The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2) Read online

  “Son of a bitch,” I mumble, selecting one of the lowest tier options.

  It calculates my results and tells me I should look into art. I expected something a tad more specific than that general statement, but am relieved it doesn’t tell me instruments or cooking, two of the other options that I know I would lack any and all interest in.

  Returning to the main results, I choose another top suggestion, and am greeted with the sight of calligraphy and a tagline talking about it being a lost art. Every muscle in my face contorts. Writing words to look pretty for no one to read sounds worse than cooking three meals a day.

  Watching documentaries is another idea listed on the search result. One that makes me want to poke my eyes out so I will never have to entertain the idea.

  “Sewing,” I read the fifth bullet point aloud. “’Cause that’s going to help with my patience and frustrations, said no sane person. Ever.”

  After scrolling through a number of ridiculous suggestions, I stop on coloring. I haven’t colored in years. Prior to Lo, Mercedes never cared for art, so it wasn’t even something I ever did with her.

  I don’t know that I have ever been in an art store, but decide now is the best time to remedy that. Changing into a pair of jeans and a clean sweatshirt, I ignore my lack of makeup and my hair that needs attention, and grab my purse and keys. My strides are level, balanced, it’s been over an hour since I finished my wine, and with the snacks and half of a pizza to soak it up, I don’t even feel a buzz.

  I have to use my GPS to locate a craft store, and then I get it to dictate the directions because I have no idea where I’m going. For being a Monday afternoon, the parking lot is busy. A quick rush of panic races through me, slowing me from shutting off my truck. Am I about to enter a place where everyone will know how utterly clueless I am? Will they look at my messy attire with BMX brands and slogans pasted across my back and think I’m a poser?

  Like I did sixteen years ago when I first walked into my uncle’s shop, I have to force myself not to flee and hold my head up with the conviction that I can blend in. If someone says something to me, I have an arsenal of glares I’ll be happy to exercise until they get their nosy asses out of my business.

  The wind blows my hair violently, reducing my visibility as I near the entrance. Pulling the doors open, I am assaulted by the scent of cinnamon and a sweetness I don’t recognize. It isn’t like a bakery or perfume. I think it might be the scent of creation.

  Wandering forward I glance around, waiting to see how people perceive me. Some younger girls, decked out in black with chains and magenta lipstick, are combing over an aisle with paints. A woman, who looks like a teacher with a floral blouse that’s too loose to show off her figure and jeans that have been ironed, is looking over an entire section of stickers. An older man with knotted fingers is perusing Styrofoam molds, and I briefly consider their purpose. Not a single one turns to realize that I don’t have any clue.

  I pass by an end base of giant acorns, cornucopias, silk leaf garlands, scarecrows, and several other Thanksgiving decorations, and wonder how many people go to the work of trying to make a picture-perfect holiday. Growing up, we didn’t even have a tree most Christmases, let alone have piles of pumpkins and cutesy decorations.

  My thoughts move to Kash and him telling me that I remind him of this season.

  I turned off my phone after leaving the shop because I refused to keep checking it and knew I wouldn’t have enough self-control not to if I left it on. It’s currently lying under numerous couch cushions on my living room floor.

  After passing down multiple aisles, I find a base of adult coloring books. There is a wide range with animals, scenery, and shapes, and then I find one with swear words. I grab three different ones without flipping through them, not wanting the possibility of their detailed pages to intimidate me now that I’ve made it this far.

  “We have some great colored pencils on aisle four. I can show you, if you’d like.”

  I look up from where I’m on my haunches, debating a fourth book, and see a woman around my age. At least, I think she’s my age. Sometimes, I look at Lo and forget I’m no longer twenty. I don’t know how in the hell I have reached thirty-two. I don’t feel as though I have enough memories and life lessons to fill that many years, let alone sexual experiences—another thing I have Kash to blame for.

  “Um … yeah. That … would be … awesome.” Pressing my lips into a forced smile, I attempt to look like a normal, friendly, happy person.

