The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2) (26 page)

I’m curious about Kash’s expression. It requires so much focus and control not to move my head up a few inches, so I can peek at him, but I don’t, fearing his reaction might support her claim—or worse, disagree with it. Right now, I can’t imagine seeing the look of longing he occasionally still gets for Arianna, not while I’m feeling so vulnerable.

“So, what have you been doing all week? I swear, if you turn your phone off again, I’m going to donate all your bikes.” Mercedes looks up with a straight face; it’s her most dangerous expression because it lacks any and all clues as to how serious she’s being.

I have learned to rarely question the sincerity of her message in its presence.

“Not a lot. I’ve been helping my uncle out at his shop, teaching some kids how to ride.”

“Traitor!” she cries. “You’re only supposed to share your tips and tricks with me.”

“I save all my best ones for you.”

“Did you like it? Were they good?” she asks.

I see my students’ faces while considering her question. “Yeah, it was kind of cool. A couple of students are really good, a few have potential, and one is kind of a pain in the ass.”

“Every group has to have a Parker,” Kash says with a grin.

I didn’t forget his presence exactly—no one can ignore the sensations that Kash elicits—but, for the first time in several weeks, I got lost and distracted by the familiar comfort of them, and forgot that we’re currently in such a strange place.

Mercedes and I laugh at his remark even though my ease has shifted and become more guarded.

“Maybe we should get you in some classes, monkey,” Kash suggests.

“Why when I live with you guys?”

“We all have coaches. Why do you think these clowns keep showing up?”

“I just make you look good—or try to.” I shrug.

It’s hard to keep a straight face when Kash looks at me with raised brows, expressing disbelief, the cocky bastard.

“You’d love it. I don’t know why we didn’t consider this years ago. You’ll meet other kids who have the same love and passion to ride, and Toby’s pretty cool. Plus, you’ll be able to show off your mad skills.” Kash’s voice is raised with excitement. “I’ll call him and get you in a class. This will be awesome!”

Mercedes was the target of bullying last year. I tried convincing Kash to transfer her to another school and get her away from all the pretentious rich kids while he constantly reminded me that people of all ages and incomes can be assholes, that there isn’t an exact recipe that creates them. It was being different that drew the attention to Mercedes. Being raised by two men, having a deep passion for riding, wearing hipster clothing, and likely her sometimes snooty attitude made her that perfect target. Many steps were taken to improve her experience at school, but ultimately, it was Lo who seemed to create the biggest difference. She and several of her friends went into Mercedes’ class and spoke to them about the qualities of being different, loving oneself, and supporting others that led to Mercedes coming home with smiles far more often than tears. She still has rough days, but the look of despair no longer accompanies them, and she’s started to make more friends.

I’m sure the memories of being the odd man out are what have Mercedes looking panicked.

I drape an arm around her shoulders and tightly squeeze her. “I’ve got an in. I can be there if you want.”

With rounded eyes of terror, she nods. Slowly, I feel her small body relax and lean against mine.

“I’m always here, and I always will be.”

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers.

I press my lips to the top of her head. “I’m sorry.” I can’t explain my absence to her, but I can apologize for it.

“Movie night?” She looks up at me, her grip releasing from my side.

No one has left her since she’s been able to form memories, yet the loss of her mother has always made her sensitive to the possibility of it; therefore, she has formed a barrier that keeps her from ever growing fully attached to anyone. I know from my own experience that, if you don’t rely on others, they can’t disappoint you—at least, not entirely. However, it’s forever been something that hits me straight in the chest. I have been around her since she was a few months old, and have never left. I want her to trust me, and I feel like I deserve for her to depend on me and expect my presence.

“Pizza, no toes,” I say, holding her tighter to make up for her loose grip.

“Extra cheese!” she exclaims, her eyes lighting up like her dad’s.

“How did olives ever get named toes?” Robert wanders into the room. He looks stronger and more comfortable as he crosses to the only recliner in the room and sits down in the adjoining living room.

