The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2) (20 page)

“Mushy?” Kash laughs again. “You and textures.”

It’s true. I refuse to eat most leftovers, because if food gets too soft and lacks texture, I can’t eat it without gagging. Leftover enchiladas are one of the worst offenders of this problem along with bananas, most seafood, and mashed potatoes.

“I think I’m going to wait until tomorrow. My old friend, the heating pad, is beckoning me.”

“Pretty sore?” he asks, making me wish I had kept my mouth shut.

“It’s not bad,” I lie. Already, I am feeling the aches setting in, and this is the first time I’ve sat down since my ride home. This time of year ensures the pain will only become worse. Cold plus lots of precipitation plus arthritis equals what my nightmares are made of.

“What are you doing tomorrow? Lo said she’s goin’ somewhere with you.”

“Are you jealous, Kashton Knight?” I don’t ask the question like it is so often said in movies with a teasing high pitch. Instead, I sound like a ridiculous radio host cracking a news story that is going to form my career.

“Maybe.” His voice conveys no humor, not even a trace.

I bite down on the fingernail between my teeth. Nerves, or possibly distraction, have reawakened a habit I broke before puberty. Yanking my hand away from my face, I try to relax the tensed muscles in my face and stand up. I pace to my kitchen sink to avoid looking at the flowers that are likely from Tommy. There has been countless flirting shared between Kash and me over the years, and it has always been something I have thoroughly enjoyed, but having flowers delivered isn’t something he would do. It’s not something I would want him to do. Our flirting and long looks are crumbs that give me hope that, one day, something will happen between us. That Kash will be ready, and we will be brave enough to admit our feelings, so we can officially acknowledge that we have always been more than just friends or colleagues.

Crumbs.

My tongue runs over my front teeth as I glance at my kitchen sink, which is now filled with crumbs. The thing about crumbs is they can’t be put back together. They fall off and then apart, and they continue separating until you can no longer even see what they once were.

“I have to go.” My voice is curt, and my heart is once again thrumming, but now, it isn’t because I am anxious or excited. It feels as though it’s finally realizing what all of this is: leftovers. Remnants. Less than what I deserve.

“What?”

“I need to go.”

“Did you get the flowers?”

I’m certain my chin has disappeared into a mass of wrinkles because my neck is jerked so far back. Swinging my head in the direction of my kitchen table, I stare at the flowers with a new view. “Why’d you send me flowers?”

“What?” He sounds exasperated, and I’m grateful.

I hope he is as confused as I am.

“Why would you send me flowers?”

“Because I’m trying to do what I’m supposed to.”

Kash is aging me quickly on this call, creating new wrinkles and lines as my forehead bunches.

“What you’re
supposed
to do?”

“I’m trying to be romantic here, Summer, and you’re making it harder than hell. I get you candy, and you don’t want it. I get you flowers, and you ask why. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“I hate black licorice!” I yell, making my heart bang around in my chest that feels like it is shrinking by the second. “I have always hated black licorice! And I hate flowers! They die! They make a mess! Most of them don’t even smell good!”

“They
…
what?”

“This isn’t
…
I don’t know what you’re trying to do or why you’re trying to do it now, but if you think that because we slept together, you now need to act like this, then please stop.” A heavy, hot tear that has been suspended on my lower lid for what feels like forever slides down my cheek, marking a fresh path of regret. “That isn’t me, and if anyone should know that, it’s you.”

“What am I supposed to be doing?”

“Not referring to the idiots’ handbook for romance. You should be thinking about me and who I am and what I like.”

“I thought you loved black licorice! I’ve been buying that shit for you for as long as I’ve known you!”

“Have you ever noticed I only eat it when you give it to me? I never, not once, have bought myself black licorice. Not even when we went to that giant candy store in Vegas did I get it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

More tears run from my eyes. They are no longer alternating and taking turns to fall and be known. The line has become too long and concentrated, and they’re now falling like raindrops.

“Why didn’t you pay attention?” My face is hot and sticky. My voice is thick and gravelly. The effects of crying aren’t something I have endured in some time. It has never been the way I deal with emotions or frustrations, but right now, I can’t stop them from continuing to form and fall.

The line stays silent between us for several breaths that I have to gasp to receive. Although I’m feeling betrayed by Kash, knowing that he is the one to hear me break down is far more comforting than if it were anyone else.

“I’ve got to go.” I don’t allow him an opportunity to continue talking or debate it. I simply hang up.

I
LIE IN
bed seeking a new cool spot to heat with my legs. I’ve warmed up nearly every inch while binge-watching a show that was taking up most of my DVR space.

After hanging up with Kash, my stomach was no longer interested in scavenging for more of the snack foods I had deprived it of. It, and every other part of my body, seemed to go on standby as I numbly shut off every light I had turned on and climbed into bed. Tears fell steadily during the first episode but thankfully receded to occasional sniffling and stray tears.

This entire week seems like it was prepping me for this night, so I wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable or restless while doing so little. I haven’t been this lazy since I was injured. My colored pencils are scattered across my duvet, the word
Dammit
is colored in varying shades of gray. The remotes are somewhere in the mess while my phone remains camped out in my kitchen, once again turned off.

I sigh, locating a small area still bordering on chilly, and stretch my leg across to absorb it. I refuse to take any more painkillers or muscle relaxers. While I know my physical pain from an old accident is nothing like my relationship with Kash, I feel that the pills will do nothing but placate me, and I am sick and tired of being placated. I want to feel this pain and see how bad it becomes. Allow it to numb the other pains I am feeling that are far more terrifying and threatening.

