Falling With You: A Fractured Connections Novel

by Carrie Ann Ryan

  Marcus wouldn’t be running in the Olympics anytime soon—or ever—and I didn’t know how to help him mentally with that. But other people at my clinic knew how to help me lead him towards the right therapist since we could help with the body here but only so much with the mind.

  “It feels better,” Marcus said. “I let it run. You know, really run.”

  I gave him a smile but shook my head. I had to be firm, even though I needed to be nice at the same time. “We need to go slow, Marcus. I know you hate that.”

  “There’s nothing slow about me, Miss Knight.” He gave me a wink, and I just rolled my eyes.

  “I’m sure, but healing takes time. And if you don’t want to have to deal with this again and again, especially at the exact wrong moment, you’re going to have to listen.”

  We had gone over what his prospects were, and the fact that even with all the rehab and training in the world, his leg would never be as strong as it had been. We were going to try, but I wasn’t going to give him false hope. I also wouldn’t take his dreams away from him. It was a fine line, and sometimes I wasn’t the best at handling it.

  By the time I’d finished with Marcus, I was tired and still had some paperwork to do. The others were going to need the pieces of equipment that I had been using, so I moved out of the gym area and into my office. I had a small window, but it wasn’t the biggest room in the place. I didn’t mind, I was rarely in it anyway. I went through my files, looked at what I was doing for the rest of the week, and tried to maintain the plans that I had for each of my clients. It wasn’t easy, trying to overlap what they needed with what they wanted, but sometimes, I could make it happen.

  Being the person who had to tell others that maybe their dreams were over wasn’t the easiest thing in the world. I hated being that person, but I also had to be the voice of reason and reality for others. I could help some reach their dreams, but most of the time, I was the one telling them that they needed to hold back.

  And as someone who hated holding back herself, it wasn’t easy.

  By the time the sun was setting, I was all packed and ready to go home. I nodded at my coworkers as I left and put my keys between my fingers as I walked to my car. I didn’t use my little cat ear thing anymore. It hadn’t helped me before, and I didn’t think keys between my knuckles were going to help this time if anything happened. Maybe I needed to get pepper spray. Or at least learn to use it. Or perhaps I just needed to be stronger. Or at a minimum, not afraid to walk to my car when there was still sun, and I was parked right under a light.

  I hated this fear, but I didn’t think it was going away anytime soon.

  The drive home took forever. Traffic and I never got along. By the time I got home, I just wanted to eat, bury myself in whatever leftovers I had in my fridge, and cuddle with my cats.

  I grinned down at them as Baby ran towards me.

  She’d had another name when I pulled her from the foster home, but she’d ended up being Baby. She pranced towards me, dancing around my feet, and I set my stuff down on the entryway table before picking her up.

  “Did you have a fun day?” I asked, nuzzling the top of her head before petting her. She purred into me and started chirping.

  I wasn’t really a crazy cat lady if I talked to my cats and they answered back, right? I mean, cats could totally talk. They understood you.

  Right?

  I really hoped no one else would ever answer those questions for me. Because I really didn’t want to know the answer.

  I walked into the kitchen and shook my head. “So? Did we have a rave?” I put Baby down on the floor, and she purred near me before prancing off into a full gallop towards the living room.

  “Well, at least some things don’t change.” I shook my head and started closing all the cabinet doors. Somehow, the cats had learned to open every single cabinet in the house. And when they got lonely or annoyed with me or each other, they would open the cabinet doors. The shelving units that I had inside the cabinets were those soft-closing ones, which meant that they couldn’t actually get into them themselves. It was great for organizing, but the cats hated it. It also meant that they just left the cabinet doors open, and I had to close them. I used to have child locks on everything, but my hands had hated it, and it only really discouraged me from getting into the cabinets rather than the cats. So, I had taken them off, much to my brother’s and sister’s amusement.

