringing another man, a good man, into this ridiculous mess, which inadvertently caused pain for not one, not two, but three people, including my own damn self. Not to mention, dragging my family through all of this overly dramatic and undoubtedly annoying bullshit.
I allow myself three minutes to wallow.
Three minutes to berate myself.
Three minutes to wish I could go back, turn the hands of time.
Three minutes to accept that is not possible.
Three minutes to forgive myself.
And three to forgive Ben.
The second that thought pierces my mind, I let out an audible sigh. My shoulders fall at least an inch, relaxing for the first time in what feels like years. I forgive him.
I. Forgive. Him.
Maybe it’s naïve. Maybe he’ll break my heart again. Maybe it’s a dumbass move that I will live to regret.
But maybe it’s not.
Maybe he made a stupid mistake that he will live to regret. Maybe I don’t care anymore what happened in the past because it’s the future that matters, and he…maybe he’s my future. Maybe I’ve known it from the beginning. Maybe he has, too. And maybe, no matter what, that thing—that indescribable feeling that defies everything, the enigmatic hold that has tethered us together since we were kids—maybe, just maybe, that’s worth all of the bullshit we put each other through. Maybe, it’s worth the risk.
Maybe we are worth the risk.
We. Are. Worth. The. Risk.
It’s that kick-in-the-ass revelation that spurs me into action. I move over to my nightstand and prop up the picture frame facing my side of the bed while I tuck the notes into the drawer, and grab my sketch book before I close it.
Then I get to work, honey.
It only takes a little over ten minutes for my design to begin to breathe life on the crisp white paper, and before I know it, the soulful sounds of Sir Otis Redding and the whirring of my sewing machine flood my tiny bedroom.
I work for hours, well into the night, only stopping to pee, hydrate, eat, and call Ben. He never answers. But I forge on. He can’t ignore me forever. It’s not possible, not for us, no matter how hard we try. Right?
Right.
It’s two in the morning by the time I finish. Otis is still playing, but much softer at this hour. My hands are cramping. My eyes are blurry. I could dose off at any moment. But damn, do I look good in this dress.
It’s not exactly innovative, but it’s classic. Simple, but sexy as hell. It’s a swing dress, reminiscent of the 1940s and ’50s, with loose short sleeves and a full skirt. The Queen Anne neckline dips low, to the top of my ribcage, while the bust molds over my girls, simultaneously securing and showcasing my tits effortlessly. The bodice seamlessly follows the dip in my waist before dramatically flaring out, just barely skimming my hips, cascading down my legs until the hem ends right below my knees.
Despite still not hearing from Ben, I can’t help but smile as I stare at myself in the mirror. I rock my hips a little and the skirt swishes around me. My smile grows, wide and prideful. I feel more relaxed than I have in a long time. Rejuvenated. At peace. Fuck, I missed this. I didn’t realize just how much until the electric buzz of the machine filled my ears and my idea came to life.
My eyes find my phone through the mirror on my nightstand. I turn my head and glare at the device, willing it to light up and play his ringtone that I could never bring myself to change. “I’ve Been Loving You for So Long,” by Otis Redding. But like it has all day long, it stays silent. I grab it anyway, just in case. I allow my gaze to linger on the still unmade bed for a few seconds before turning off the light and leaving the room behind. I’m not willing to risk altering the evidence of what happened the night before; I need to preserve the memory any way I can.
I idly walk over to the coffee table and pick up the forgotten plates and wine glasses, only having just enough energy left to drop everything off into the sink with a silent promise to clean them thoroughly tomorrow. I make it back to the couch with the speed of a zombie on Ambien, plopping my elegant ass down onto the soft cushions the second they’re within my grasp. Clutching my fully charged phone to my chest, I grab the remote and absentmindedly flick through the channels until I find something suitable. I settle on Dirty Dancing, though Dirty Dancing is far from settling.
As Baby learns to move her hips and free her mind with a very sexy Patrick Swayze amongst a sea of grinding extras, I curl into a ball and unlock my phone’s home screen. My finger hovers over Ben’s contact icon for three seconds before I muster up the courage to call again. I hold my breath as it rings.
He doesn’t answer.
Of course he doesn’t.
I bring up our short text thread and my fingers fly over the keyboard in rapid succession. I type out a book of apologies and lame-ass excuses before deleting everything and opting for honest and simple.
Cady: I’m so sorry. Please come home.
He doesn’t reply.
