The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2) (31 page)

“Do you think it’s carpal tunnel?”

“Yeah. I decided to try and be creative like Lo, and I think it’s causing as much harm as it is good.”

“You should rest them for a couple of weeks. You don’t want to cause permanent damage.”

“I’m sure once my body gets used to the change in weather, it won’t be so bad.” It’s always the worst with every changing season; even warmer weather causes them to be more sensitive.

“You need to ice them.” His hand moves, cutting a path between my forefinger and thumb and then down to my wrist. He releases a quiet breath and then continues rubbing the same blissful pattern across my palm.

The drizzle turns into a full-blown Oregon rain, the drops heavier and thicker. I love being in the car when it rains like this. To watch the drops fall and splatter across the glass, obscuring everything from view, is one of the most beautiful things to witness. What it sometimes hides from the view is even better.

“That feels good,” I admit.

Kash smiles, and while it’s not the huge smile that makes my heart always fill with warmth, it’s sincere.

I wish I had my camera with me. If I did, I would have been snapping a dozen frames in an attempt to catch every single distinguishable and indistinguishable detail that is Kash.

We arrive at the house with bags filled with steaming containers packed with food we ordered and more that we didn’t because Lo’s old manager, Estella, insisted on making sure we had plenty. King and Lo are emptying the dishwasher, while Robert watches TV.

“Robert, they hooked you up! If you don’t like what Lo ordered for you, there are like three other options,” Kash explains as he pulls a final container free. He wads up the plastic sacks to toss into the recycling bin.

Robert flips off the TV and stands, smiling brightly when he sees me. “How’s my girl?”

“Starving.” I begin opening each container, searching for my chimichanga.

Laughing, Robert grabs a fistful of forks as he passes through the kitchen.

Conversation begins light and ends with us all sitting in the living room, passing clipped articles and stories around. The first several articles were of only me from when I began riding and competing, several years before I knew Kash. Then, the articles become mixed with headlines of Kash and King as well, a well-paved memory lane of how our friendship was built along with terrible hairstyles, genuine smiles, and endless celebrations of varying degrees.

I’m not sure I ever saw half of them, and though some of the memories are harder to trace back than others, they all eventually come back to me. And while Kash wasn’t there for my first years of riding, it’s harder to remember the stories documented that he wasn’t a part of.

Hours pass until the box is sitting empty. Everyone is smiling, content and happy, and now with the mention from King, anxious for Thanksgiving and the long weekend. With so much occurring, the holiday keeps slipping from my thoughts, thus silencing me and pulling my thoughts into a darkened corner where the lights of the group don’t even seem capable of reaching.

“You’re making your stuffing, right, Summer?” Mercedes asks as an attempt to include me.

Stretching my jaw, I look over my finished plate. “Yeah, of course.”

She smiles, and my confirmation placates any concerns, allowing them to fall back into an easy conversation. Their moods are light when I stand up and begin clearing the dishes and putting what’s left away. I’m scraping the few remains of an enchilada into the garbage disposal when Kash sidles up beside me. He opens the dishwasher and takes the plate, loading it as I reach for the next dish.

One by one, the table clears with painfully obvious excuses to allot Kash and me time alone. Neither of us acknowledges it though, not even with a silent exchange—or if he tries to, I don’t notice. I keep my focus on each object I handle with so much attention you would think I was holding our relationship in my hands.

“Can we talk about things?” he asks once everyone has cleared from the room.

I suck in a breath, bracing myself. It’s such a coincidence that I have wanted to discuss things between us for weeks, and now that the opportunity is presenting itself, it’s the very last thing I want to do. I’m not sure if it’s the unease or my fear of the possible outcomes, but everything inside me is telling me to change the subject, and fast.

“I know we have established a track record of simply letting things go, and usually, I’m okay with that. You know where I stand. I know where you stand
…
”

My eyebrows furrow, and I part my lips to object, silencing him. “I thought I did. At least, I thought I did until after
…
”

“I don’t know how things got to the point they have, because I wanted that night to happen. I wouldn’t take any of it back, but I feel like you hate me, and I don’t know what happened.” Kash runs a hand over his cropped hair. “Initially, I was worried you regretted it, but hearing you say I don’t know who you are has completely fucked with my head. I don’t know what you meant, and I don’t have a clue what you want at this point.”

I’m leaning back, as though my body is still encouraging me to leave and not have this conversation, but I cross my arms over my chest and face him, the desire to scream in frustration so strong my throat feels tight with the added air. “I have waited for this, for us,” I motion between our chests with my finger, “and as soon as it happened, you walked out the door without even looking back, and I realized it didn’t mean nearly as much to you. That just seemed to allow me to see how much of my life I have formed around you, waiting for you.”

“You have to know that I’ve always cared for you.”

“But that’s not enough, Kash.” I shake my head. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

Kash reaches forward and rests a hand on my cheek. The touch is so intimate. I don’t know that he’s ever handled me so gently, even that night we slept together.

“As soon as I met you, I knew you were special, and for a very,
very
long time, I tried to ignore my feelings because I didn’t want to disrespect Arianna’s memory.” He ducks his head. Slowly, his fingers slide down my cheek, making his attention shoot back up to my face. He presses his palm more firmly to my cheek. “Sometimes I really hate myself, because I start wondering if she hadn’t been in that accident, what would I have done? Would I’ve divorced her, so I could be with you?” His brown eyes are so close that I watch as they strain, so many emotions present I hate to see them close. “And I hate myself even more when I know that I would have.” His face falls, his lips turning into a pronounced frown, and when his eyes open, they’re heavy with tears. “But I’m afraid.”