  I picked up two of the water bowls on my first floor and cleaned them out to fill them up again, right as Danger and Moxie made their way into the kitchen. Moxie was my second youngest, a really quiet boy who was a little skittish. Although he wasn’t skittish when it came to the UPS man. Why, I didn’t know. But Moxie loved the UPS guy. Moxie didn’t like me too much, but I was gaining traction. It had only taken three years. Maybe in another three years, he would actually let me pick him up.

  I took a couple of very soft steps towards Moxie and held out my hand. When Moxie sniffed it twice and didn’t back away, I counted that as a win.

  “It’s good to see you too, boy,” I said softly. Moxie ran, and I just shook my head. Well, that had been a win.

  I went over to where Danger was drinking his water and petted him. Danger just looked at me, maybe winked, and then went back to his water. Danger was my lazy baby. So lazy in fact, I was very surprised that he was actually out walking around like this. I looked at the time and shook my head. Ah, it was wet food time.

  Six thirty on the dot every night, the cats got wet food. And that was the only reason Danger would be away from his very comfortable bed. There could be an actual tornado in front of my house, and Danger probably wouldn’t get out of bed. He was that lazy.

  I quickly got four of their little plates and set their food on each one evenly, then added some water and set three of them down on the floor. Danger, Moxie, and Baby ran towards the food and started eating. I looked down at the fourth plate and shook my head. “This is getting ridiculous,” I whispered to myself. But I was the cat lady, trademark and everything, and that meant I had to do what my cats said. So, I took the fourth plate, pulled a beer from the fridge, somehow twisted off the cap with just one hand, and made my way upstairs.

  Runway, my eldest baby who was now ten years old, smiled up at me from the bedroom. She was nestled in a pile of pillows on my bed, and I just shook my head at her. She didn’t like the other babies, really didn’t like them, so therefore, she rarely came downstairs. Oh, she came sometimes, and I was very careful not to move too quickly and scare any of the other cats and therefore scare her when she did. But Runway was sweet. She just liked people, not cats.

  “Okay, come with me to the bathroom so you can have your food.” Somehow, I had done the one thing I said I would never do. I had a special place where Runway could eat and just be. It encroached on my space, and I really didn’t have any place to call my own in my house anymore. Because I didn’t live alone. I lived with four cats who owned the place. I just rented from them.

  I petted Runway softly, rubbing her soft fur, and then used the brush on her since the other cats wouldn’t bathe her. Or rather, she wouldn’t let them bathe her.

  “I think I have a problem,” I said to her. She looked up at me and burped before going back to her food.

  She didn’t usually eat this calmly, but she knew I was there to protect her in case any other cat came up from behind. Not that they would, but she was as paranoid as I was these days.

  My sister and brother were happy in their relationships and talking about future children and everything. Harmony was on her second serious relationship and totally in love with Brendon, and I knew they were going to get married soon.

  And I was just fine being alone.

  Because I had my cats.

  “Dear God.”

  I took a sip of my beer, sat on the toilet lid, and watched my cat eat her food so she wouldn’t be alone. And when she was finished, I drained the last of my beer and brought the plate down so I could wash it with
the rest of the other cats’ empty dishes.

  I heated up my leftovers in the microwave and ate in the kitchen so I didn’t make a mess anywhere else.

  I really wasn’t this pathetic usually. It just seemed like it to me right then.

  My phone was by my hand as I finished up the dishes, and I looked down at it, knowing I needed to take the next step.

  Aiden had been hurt because of me. And I needed to do better and check on him. I hated the fact that I had run away like I did, worried because he had said we needed to talk. I needed to do better in a lot of things. So, the first thing I would do was text him.

  Me: Hey.

  Oh, that was good. Hey. That was like the greatest way to start a conversation.

  Aiden: Hey. Just about to work in the kitchen. You okay?

  I cursed myself. Of course, he was working. It was the evening on a weeknight. Aiden always worked. He loved his job. He would probably like it more if he didn’t have a broken hand because of me, but that was why I was texting him.