I wait, until my eyes grow too heavy to lift and Patrick Swayze informs Jerry Orbach that “No one puts Baby in the corner,” and then the day, the drama, and my epic failure thankfully fades away and I fall to—
Thirty-nine
Songs to listen to:
“Face the Sun” by Miguel feat. Lenny Kravitz
“I Love You More Than Words Can Say” by Otis Redding
“I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) Sleeping At Last
“Get You” by Daniel Caesar
Ben
I’ve been lying on Miles’s couch for the last two hours, staring vacantly at the TV as Sixteen Candles (fuck you, Jake Ryan) ends and Dirty Dancing begins. My phone, which has been lighting up all goddamned day, has been unnervingly quiet for the last few hours. My eyes have drifted toward the device more times than I want to admit. The urge to give in, to call her back and forget the bullshit she pulled today just so I can hold her in my arms again because my body is literally vibrating to do just that is so damn strong, I have to physically restrain my own hands with my legs.
I’ve been able to ignore my phone most of the day, aside from dropping a few texts to the family, including multiple very mature messages to Dylan when he asked where I was.
Ben: Your boyfriend’s. You’re lucky I’m not into dudes and I’m hopelessly in love with your sister, otherwise I would be all over him right now just to piss you off.
Ben: Btw, if I were into dudes, I’d so be into him. He’s fucking fantastic and you’re an idiot.
Ben: Also, fuck you.
That last text was followed by a picture of Miles and I cuddled on the couch.
I know, I know, I’m not proud of it. But the asshole deserved it. It also made me feel marginally better. Plus, Miles really knows how to cuddle a man and make him believe everything will be all right. Even when you have a sinking feeling it won’t be.
That was hours ago.
After stuffing our faces with pizza and talking shit about the Adams twins, followed by sharing a bottle of Jack and pretending I didn’t see Cady’s name flash across the screen every time my phone lit up and vibrated, binge-watching Real Housewives of Seattle (those ladies are crazy but damn, they made me feel like I had my life together) and maybe, possibly, shedding a few drunken tears, Miles dragged his drunk ass to bed and I took the couch in his family’s den.
My legs are dangling off the arm rest, there’s a lump in the cushion underneath my left hip, my head is pounding, and the blanket covering my body is too heavy for my flushed skin. But none of these have anything to do with my inability to sleep.
Nope, all signs point to the girl. The girl who stole my heart when we were kids, held it hostage until she’d had enough of my shit, rightfully chucking it back at me before ignoring it for a year, then snatching it right back for one life-altering night just to fucking throw it right back at me, bruised and cracked.
I want to be mad at her,
fucking livid for walking out this morning, but the only person I’m truly mad at is myself. Cady had every right to freak out. To doubt us. This entire year is my doing. Her lack of faith, her hesitance, it’s on me. So, why have I ignored her all day?
Easy. After I licked my wounds with alcohol and trash TV, I realized I was a fucking idiot. I overreacted and honestly, I wasn’t ready to hear her apologize for no real reason or worse, tell me I’m a bitch-ass baby before running off to Blaire. Yeah, I got scared. So, I ran and shut her out.
Irony can be a nasty bitch.
Sighing, I twist and turn my body in hopes of at least getting comfortable, but I only make matters worse. Go fucking figure. I whisper out a curse, resigned to being uncomfortable for the rest of the night, and refocus my attention to Johnny, Baby, and that damned lift. I’m watching Baby clam up at the Sheldrake when my phone vibrates loudly on the coffee table in front of me. I don’t reach for it. As much as my entire body yearns to do so, I fight the instinct. I have to. I’m not ready to face whatever message she has for me.
Forty-five minutes. Johnny and Baby finally nailed the lift. The whole resort is grinding joyously (and awkwardly) to “(I’ve Had) the Time of My Life” and the most epic summer fling comes to an end, as does my resolve. My eyes glare at the device for a total of three more seconds and then my twitching fingers snatch the damn thing up like it’s a piece of New York cheesecake and I’m a week into the keto diet. I place my thumb on the screen, hit the text icon, and my breath stutters as I read her text. Her words are short and simple but cleansing—easing the ache that has been ruthless in its torture today and every day since I fucked everything up with my stupidity and utter fucking carelessness.
Cady: I’m so sorry. Please come home.
Home.
Does she even realize what home is to me? What home has always been since the moment I saw her and her muddied polka dot dress, red sneakers, and bright blue eyes filled with mischief and a happiness I so desperately craved to not only receive but to give? To her.
Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3) Page 36