“She used to put them on her fingers and toes, but
fingers
was too long of a word,” I reply. “She got her table manners from her dad.”

Mercedes pulls away with a scowl.

Kash feigns being offended for only a second before holding me in place with an arm around my shoulders as he tickles me. The gesture has been repeated numerous times previously, but I feel as rigid and nervous as I did the first few times and a few later when I thought something more was transpiring between us.

When I pull his hand free using both of mine, Robert’s stare is heavily resting on us. He’s smiling with fondness. It should erase the unease I feel about being around Kash and Mercedes in such a relaxed setting, but it doesn’t.

“How many pizzas should we order?” Taking a step back, I reach for my phone.

“Four,” King says, carrying a box into the dining room. “And however many you guys want.”

“What’s that stuff?” Mercedes wanders closer, her neck stretched.

“Fan mail.”

“Dad’s?”

“Um
…”
King’s cheeks color. “Mine, actually.”

Lo walks in behind him, her face split into a smile. She raises her arms in the air and squeals with uncontained excitement.

We follow suit and cheer.

All of us.

Loudly.

Pizzas are spread across the dining room table we’re seated around with content smiles. Amid the array of pizzas we ordered is one with the same concoction I recently discovered and loved from my
me
day.

While I have always believed in King and recognized the level of talent he possesses, I am so glad to be here to witness his first box of fan letters that have managed to completely overwhelm him. Lo, however, is proud and intrigued, leafing through letters with a mixed array of responses as she silently reads over them.

“Can you photograph me in, like
…
” Lo drops another letter into a pile, “every single picture from here forward?”

“Is that jealousy I hear?” Robert taunts as he reaches for his fourth slice of pizza.

I think we’re both surprised when no one says anything regarding him breaking his diet.

“Pretty much.” She scans over another letter while chewing on a pepperoni, not catching the grin that spreads joyfully across King’s face. “Half of these aren’t fan letters, they’re proposals. Proposals for marriage, obscene pictures
…
” her lips purse, and her eyes lift from the letter to meet mine, “and other
…
personal things.”

She stabs the letter after she drops it into another pile, and King’s grin spreads impossibly wide.

Kash has a publicist who handles all of his now, but I can recall different letters that were saturated in perfumes and frilly handwriting—a skill I never mastered. My writing still looks like a twelve-year-old boy’s. Usually, the letters never bothered me because they had little to no effect on Kash, other than the occasional chuckle. It was the letters from die-hard fans and aspiring kids that always motivated and pushed Kash to improve and grow.

“What did it say?” Mercedes asks, reaching for the white sheet of paper.

Now, nearly every letter received is typed, rather than written, creating a sea of monotony.

Lo firmly places a hand atop the pile and smiles sweetly. “That they need to see more of me, apparently.”

As we laugh, I look around, noticing how many lights are switched off. I know Kash keeps the thermostat several degrees lower than mine, yet even with my increased temperature and constantly lit house, I never feel this sense of warmth that I experience while here.

I
PLACE THE
last slice of pizza into a Ziploc bag and seal the sweet and spicy scents inside before tossing it into the fridge while Mercedes slumps out of the room, finally accepting she has to go to bed.

“I have to get going too.” My fingers lace together in front of me. It feels awkward and unnatural, and I have no idea why I’m doing it.

“Or
…
you could stay,” Kash suggests, standing from the table.

Everyone averts their attention from Kash and me. It’s so blatantly obvious that it makes standing here, looking like some cheerleader or perfect ’50s housewife, even more uncomfortable. I have no idea in what context he’s suggesting this since I have stayed over dozens of times, yet I have hardly been over since we slept together.

Does he really want things to return to the way they were a few weeks ago?

I hate that once again, Kash has me overthinking and second-guessing nearly everything.

“I need to go home.” It doesn’t come out nearly as convincing or strong as I intended, but I’m relieved I was able to say the words.