I wonder what Kash is doing, if he has sought out King or Lo—or possibly even Parker, if he couldn’t find the others. But Kash is like me. He doesn’t generally share his feelings with many people—hence why we’re currently in this situation. Likely, he is doing the same as I am—trying not to wallow while ignoring that things are completely fucked up.

A nagging sensation is making it difficult for me to fall asleep though I know that is what I should be doing. I feel guilty for not calling Mercedes. Of all the people in this world I don’t want to hurt, it is her, and I know that, by being absent right now, that is exactly what I am doing. To keep that guilt company, I feel accountable for never telling Kash that I
do
hate black licorice. Hell, I hate all licorice, always have. Initially, I hadn’t wanted to be rude when he gave me the package of candy all those years ago, and then it became some strange feeling of obligation, which was completely insane because at that time, I was doing everything to avoid anyone or anything that made me feel those obligatory emotions.

Gathering the colored pencils up, I shove them back into their cardboard holder, lacking precision or attention to where they land. I toss them and my coloring book to the floor, and dig around until I find the remotes to turn things off.

I have been avoiding thinking about Kash and me sleeping together with a valiant effort. If it pops into my mind, I have numbed the images with wine, TV, riding, and even thinking of new ways to discover things that I like to do, like coloring. However, the images are louder than words or rain or even my own sense. That night plays in my head like a perfectly restored movie, capturing the smile on his lips when he wasn’t able to smoothly unlatch my bra with the first, second, or even third try, revealing his skills were as rusty as my own. The way his eyes appraised me and how many emotions were present, but not once did I ever see regret or even hesitation. There was also the perfect balance of the coolness of his sheets and the heat of him. Everything is flawlessly stored in my thoughts, and though it makes my chest once again feel far too small, I’m grateful.

M
Y EYES BURN
from being too dry and too tired to remain open. Lo convinced me to try white coffee, something that boasts having more caffeine while lacking the coffee flavor. The barista doused it with chocolate and caramel and even put an extra helping of whipped cream on top, but it’s still gross and only half-drunk as I hold it in my hands while I stare at the pages of the magazine Lo is flipping through.

“What do you think of this?” She turns the magazine to fully face me, giving me a better angle of the woman and her razored hair.

Apparently, my expression tells her no because she drops the magazine back to her lap with a smile, and resumes flipping through the pages.

“You’re lucky because your face is oval but not too oval. You have an ideal face shape for really any cut.”

“What about my coloring?”

Lo peers over top of the magazine. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she looks over me. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think I could go lighter?” I’m half-Irish and half-Italian, so while I can tan if exposed to a lot of sun, I’m generally a nice pasty Portland white.

“Sure, if that’s what you want to do.”

I’m not sure that it is. Honestly, I have no idea what I want. I only know I want a change.

Greg greets us both with a smile. He must be having a great day because he wears a frown like it’s his trademark. He has a love-hate relationship with his profession, loving what he does, and hating that everyone assumes he is gay because of it.

“How are things with you?” he asks, draping a black smock over my shirt and tying it behind my neck.

“It’s goin’.”

“To hell or boredom?”

I look up to see Lo’s curiosity piqued as she watches him, ignoring the magazine still in her hands. Greg notices too.

“Hell means you’re living life to its fullest potential and not allowing anyone to make you their bitch.” He releases a deep breath through his nostrils and looks at her over his glasses that are sitting low on his nose.

Like many men in bigger cities, Greg is somewhat metro, dressing very stylish, and occasionally acts slightly dramatic, thus making people feel positive he is gay.

“What’s boredom?” Lo asks.

“Death,” Greg says.

Lo contemplates this as she turns back to her magazine.

“Neither.” My answer has him frowning at me in the mirror.

“Life is not about longevity. We are not guaranteed any amount of time. You know this. Every day, we have to work to earn our invitation to hell by pushing every boundary and limit there is.” He pauses and glances to Lo. “I believe God has a good sense of humor and knows I’m kidding, don’t worry.”

“She’s an artist. You don’t have to convince her not to push papers and live to work,” I assure him.

“An artist?” He squeezes my hand with his ring-covered fingers.

“What kind of artist?” he asks.

Lo timidly glances over the top of her magazine, reminding me of when I first met her. Neither of us seems fully aware of what our relationship is, which is funny when we have been so close and relaxed on numerous occasions over the past year. I know her shyness is likely due to Greg’s presence rather than mine, but it still annoys me.

“She draws. She paints. She’s even good with crayons,” I answer, not waiting to hear her vague response that I know will be underrated. While her confidence has grown, she is never even slightly boastful.

“Anything I might have seen?” he asks, running a brush through my hair.

I snicker. “Since when do you peruse art galleries?”

“Social media!” he exclaims. “These days, it’s how we see everything!”

“I haven’t gone viral yet.”

I watch Lo in the reflection of the mirror as she smiles easily. Everything about her suddenly seems calm and relaxed. I am envious of how so few things penetrate her.

“That’s what you need to do,” Greg sings. “Do something that will create all sorts of attention. Then, everyone will see your work.”

“She’s dating King,” I say.

Slowly, Greg moves his gaze to Lo. “Why aren’t you using that?”

She shrugs, her weight shifting with discomfort. “That’s not exactly how I imagined breaking into the art scene.”

“Break in however you can.”

Silent judgments pass over Lo’s face as Greg’s attention turns to a large tangle his brush is stuck in, and my annoyance with her passiveness evaporates as I am reminded of how genuine she is.