The Fading Trilogy: Fading, Freeing, Falling: Includes 2 BONUS short stories

by E. K. Blair

  My head is pounding, and I’m tired as hell. Now that she’s awake and moving around my loft, I suddenly don’t know how to act. I don’t know what to say. This realization has flipped a switch for me, and I don’t know how to respond, so I stay quiet.

  I’m in the kitchen, fixing her a cup of coffee when she walks over to me and asks, “Did you not sleep last night?”

  Screwing on the lid to her mug, I’m evasive when I tell her, “Not much,” before handing her the cup and walking into the other room to grab our coats so that I can take her home. I feel like I can’t touch her. Like I can’t be the same with her. I want to scream and punch my fuckin’ fist through the wall. Why did it have to be her? And what piece of shit would do that to her? She’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever known.

  Handing her the coat, I ask, “You ready?”

  “Yeah,” she says shyly as she keeps her eyes down.

  She slips it on, and I know that my attitude is making her uncomfortable, so I take her hand in mine as we head outside into the bitter cold.

  It only takes a couple of minutes to drive to her house, and when I pull up and park the car, she turns to me and says, “I’m sorry about last night, and I get that you’re mad, but—”

  “What?” I interrupt, not understanding what she did that she would need to be sorry for. “Why would I be mad?”

  She shakes her head, unsure of herself when she tells me, “Because I keep pushing you away. You’ve hardly said two words to me this morning. So, I just figured . . .”

  Fuck. I’ve been so wrapped up in myself that I didn’t realize I’ve been a total dick to her this morning. Getting out of the car, I walk over to her side, open her door, and unclick her seatbelt, grabbing on to her hips to face me. I don’t know what I’m doing, but seeing the look on her face snaps me out of my fears immediately. I feel like I can’t be the same with her, but I have to be. I want to be, because I love what we are together.

  I’m firm when I declare, “Everything you give me is perfect. You have to stop feeling like this. I’m here with you, and I’m not going anywhere.” Needing her to believe me, I don’t hesitate when I take her lips with mine. It bothers me that she doubts herself so much with me. My thoughts are all over the map, but one thing is certain, as hard as this is, I know I can’t let it change us. I can’t allow it to filter in and affect me because I can’t give her any reasons to doubt that I love her from the purest part of me there is.

  When I break our kiss, I softly tell her, “I’m sorry if I’ve been a dick, I just didn’t get much sleep.”

  “It’s okay. I overreacted.”

  But she isn’t overreacting because her observations are astute and this is my fault. Taking her hand, I help her out of the car and shut the door, leaning her back against it when I take her face in my hands and look into her eyes, trying to connect in a way so that there is no doubt within her when I tell her, “I never thought I needed anything in this life until I met you. Everything you give me is exactly what I have always needed, and you do it perfectly.”

  I don’t give her a chance to respond when I pull her into me, pressing my lips into hers. Her hands around my back are firm as she holds me close, and I wish she didn’t have to go to school because I want to keep her wrapped up in me like this all day.

  We say goodbye, and when she’s inside, I start driving to work. When I pull into the lot and park, my phone buzzes with a text from Candace.

  Can I stay with you?

  I’ve never been so sure of anything when I type out my response.

  Of course, babe.

  I don’t know what happened in the past ten minutes since I dropped her off, but if she needs me, she has me. Sitting in my jeep, I go ahead and call her so that I can make sure everything is all right.

  “Hey,” she answers apprehensively.

  “Did something happen?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to impose, but I just . . .” she trails off when I assure her, “You’re nothing close to an imposition, babe.”

  “Kimber is here, and it’s not good. I just think I should give her some space.”

  The comfort of knowing that she ran to me, and not Jase, shows me that she’s in this, and I love her even more for that. “When do you get out of class?”

  “I’m going straight to work after I get out of school, so I won’t be home till a little after seven tonight.”