  Her smile widens in response before she turns and leads me to a vast array of colored pencils that range widely in price.

  “Are they really that different?” I ask.

  As she scrunches her nose, her cheeks color. “I’m new, but I can get someone if you have questions about them. I’m kind of an amateur when it comes to a lot of this stuff.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t mind at all that she’s as clueless as I am. “That’s all right. I’ll try a few different kinds.” Grabbing three boxes based upon their colors and promises of comfort, I turn on my heel in the direction of the checkout counter and then spin around when I realize I reverted to my old ways where I don’t accept or acknowledge help.

  “Thanks!” I call to where the employee is now organizing some misplaced items.

  She looks up, her eyebrows rising with surprise.

  “Thanks for your help, and good luck.”

  Smiling, she nods. “Thanks. I hope you enjoy your coloring books.”

  I pass by another stand of holiday assortments. This one has numerous crafts for kids. I grab several, my arms dangerously filled as I make my way to the counter.

  I SIT WITH my back propped against the wall at Uncle Toby’s shop, the cement making me feel chilled. He had the bottom three feet of all the walls in the arena paved after feet and pedals had made numerous holes.

  I put down a red colored pencil and notice the word fuck in my coloring book is beginning to look like a sunset over Mount Hood, one of my favorite views here in Oregon. Initially, I thought about making it look like a tattoo, the letters a dark gray surrounded by shades of black. Then, I wondered why the word always had to be perceived as negative. That had me considering how much I like the word.

  With Mercedes playing a large role in my life, I’ve had to reduce the use of it and many other words, but before meeting her, fuck wasn’t only an adjective, it was an emotion, a verb, even a noun. It was used to describe things like the best fucking hot chocolate, the coolest motherfucker, and the hardest fucking flip I’d ever fucking tried that made me fucking exhausted, but fuck, if I wasn’t elated. There were times it was meant to be negative, used with a harsher tone and louder volume, like, Stop being a fucker, or, I broke my fucking back by not fucking thinking.

  The mixed meanings led me to selecting the sunset tones with reds representing my anger and yellows, my happiness. Where they meet, the lines don’t always blend well. Certain areas are harsh and change completely from light to dark while others become pretty shades of orange. It all looks so symbolic of my life and my current feelings toward Kash.

  He still hasn’t called. I turned my phone on late last night, hours after I’d finished coloring my first undersea picture that had become monotonous and boring with way too much blue to color in. My hand had been cramping, and I had been feeling restless and annoyed. As soon as I turned it on, I had been so confident that I would see a handful of concerned messages from him that would allow me to once again gain control and make a decision as to how I wished to proceed.

  “You’re coloring instead of warming up?” Uncle Toby asks, the toe of his wide skate shoe precariously close to my pile of colored pencils.

  “I needed a break from riding.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re sore from yesterday.”

  “Why? Will you make me coach another one of your classes?” I glare up at him. “What am I doing here anyway? Since when do you need help?”

  A smirk breaks across his thi
n lips. “I was shocked to hell that you showed up.” He laughs. “That’s not like you at all.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re the most faithful person I’ve ever met, but you never let anyone boss you around. At least … you didn’t used to.”

  “You were testing me?”

  He has the audacity to shrug.

  “What the hell?”

  Uncle Toby shrugs once more. “Maybe you need a backup?”

  “A backup what?”

  “Plan.”

  The door opens before I can muster a retort worthy of making him regret having hoodwinked me, and likely regret saying it. After all, Uncle Toby doesn’t generally say things to be an asshole. He states the truth and lacks tact; therefore, he sounds like an asshole. The world likely needs more people like him, ones who don’t care to follow suit because it’s a social standard—or worse, an obligation.

