The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2) Page 13

  King stares at me, his chin dipped. A million retorts are visible in his brown eyes, but he doesn’t voice a single one.

  It is the Knight way.

  I blow him off by plunging my foot down on a pedal and following suit with the next. My legs stretch, my muscles protest once more, my blood flows, my lungs fill with cold air, and my fingers tighten around the bars as the wind whips against my face. I am euphoric. It serves as such a great reminder that this is what I love—to be outside in an uncharted and unpredictable environment where I’m not working to improve a well-practiced move. I’m simply riding.

  We ride down the long driveway, exchanging occasional cheers and calls when another makes an impressive move, but for the most part, we ride in silence until we reach the main road.

  “Let’s go south,” Kash says without discussion.

  We follow him in a line. The narrow road lacks a sidewalk and is unfortunately busy with cars. Like many streets here, moss makes the shoulders slick, adding a small challenge that we all see as a fun challenge. We veer and play with our brakes, testing the reactions of ourselves and the person following us.

  I am sure I haven’t always ridden behind Kash when we go out on excursions like this, but for as long as I can remember, it certainly seems like I have, and I am again now with Parker directly behind me, laughing because my front tire didn’t regain traction and caused me to wobble. I smile, enjoying the thrill, but keep my attention split between the road and my distance to Kash. While there are tons of bike riders in Portland, I never assume it’s solely a driver’s responsibility to be watching for us, especially when we ride for speed, like we’re picking up to do.

  Kash leads us with a building pace until we reach an intersection and have to stop for a light. We each gasp a few breaths, careful to stay back from the puddles that will likely remain until May. My ears are burning from the heat of the workout and the contrasting cold temperature mixed with chilling winds that feel uniquely good and painful at the same time.

  The light turns quickly, preventing any awkward or forced conversation, and we set off, Kash setting a speed that tells me he’s relieved as well and likely trying to outrun the issues that have been following us both over the past few days. The street is covered with wet leaves from maple and chestnut trees, and they are even slicker than the moss was, creating a sea of brown, contrasting the green that is so common here in the Pacific Northwest with so many pine trees, moss, and plants that love our high level of rainfall.

  My grandparents were from the Midwest, and moved here when my mother was young. Numerous times my grandmother would comment about how Portland was the most beautiful place she had ever traveled to, which was vast, considering my grandfather had been in the military causing them to have moved all over the country. Because I see the same sights every single day, I sometimes forget to view them for what they truly are. To appreciate and admire the many shades and colors the wet climate provides us with. Perhaps time, while enhancing and beautifying many things, also serves as a malefactor, allowing us to take advantage of and lose sight of the things that matter most.

  We ride to Waterfront Park where an elementary class is walking in a single-file line wearing bright orange vests and smiles, oblivious to the cold and wet weather. A few of the kids point at us excitedly as we ride by, prompting Kash to show off and pull up on his handlebars so that he’s balanced on only his back tire for several seconds before he resumes speeding down a grassy hill.

  My hair is in a low knot to prevent it from getting blown in my face or obscuring my helmet, allowing the wind to lick every inch of my face and most of my neck. It feels like an old friend that I’ve missed so dearly as the pain I faced all morning seems to wash away, being replaced with my need to go faster as we break apart from our single line and all race forward.

  King is the first to pull a stunt, jumping up on a railing and spinning his bike in a full rotation. It’s impressive, even for him, given the small window of time for the move since the railing is fairly low. His face tips back as he rolls forward slowly, bliss present with his closed eyes. Parker follows him, his speed too fast. I know he won’t be able to land it, but know better than to yell—that only distracts the rider—and he’s already aware and trying to correct. The center of his bike slides down, metal on metal, creating a loud grating sound that often accompanies this sport. His bike falls fast and hard, kicking him off before he can gain control. Parker’s bike continues to slide several feet until the front tire crashes against the brick that lines all of Waterfront Park, keeping it from the Willamette River.

  “I thought you were going to swim with the fishes!” Kash yells, riding down the hill beside the stairs. He stops in front of Parker and offers a hand.

  “I was more worried I was going to have to eat through a straw again,” Parker admits with a laugh. He’s completely unaffected, the minor injury barely more than a thought as he picks up his bike and hops back on.

  We follow the concrete path along the river, winding around people, benches, and each other. Parker sings to pop and rap songs, rarely getting the lyrics correct.

  “You need to spend more time with Lo,” I say with a laugh when he butchers a song with words that prove he doesn’t know the lyrics.

  “You’re kidding, right? She’s the reason half these songs are stuck in my head!”

  “Is that why your tone is so far off?” King asks.

  “Maybe one day if we get her really drunk, we can get her to actually sing a song,” Kash remarks, weaving his front tire close to my own.

  Everyone laughs.

  The joke is because Lo never actually sings. Whenever she hears someone say something that sounds similar to the lyrics in a song, she says the rest of the lyric. There were several times when she did it, and I had no idea she was referencing a song, so I’d look at her for clarification but never receive a response.

  “Doubtful,” King says. “After two beers, she passes out.”

  Parker laughs loudly, the sound carrying in the wind with his speed, making me smile.

  I feel Kash’s stare before I’m willing to acknowledge it. Finally I do, and allow my gaze to linger on him for several seconds as we ride in tandem. He reaches across the short space separating our bikes and rests a hand on my right handlebar, our skin brushing. Even in the cold, his skin feels hot.

  We’ve never ridden like this before. I’m not even sure of what he’s trying to do, but I am careful to maintain my same speed so his balance isn’t rocked off center so we can continue.