  “I’ll meet you at your place and help you get a couple bags together, okay?”

  I hear her release a sigh before she says, “Thank you, Ryan. Really.”

  We hang up, and when I get out of the car, I can’t help myself when I turn to the back of the alley. I walk over towards the dumpster and can see that son of a bitch on top of her again. Shoving his hand between her legs. Slamming his fist into the side of her head. The images unleash a rage inside of me when I think about what happened to her, and the guilt that I was right fuckin’ here and didn’t protect her from it.

  Questions storm inside. Is she a different person now because of it? What did she go through after it happened? What is she going through now? I know she has to be masking the pain because I’m pretty certain that I now know what it is that’s constantly causing all of her restless sleep at night. Is that what she dreams about? Fuck! Is that the shit that fills her head when she’s in bed with me?

  Raking my hands through my hair, I drop my head and spot a small crate of empty bottles. When I can no longer stand the rapid banging of my heart against my chest, I fume as I pick up the whole crate, smashing it violently against the side of the dumpster. Screams grit through my lungs, and the explosion of glass shattering echoes in the quiet morning air.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Max yells out from behind me, but I keep my eyes on the shards of glass that are scattered on the ground. The same ground where some fucker . . .

  “Ryan, man,” Max says and knocks me out of my thoughts when I turn to face him, and the anger inside of me is blatant. It’s a force that I can’t push down when I yell, “It was her!”

  “What are you talking about?” he questions as he moves closer to me, glass crunching under his boots with each step.

  “The girl that was raped . . . It’s her.”

  He shakes his head, not piecing it together while my muscles tense up in frustration with everything.

  “It’s Candace,” I breathe out because the constricting of my throat makes it painful to speak.

  His face drops, stunned when he asks, “How do you know?”

  “Because that girl, she has the same tattoo that I saw on Candace last fuckin’ night!” Those last words seethe out of me as I pick up a bottle from another crate and barrel it into the dumpster, creating another spray of glass after it smashes into a splattering of pieces. My breathing is heavy as I press my palms to my forehead and admit, barely holding myself together, “I don’t want it to be her, man.” I can barely choke out the words, but I had to hold my shit together quietly last night and now . . . now it bleeds out.

  “Fuck,” I hear him mumble before he asks, “What did she say?”

  Looking up at him, I tell him, “She doesn’t know. I couldn’t tell her.” When I see the way he’s looking at me, like I’m an idiot for not telling her, I shout at him, pleading, “What would I fuckin’ say, Max?! What should I have said to her?!” I pause, catching my breath before I continue in a calmer tone. “I love her,” I tell him with a defeated shrug of my shoulders. “I can’t hurt her like that.”

  “Has she even told you that she was . . . you know?”

  “No,” I respond. “I don’t think she ever intends to either.” I start walking away, not wanting to talk about this shit anymore, and when I pass him, I stop and look over at him. “We’re never gonna mention this again. Got it?”

  “Yeah, man,” he whispers to me. “Got it.”

  I’m not talking about this shit with anyone. Max knows and that’s where it stays. It won’t come up again. I won’t talk about her like th
at. Whatever happens, it’s private and stays between Candace and me.

  Candace’s roommate wasn’t home when I went over to help her get a few bags packed. Most of her belonging were all ready to go by the time I got there, so it didn’t take us too long before we left, which was good because she was really upset about the whole thing.

  We spent a while moving things around in my room to make space for her. She didn’t want to go through the hassle, but I wanted to make sure that she was comfortable and that all her things had a place in my home. She didn’t say how long she was staying, and I told her to play it by ear. I’m just happy that I don’t have to say goodbye to her at night anymore. That she will be here every day with me.

  Getting into bed, I sit back against the headboard and watch her as she ties her hair up on top of her head.

  “Come over here,” I tell her as I wrap my arms around her.

  She slips her arm around my waist as we lie here. It feels good to have her close after the shit day I’ve had. She’s always has this effect on me, and I’ve never needed it more than I do now.