“Of what?” I ask, my voice revealing how badly my heart is pleading with him.

“Losing you.”

“Then don’t!”

“I already am.”

Frustration makes me growl. “Fight. Fight me. Fight
for
me.”

“I don’t want you to feel stuck. I don’t know what in the hell I’m doing. I don’t know that I can do more than this.”

“So, what? What do you want me to do? Do you just want me to continue waiting?” I shake my head briskly, knocking his hand away with a fierce swipe of mine. “I can’t. I can’t be that person, because that person
…
”

My eyes are stretched wide, desperate to keep my hopes and sorrow from falling down my cheeks in wet paths that will surely expose just how vulnerable I am with him. I swallow, the action prolonged and difficult because all the moisture in my body is heading toward my eyes.

“I didn’t even look at other guys. I wasn’t interested in anyone because you dug this large moat around me, filling the island with hopes and
…
”
Once again, I struggle to put my feelings into words while wondering how much he actually did create and how much I wanted him to.

I bite my bottom lip when more words make an effort to be heard, ones that won’t make sense or reason, ones that don’t lead to a happily and after.

“Summer, I love you.”

I shake my head, my face growing red with heat. The work to keep my emotions at bay is harder than exposing any pain I’ve ever experienced. “Stop, Kash. Just stop.”

“You love me too.”

“You don’t get to say those words to me.” I shake my head. “Not unless you’re willing and ready to act on them. This isn’t fair to me.”

“I know.” His cheeks grow tense as his jaw locks, as he refuses to say anything more, though his eyes plead with me.

“If you’re asking me to be brave enough to stay, I need you to be strong enough to try.” I stand still as a statue, my eyes pouring over him, waiting for a reaction, an acceptance of my heart that I have carved out of my chest and am offering him without leaving a single restriction or stitch of protection.

His eyes shimmer with shame and regret, secrets and desires that he leaves folded and untouched, as he doesn’t make a move to accept it.

M
Y CHEEKS ARE
damp, my nose tingly. I feel like I have cried my weight in tears, and somehow, I still have more. All I want to do is sleep, but every time I close my eyes, the silence of the room is so loud with Kash’s repeated words. I have dissected them at least a thousand times since coming home, transitioning between focusing on the promise behind them and the blatant lack of reciprocation.

It’s nine, yet it feels like the middle of the night, and it’s dark enough to make that feeling even more of a reality. It has been years since I have even considered wanting my mom and more since I have felt the need to have her presence, but like I did when I was young and had gotten hurt, this pain in my chest makes me yearn for her.

I sniffle as her phone rings continuously, my tears becoming heavier and faster as her voicemail message begins.

Frustrated, I throw the phone into the folds of my duvet, and scream a loud, wild screech of pain, misery, betrayal, and anger.

The pain in my temples recedes as I cry more tears, as though the additional loss is in some way cleansing me.

My phone rings, the noise muffled, tempting me to ignore it, but the hope that it might be my mom has me digging for it.

It’s the last person I expected to hear from. If I wasn’t so desperate to find a trace of comfort, I would ignore the call, but my finger slides across the screen, accepting the call.

“Hi.” My voice wavers unsteadily with the single word.

“Summer?” My dad’s voice is raised with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Did you not love Mom enough?”

He sighs, not with annoyance but relief. “What happened, baby?” He has always called me baby, even when I was a teenager and vehemently hated it and begged for him to stop.

I suck two breaths in, attempting to steady my breathing. “You ruined her when you left.”

“Summer,” he pleads, clearly wanting to continue to push off having this discussion, one that we should have had twenty years ago.

“Then, I thought she ruined me.” My voice breaks.

I’m so upset with myself for thinking I was broken for so long. I was never damaged. I just so thoroughly convinced myself that I was that I was living with the effects of it, shutting people out, judging them before they had the opportunity to judge me, and not focusing enough time and energy on myself.

In the background, I hear my stepmom asking if he’s okay and to come back to bed, making me wonder why he’s calling so late. He covers the mouthpiece, so I can barely decipher their words, but whatever said is fast and successful because she kisses his cheek, and then a door clicks shut.

“Baby, you aren’t broken,” my dad says.

“I know.” My words are cutting, annoyed that he didn’t hear me clearly.

“Your mom wanted out just as badly as I did. She didn’t know what she wanted, but I was not it, and a person can only be with someone who doesn’t want them for so long.”

“Tell me about it.” I hastily wipe at my eyes, anger growing as his words hit home with me, smothering the sadness and replacing it with bitterness creeping so deeply that my tears subside nearly instantly, like a faucet.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you’re hurting. I was trying to go to bed, and I kept thinking about you, like I knew something was wrong.”

The tentacles of resentment freeze, recoiling at the edges, as I contemplate his words.

“Why don’t you come out and visit? Friday, there’s a flight I can get you on early, and you can be here by mid-afternoon.”

I’ve only been out to Boston once. Then, it wasn’t an option but a demand since I was only seventeen, keeping me from wanting to return.

Another deep breath fills my lungs, expanding my chest fuller than it’s been all evening. “I’d like that.”

“Me too,” he says. “It’s been too long.”

I saw him last summer when he stopped in Portland for a couple of days after flying to Seattle for business, but for several years, I have only seen him a few stray days between several months at a time, and it does leave the impression that we haven’t seen each other in a very long time.