  I’m coming down from the immediate anger he evoked, my breaths slightly labored, when my eyes focus on a young girl pushing a bike that’s a little too big for her. Three boys are ahead of her, all smiling hugely, as they exchange insults and dares, reminding me of Kash, Parker, and King and more so of my past here in this very shop. The girl doesn’t engage with them, though. Her head is bowed, her shoulders slumped. I wonder if she even wants to be here. Parents and their eternal belief that they know what’s best for their children often commit them to participate in sports and activities they loathe.

  The boys are raucous, drawing my attention to see small fingers nimbly tightening helmet straps, exposing no one in this group is a beginner.

  Two more boys enter, one of them sports a large bandage that covers nearly his entire forearm. He doesn’t flinch or acknowledge it though as he straddles his bike and secures his own helmet in place. That alone makes him stand out to me. It tells me he’s fearless, not concerned that it might scar or be the first of several more. To many, bacon is a trophy—scars that chart your victories and what you’ve learned in this sport.

  I watch him blow off another kid’s insult, and smile when a different kid asks if he’ll be crazy enough to try his routine again. I like him instantly.

  “Stop yakkin’ and pay attention,” Uncle Toby says, clapping his hands together twice. “I’m kind of sick of your faces, so I brought someone else in here to deal with you all. If you don’t know her, you probably live under a goddamn rock, or you’re still under the belief that your generation is superior. Don’t worry, you’ll grow up and realize it’s not.”

  My favorite kid wears a bright red T-shirt, making him easy to spot when he smirks. Uncle Toby jerks his chin up in the direction of where I’m shoving my new art supplies into a bag. I now understand why Lo always carries around her messenger bag; none of this stuff is easy to condense.

  “You probably recognize her … or should…” he takes a moment to eye them, “from winning the gold at the X Games.”

  Each kid turns their head toward me. Slowly, I meet their stares with a stoic expression.

  “She has more talent in her pinky than all of you combined, so don’t try and show off or pretend like you already know something she tells you to do. Listen. Be respectful.” Again, he looks to each student, stopping on the shortest kid in the class who has cheerfully been dealing insults to his peers. “You all know my tolerance for shit is null. Hers is even lower. She’ll toss you out on your ass and not look back, so don’t cross her.”

  Uncle Toby turns to face me, his eyebrows raised, and like that, the class is mine.

  I stand with my shoulders back and collectively look at them. He never did tell me their levels of experience. The kid in red is my strongest rider; I know it without needing to see it. Still, that doesn’t tell me if they’ve completed air tricks, or if they’ve merely managed to go down banks or railings.

  “Want us to start with our names?” a boy wearing a black T-shirt with Kash’s logo on it asks.

  My lips press into a thin line, and I shake my head. “Nope.” I wouldn’t remember them if they did. “I want you to line up at the small bank and show me your best ride.”

  Goading begins before they’re even moving. I order them to knock it off and move faster. They go to the camel hills, ensuring me they are as least mediocre riders. The shortest kid is at the beginning of the short line. He threads his fingers together and extends his arms in front of him, acting like this will be an easy and noteworthy feat.

  I kind of hope he falls.

  He mounts his bike and pedals as though his life depends upon it, increasing his speed so the spokes on his tires turn invisible. When he gets to the middle of the bank where the next dip begins, he completes a full rotation, and then makes me cringe when he haphazardly lands at an awkward angle that causes his ride to end.

  “You have to focus on the end of the bank when you rotate, not on where you’re going to land, otherwise you’ll get yourself confused and won’t know which way to point your handlebars.”

  The kid doesn’t look to me for acknowledgment. Rather, his head hangs as he steers his bike back to the rest of the class. I don’t watch him for long, hoping not to draw attention to him, and I tell the next kid to go.

  As expected, the boy in the red shirt is a natural. Everything about him is fluid and confident. I imagine Kash looked the same when he was this age. The boy lands his air trick with precision in nearly every aspect, making it difficult to critique him. So instead, I advise the next in line to go.

  The boy is gangly, his hands and feet both too big for his frame. He’s not as fast with his dismount, and his air trick is far more conservative.