  Me: Just checking on you.

  Aiden: I’m fine. Just working. You coming in tonight?

  Me: No. Just a quiet night at home.

  With my cats. But I didn’t say that.

  Aiden: Violet and Harmony are here. So you wouldn’t be alone.

  Always worried about me. But I was good at being alone.

  Me: I’m good. Long day. Have fun cooking wings.

  Aiden: Fuck you and your wings.

  I smiled. I loved buffalo wings. And Aiden hated them. Aiden liked adding fancy things to the wings and making them glorious. And I totally agreed with that and liked it. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t razz him about it. But then I remembered he had been hurt because of me, so I didn’t. Instead, I just texted:

  Me: Anyway. Have fun. Got to go. Night.

  Aiden: You need to talk?

  Crap.

  Me: I’m fine. Night.

  I turned my phone down and turned it over so I wouldn’t have to look at the screen. And then I just shook my head, wondering what was wrong with me. Why was I like this? And why, after all this time, did I still have feelings for him?

  I shouldn’t. He wasn’t mine. I needed to remember that.

  He wasn’t mine. He had never been mine. And the sooner I got that through my skull, the better for both of us.

  Chapter Six

  Aiden

  “Are you sure your hand doesn’t hurt?”

  I bit back a nasty retort and inhaled deeply through my nose while rolling my shoulders back. I had to remember that despite the kid asking me the same damn question every thirty minutes or so, I was actually enjoying myself.

  And lashing out and beating him senseless for worrying about me wouldn’t be productive.

  I swear to God, I sound like Brendon right now.

  “I’m fine.” I held up my injured hand and shook the cast in the air as the hustle and bustle of the kitchen around us kept moving. “I’m not even using it. You’re the one doing all the chopping and slicing.” I narrowed my eyes. “And the more you ask me about it, the slower you are at prepping for tonight’s meal.” I sing-songed the last part, and Dillon winced before going back to slicing up onions.

  I didn’t usually do all the prep like this since I had staff to do some of that for me before I even showed up. But I had peeled my fair share of potatoes in my day, sliced onions, peppers, and other assorted vegetables and fruits.

  Food prep had been where I started, even before I had gone to dish duty. I had started in food prep at the house and then had found a dishwashing position when I was sixteen. That had led to other jobs.

  Dillon was working on prep today, while I was showing him the ropes. Yeah, it was pretty much nepotism at this point, but we weren’t in a five-star restaurant, we were in a bar that I owned. The three other cooks that I had working in and out of the kitchen didn’t care. The kid helping out meant they didn’t have to do prep. My sous chef had stepped up into my position, and I was doing a little bit of everything where I could. Plus, they all liked Dillon.

  I didn’t know if they actually liked me, but I really didn’t care.

  They just had to listen to me and deal with the fact that, yeah, I changed the menu often. There were some staples, but then there were things I liked to add.

  We were a bar, but we weren’t the bar we used to be.

  The brewery we used to be had been failing. There were too many just like us, and it didn’t matter that we had the family history and the fact that Jack and Rose had made this place so great.

  Things had changed, and so we’d had to change with them. We hadn’t taken away what Jack and Rose had done to make it special, but we had added a few things.

  Like my tapas.

  And my daily, weekly, and seasonal menus.

  It had taken a couple of months, but the people in the kitchen had finally started having fun with it. And that meant I didn’t have to yell as much.

  Even though I kind of liked yelling.

  “Okay, so what are these onions going in again?”

  “We’re mincing them, so they’re going in a lot of things. In a base for our sauces, we’re going to sauté them for a few things, and part of this is going in the salsa that we’re making for the nachos. Everything’s fresh here, nothing pre-chopped or canned.”

  “Wait, some people just open up a jar of salsa at a restaurant?”

  “Yeah, I know, it’s a disgrace.”