I head toward the front door, each of my steps weighted with the silence of the room. It’s so awkward, and I absolutely hate it. “I’ll see you guys bright and early. We have that meeting at seven.”

The called good-byes are more uncomfortable than the silence was, each with a tone too loud and too friendly to be genuine. When Kash makes no effort to say anything, I consider looking back to see what he’s thinking and how he is taking my response because like always, I am so concerned with his feelings that I allow them to negate my own. With a swift turn, I look to see him watching me, his brown eyes stretched and heavy, reflecting defeat. His mouth is drawn down in a frown, solidifying it.

Kash is easygoing, lighthearted, happy. Moody is not a side of him I see often, nor is deep consideration or annoyance unless he’s had a bad ride, yet all of them are currently apparent.

He meets my stare, silently demanding answers I don’t know the questions for and would likely never expose the answers to anyway.

I turn my head without giving him a smile or anything to relieve whatever turmoil he’s experiencing. As his footsteps echo through the house behind mine, I wonder if I was trying to get him to follow me, to finally verbalize demands and answers that we seldom reveal.

The door closes behind him, and I stop. Though it’s dark, I don’t feel like it’s encroaching on me, chilling me like it so often does. Kash warms and brightens the space, even with my back turned to him.

“Tell me how to fix this.”

My shoulders fall. My heart rate spikes. I turn to face Kash, but I don’t look at him.

“I know you want me to just know how, but I don’t. Every time I try to make things better, it seems to piss you off even more.”

“I’m not mad, Kash. I’m upset!” My cheeks heat.

“Same difference.” He throws a hand out with irritation ringing in his words.

“They’re not the same.”

“Can you at least tell me
why
you’re so upset?”

My glare grows more intense as I look up to meet his eyes. “Because I’m realizing you have no idea who I am.”

“Of course I do!” He looks baffled, his eyes wide as they desperately search for something other than the anger I’m feeling. “You’ve been my best friend for eleven years. I tell you everything.”

“I didn’t say I don’t know you. I said
you
don’t know
me
.”

Kash shakes his head as his eyes close, like he’s trying to shake sense into this moment. “I know you.”

“Then who am I, Kash? What do you see when you look at me?”

“You’re Summer. You’re my best friend. You’re the most infuriating person on the planet!”

“You don’t know what you want, and I am tired of being a placeholder. It’s not fair to me. I will always care about you. I will always be here for you guys, but I am done wasting so much time and energy on waiting for you to realize what we have—what we
could
have had.”

His eyelashes fall closed and then open several times. The muted lighting makes his eyes appear nearly as dark as the full lashes that keep obscuring them, hiding so many truths, and while I have thought for several years that knowing what those secrets were was enough, I now know it’s not. He’s been hurt, but I can’t allow him to hurt me. I’m not seventeen. I’m not trying to prove to myself and everyone else that I can make him care for me.

“Things shouldn’t be so hard. It should be natural and easy. Maybe we’ve been trying to force things for way too long.”

“Summer.” He sounds defeated.

I
feel
defeated as I stare at him, waiting for him to disagree.

He can’t.

He doesn’t.

I want to make more promises—ones about how I will always be here for Mercedes and always care for him in some capacity, how the past eleven years have and will always mean so much to me—but looking at him, I know he can’t hear them any easier than I can speak them.

The walk to my truck is long and slow as I keep wondering if he will follow or call out for me, do something, anything to make me stop. Stop leaving, stop erecting walls, stop creating a clear division between us. Just stop.

Again, he doesn’t.

He remains on the porch as I get into my truck and start the engine. He doesn’t move, only stares after me.

Driving down the long driveway, I think of everything that has transpired since meeting Kash.

Eleven years of friendship.

Eleven years of a family I never knew possible.

Eleven years of learning to care about others more than myself.

Eight years of perfecting a craft I thought would be my future and life.

A fall that I thought would destroy everything.

One year of rehabilitation where Kash helped and encouraged me to grow stronger.