  “Careful!” I yell. “You need to absorb your landing through your legs or your feet are going to blow off the pedals, and then you won’t be able to go up the rest of the bank.” I don’t mention this will be harder with his clown feet. Maybe I have grown up a little.

  The next boy wears a too large T-shirt, too long shorts, and typical skate shoes. His hair, his hat, even his face are fairly nondescript and typical of so many wannabes. The ride he takes is also unremarkable, yet he gloats as he gets back in line since I didn’t offer an evaluation.

  Some riders have the potential to make BMX riding a serious career; for others, this will never equate to more than a hobby.

  A boy with bright red hair goes next. I want to call him Weasley now that I’ve been to Universal Studios, and have seen what the Weasley family looks like. He’s fun to watch, and clearly well-practiced.

  “You cased your landing. You need to make sure you don’t land solely on your back tire or it could buck you off.”

  He looks at me with wide blue eyes, his lips pursed with regret. It elicits a small grin from me that I hope tells him to keep trying. Like anything in life, you must be willing to practice constantly but also accept critique; or else, you can kiss your dreams good-bye.

  The girl is last. She’s tall for her age, and unlike the others, she doesn’t look at me once as she nears the edge of the bank. She flies. Her moves are graceful and practically perfect. I’m gaping because I’ve never seen anyone act with so little confidence and pull off something so flawless. Her peers aren’t paying attention, none of them that is, except for the boy in the red shirt.

  It’d have been Kash and me if we had met at this age. It’s Kash and me when we did meet with an additional six years of experience, a boob job, a past worth forgetting, a dead fiancée, and a baby. Like them, we always noticed each other.

  My eyes heat with tears that I quickly blink away, and then instruct them to line up again, determined to improve each of their skill sets now that I’ve seen a small window of their abilities.

  The hour passes quickly.

  I’ve learned each of their names. Lisa is my darkhorse. Chase is the kid in red, who is guaranteed to be a star. Luke is my smartass who only got more annoying. I’m still struggling to remember that Bentley’s name is not Weasley. Austin is the student with clown feet that I pray he will one day grow in
to, and the kid who will likely only ever be a joy-rider is Johnny, his name as nondescript as his personality.

  Parents arrive before my final instructions.

  “Don’t only practice on Tuesdays while you’re here. Ride to school. Ride to any practices. Ride to your friends’ houses. The more time you spend on your bikes, the more fluent you’ll be. Jump curbs, ride railings, take a rougher path—all of it will help you familiarize yourself with your balance, reaction, and skill set.”

  They nod like zombies, their attention flitting first between each other and then to their parents.

  “Riding can be a hobby or a lifestyle. The choice is yours alone.”

  Chase looks to me. Even his eyes are similar to Kash’s, large and a deep shade of brown that I’d previously compared to chocolate until Lo recently called them umber while looking through bottles of paint. She had held it up, and sure enough, Kash’s eyes were the exact shade. I notice a small dimple below where Chase’s smile ends. He’s going to be a heartbreaker.

  I tilt my head in the direction of the doors where several parents have converged. Times like these, I have to remind myself that I’m an adult and not a kid excelling at the sport. Most of the parents are older than me, but it’s clear many aren’t by far. The kids release the clasps on their helmets, and their energy levels return as they hurry to the exit. Uncle Toby has never allowed classes to hang out afterward, instead offering free times when students can come and practice so as to avoid scheduling conflicts with other classes and his own calendar.

  “How was Florida?”

  My head jerks up with surprise. Tommy faces me, a familiar smile spread across his face, making his eyes bright.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Visiting my sister. She and her husband moved up here a few years ago when they were scouting good coaches for Chase.”

  “Chase is your nephew?” My eyes are wide with surprise.

  “I would love to be able to teach him myself, but with tours and practices, I don’t always have the time. This was a way to guarantee he would have someone’s attention even if that person never went pro.”