  “Or it could be the fact that it works for them and it’s part of the bottom line,” Jorge said as he walked by, snorting.

  I flipped him off and went back to helping Dillon.

  “We are not those restaurants. What they want to do is fine. But I will not have that in my place of business. Do we understand that?”

  “Yes, chef,” they all said at the same time, and I just shook my head.

  “I’m starting to believe you don’t actually mean ‘yes, chef’ when you say it,” I said dryly.

  “I have no idea what you mean,” Beckham said as he walked in, carrying an empty crate for bar glasses. “I mean, I don’t actually call you chef, but I could if you want.” Beckham winked, and I flipped him off.

  I kind of missed being able to use my dominant hand to flip people off, but I was getting better at using my left hand to do it.

  “You don’t call me chef because I’m not in charge of the bar area.”

  “Lame,” Beckham said, walking back towards the bar with a filled glass crate. “I mean, come back with better comebacks.”

  “I would, but all of my time and energy is focused on the kid here.”

  “Don’t blame me for the fact that that was really crappy.”

  I glared at the kid, who just shrugged.

  “What? I’m starting to think maybe you hit your head rather than just your hand.”

  “You’re lucky you’re on the clock so I can’t beat the crap out of you.”

  “Another dollar for the jar,” Beckham said dryly. “Every time we threaten with violence, we have to put a dollar in the jar.”

  “At least it’s not cursing,” Jorge said. “Because that would fucking suck.”

  I just shook my head and put a dollar in the jar. All of us threatened each other jokingly, but we knew if anyone else heard it, we’d get our asses handed to us. And not in a violent way. So, we were trying to do better about it. I just sucked at it sometimes.

  Also, I was pretty sure half the dollars in that jar were mine. We didn’t actually know who the money was going to in the end. Probably all of us for beers. Or maybe we’d donate to a charity or something. Sandy, one of my line cooks who wasn’t here today, usually took care of it. She was the only one any of us trusted with the money. Mostly because she wasn’t going to spend it on herself.

  But still.

  “Okay, let’s get back to it,” I said as I gestured towards Dillon. “Once I’m out of this damn cast, I’ll be back to my brilliant menus.”

  “Oh, good, he’s go
ing back to his brilliance,” Jorge said, laughing.

  “Yeah, I mean, it’s been like a whole minute since he started talking about that beautiful, brilliant mind of his when it comes to food,” Beckham said, coming back into the kitchen with an empty tub.

  “Don’t you have somewhere better to be rather than here, razzing me?” I asked, glaring.

  “Well, Brendon isn’t here, so I can’t make fun of him for his bartending skills. I’ll just have to make fun of you and your attitude. That’s sort of my thing.”

  “I thought your thing was to be the brooding, quiet guy behind the bar?” Dillon asked, his attention on his hands rather than anything else.

  I lifted up my fist, and Dillon held his up. We fist-bumped, and the kid went back to work.

  “Good one,” I said.

  “I hear the girls talking about his broodiness all the time. I figured it was good to put it into conversation.”

  “I do not brood,” Beckham said.

  “Really? I think out of all of us in this building, you brood the most.”

  “Well…” Dillon said and then trailed off. “What?” he asked after I’d glared.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, all you guys pretty much brood a lot. Until you get laid. And then there’s not so much broodiness or swaggering. And that gets annoying after a while. You, however, brood a lot. Maybe you need to get laid.”

  “He is my favorite Connolly brother,” Beckham said, grinning. “Seriously, favorite Connolly brother.”

  “You know, I’m pretty sure we’re going to need to hire a new bartender soon,” I said dryly.

  “You would think that. But you would be wrong.” Beckham just stomped out, indeed brooding on his way. If the man wasn’t razzing one of us, he was actually brooding. Dillon had it right.

  “Okay, enough of this crap,” I said after a while. “Let’s get through the rest of the training, that way, more time will pass, and my hand will heal so I can get back to what I love.”