  When I kiss the top of her head, she runs her fingers along my scar, asking, “How did you get this?”

  “My dad.”

  “Sorry,” she says as she looks up at me.

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to bring it up if you aren’t comfortable talking about it.”

  “Babe, I’d tell you anything.” She keeps her eyes on me when I open up to her and show her the side of me that no one else gets to see. “I came home from a party one night and walked in on my father beating the shit out of my mom in our kitchen. He smashed a coffee mug into the back of her head, and I lost it. I started whaling on him. Eventually, he managed to get his hands on a butcher’s knife.”

  “Oh my God,” she whispers. I know it can’t be easy to hear, but I give her this, knowing that I hold what is probably her darkest secret.

  “That’s the night he died. He left, and my mom called 911, so we were taken to the hospital by ambulance. The next morning, we were back home, and two cops showed up at the front door to tell me about the car crash.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” she quietly admits.

  Running my fingers up and down her arm, I tell her, “There’s really nothing to say. I hated him. He had beaten the shit out of me my whole life. He didn’t even need a reason. Sometimes he would just come home from work and knock me around for the hell of it.”

  “But why?” she asks, and when she looks up at me, her eyes are rimmed with tears.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “But I do know that he couldn’t stand me. He hated me just as much as I hated him.”

  “What could anyone possibly hate about you?”

  Her words are sweet, and I lean down to give her lips a quick kiss before she continues, “So . . . nobody knew?”

  I shake my head.

  “How did you deal with all of that alone?”

  “Vices. In high school I used to do a lot of drugs, but I stopped shortly after my dad died. I felt like what happened to my mom that night was my fault. I was wasted and passed out at a party when I should have been at home with her.”

  “That wasn’t your fault though,” she tells me.

  “I know that now. But it got me to give up popping so many pills. In turn, I just traded one vice for another. I was searching for a way to numb myself. I’d been doing it since I was a little kid, and by the time he was dead, it was all I knew to do. So I kept looking for ways to escape.”

  “I can see that,” she responds. “The need to hide.”

  I shift us down so that we’re lying on our sides. She hides behind her dance and school. She busies herself when there isn’t anything to really keep her busy. She’s an overachiever, but I don’t point out her vice, instead I reveal, “I don’t want to hide from you though. You’re the only one I can say that about.” She runs her hand along my cheek, when I go on, “I’ve always been scared to connect with women.”

  “Why?”

  Giving her my fear, I let it all out there. “Because I’m afraid I’ll wind up just like him.”

  Keeping her hand on my face, she whispers softly, “That won’t happen.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because you’re the kindest person I know. Because you’ve never put yourself before me. You’re a genuine guy, Ryan.”

  “You’re probably the only woman who would say that about me.”

  “But how well did they know you?”

  “They didn’t. Nobody does except you.”

  “Can I ask you something?” she says coyly.

  “Anything.”

  Closing her eyes, she lets out a slow breath and then asks, “If you never wanted to connect with those girls, then why sleep with them?”

  “Because they offered me an escape. If even for a few minutes, it was my way of disconnecting.” Tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear, I lean my forehead against hers and tell her, “I was too scared to feel because I hadn’t ever done that before. I don’t know what it’s like to care more about someone other than myself.”

  “But why me?” she breathes.

  “You’ve always intrigued me. You aren’t like any girl I’ve ever known. Without even trying, you get me thinking about myself and what I want out of life. You’re everything I never thought I wanted, but when I met you, you were everything I needed.”

  She rests her hand on my jaw, and slowly runs her thumb along my lips when she says, “Somehow, you make up for everything I was missing before you. I have a hard time opening up to people; I know that. But I don’t want you to doubt that you have me, because you do.”

  I know she struggles, and I’m still waiting for the day she will drop that wall with me to feel safe enough to tell me she loves me, but this . . . this lets me know that she’s trying.

  “God, you are so much more than I deserve,” I breathe against her mouth before I kiss her.

  I take what I learned last night and refuse to let it stand in the way of what we have together. I’m not gonna beat myself up because I want to touch her, because I know that each touch I want is because I love her. And that’s the only reason. I simply love her.

  “What are you doing?” I ask when I walk through the front door and see Candace bent over in my kitchen, wrapping her thighs in Saran Wrap.

  Peeking her head up, she tells me, “Helping my muscles recover,” as if this image isn’t anything out of the realm of normal.

  I start laughing at her while she continues to wrap her legs. “Explain this to me because I’m dying to know.”

  She rips the plastic from the roll and sets it on the counter before defending, “I swear it works. I’ve been doing it for years.”

  “Wrapping yourself up like leftovers?” I tease.

  “No,” she drags out. “You see, I use Tiger Balm,” she says as she hands me a tiny brown jar that can’t hold any more than an ounce. “Then, I seal it in with plastic wrap. It traps in the vapors, which allows for maximum absorption, bringing more relief to my muscles.”

  Setting the jar down, I say, “Are you not worried about a chemical burn or some shit like that?”

  “It’s never happened before,” she says as she walks out of the kitchen and into the living room.

  Watching her, I laugh at the image . . . and the sound.

  “Candace, this is some crazy shit you do, you know that right?”

  She takes a seat on the couch as I move to join her.

  “Yes, I know, but I swear it helps. Look, I have my audition in two days, and I’m freaking out because I keep getting these cramps in my legs. I’ve upped my calcium and potassium, but it’s still bothering me.”

  “Give me your legs,” I tell her and she shifts to lie on her back, kicking her feet onto my lap.

  “What are you doing?” she asks when I turn to the side to face her.

  “I’m gonna give your calves a solid rubdown.”

  She s
miles as I start to knead my fingers into her muscles. I can’t get enough of her legs, even wrapped up like she has them. They are solid and sexy, and I take my time, thoroughly enjoying myself, as I give her calves a deep massage. She closes her eyes and relaxes while I make good use of the next thirty minutes.

  When I’m done, I take her up to my bathroom where she begins to unwrap her legs.

  “God, that shit stinks,” I complain as she wads up the wrap and tosses it to me.

  “Be nice,” she scolds playfully. “I’m gonna take a quick shower. I’ll come to bed in a few minutes.”

  “Okay,” I say when I lean down to peck her lips before I leave and close the door behind me.

  I run downstairs to plug my cell into its charger in my office before locking up. Candace has her dance bag by the front door with her toe shoes lying on top of a towel. Walking over, I kneel down and run my finger over the dirty, torn pink satin. You can see the burn marks on the ribbon where I can tell she has used a lighter to stop them from fraying.

  It’s ironic how these shoes mirror Candace. On the verge of falling apart. Barely holding together. Yet they do. She’s strong even though she’s breaking. I don’t see her doing anything to heal; she’s hiding and masking what I know is eating away at her. And these shoes, as worn as they are, they’re still strong and beautiful.

  Turning off the lights, I head back upstairs and lie down. When Candace is done drying her hair, she crawls in next me, and I curl myself around her. We don’t talk as we both drift off to sleep.

  When I stir awake, I’m alone in bed. Sitting up, I lean over to her nightstand to check the time on her phone. It’s after two in the morning. I roll out of bed and walk out to the top of the stairs and see her. She’s downstairs, sitting on the couch in the dark, watching the rain fall. The past couple nights since she’s been staying here, she hasn’t slept well. I haven’t said anything to her, but she spends most of her nights in a fit of restless sleep, keeping me awake while I hold her and just watch.

  Quietly, I walk down the stairs and across the room. As I round the couch, I see her wrapped up in a blanket, and she’s crying. My heart is so heavy, and I don’t know what to do. All I want is to take it all away, but I don’t know how to do that.