  “Let’s do this all week,” he says.

  His stare returns to my face as mine juggles between his and the path we’re on, feeling it’s necessary to watch for him as well.

  “How’s Robert?” I ask.

  Kash smiles gently, making my heart strum with nerves. “He’s good. The doctors have him joining a class that will make him do exercises—he’s already hating the idea of it—and he’s meeting with a nutritionist later today.”

  “Is he back home?”

  Kash finally acknowledges the concrete before returning to me. “Not yet. Mercedes is laying the guilt on pretty thick, but he’s spending his days there while she’s at school.”

  “Clever girl.” I grin, enjoying his reciprocated smile that I elicited. “She’s got him wrapped around her pinky.”

  “Wonder where she gets that from?” His hand lifts from beside mine and playfully shoves me, making my entire bike veer, and him laugh.

  “I didn’t hear you. I think I have something in my ear,” I say, reaching my hand up once I’m steady and scratching my ear with my middle finger.

  Kash chuckles, moving so he’s close enough to reach out and hold my handlebar again.

  “Oh, what’s this?” I pull my hand away from my face and hold it up, so he can clearly see my finger flipping him off.

  “Are you ready for this?” Parker yells, redirecting our attention.

  “No, Summer didn’t bring her camera to document you
r stupidity,” Kash says.

  Parker ignores him, picking up speed before jumping up onto a bench, posing, and then jumping back down.

  “Weak!” Kash taunts.

  He speeds up and jumps onto the next bench where his pose is far more pronounced, and rather than just giving a cheesy smile, Kash whips his left leg over the seat for a full second before mounting it again, and hopping down. He proceeds to do several smaller jumps in place. It’s shameful he’s wearing a sweatshirt so I can’t see his forearms working with each move. This maneuver, while looking simple, isn’t at all, and requires a lot of upper body and arm strength.

  “Whatever, Tigger,” Parker says, waving him off and riding three full circles around a woman walking past us.

  Amusement is clear in her eyes as she watches him and then the rest of us.

  He salutes her and rides back over to us. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

  “You guys want pizza? Chinese? That Italian place delivers now,” Kash says as we hit the end of the driveway.

  We’re all going slower from exhaustion, and are splattered with mud up to our mid-backs. I’m pretty sure I could sleep for a solid twelve hours right now, but the thought of food keeps me from closing my eyes. I’m so hungry my stomach hurts.

  “I need to go home and shower,” I say, looking down my arms that are both coated in drops and streaks of mud.

  “It looks like you guys were the canvas of some serious splatter painting,” Lo announces as she bounds down the front steps, a smile spread across her lips.

  The mud doesn’t slow her progress to King where she leans up next to him and unabashedly kisses him with a desire that makes me jealous.

  “Shower here.” Kash dismounts his bike and releases his helmet. He looks at me as he pulls it free, his eyebrows knit with confusion.

  I always carry spare clothes in my truck and have some in the shop. Riding is serious work, and it builds up a sweat that I try not to parade around in for long.

  “Mercedes will be upset if she goes a fourth day without seeing you.”

  Kash’s statement reveals he has been counting. However, it doesn’t expose why he allowed so much time to pass without reaching out to me. In many ways, I wish he hadn’t revealed the fact, then maybe I could lie to myself, thinking that he got really busy and wrapped up with Robert staying over or work or something that hadn’t allowed him to send a simple text.

  “I have some extra clothes here,” Lo offers.

  I’m still considering my best excuses to leave, though staying is so tempting.

  “I need to get some laundry done.” I’m not lying. I really do. I can’t see the floor in my laundry room anymore.

  “Whatever,” Parker says. “The kid’s going to be mad at you.”

  “I’ll call her,” I say, looking pointedly at Kash before leading my bike to the tailgate of my truck.

  Typically this bike stays here at the shop so we can go on back trails, and take trips like this, but for some reason, I’m inclined to take it with me.

  “The shop’s not that much farther,” Kash says as he steps up behind me and takes my bike.

  He lifts it easily into the back without waiting for an explanation. It confuses me more than my own action.

  “Right now, it seems a lot farther, though.”

  The faint lines by his mouth become more pronounced as he frowns, confirming he knows I’m not referring to the distance I would have to walk to return my bike.

  I try not to make my stare a challenge, but he dips his head, and I don’t give him a second chance.

  “See you guys tomorrow!” I yell, opening my door.

  My truck is already in dire need of being detailed, and now that I’ve come to the realization that I don’t really like my truck, I don’t second-guess climbing inside and getting the seats even dirtier. Reflexively, I slam the door—or at least try to. When I was a kid and doors didn’t have whatever it is they have to silence car doors, it was far more satisfying.

  Each of them watches me with varying expressions of confusion as I back up to leave. It feels intrusive and annoying as hell. Each day it feels like they know me a little less, yet they’re all thinking they do.

  I HANG MY coat up and stare at my camera bag. I took some pictures while in Florida, but I haven’t touched it since.

  The first time I picked up a camera, it was for Uncle Toby. I had just begun staying with him when he dropped the biggest camera I had ever seen in my lap. At that time, it was cool to have the tiniest cameras possible, so they could easily slip inside a pocket or purse. I scoffed. He ignored me. Then, I was only riding when the shop was closed, not ready to make a fool of myself. Since I’d started so late, I didn’t have the instinct and lack of fear the other students exuded.

  I know without a single doubt, that taking pictures is what helped train not only my skills, but my courage. Watching the experienced riders and their reactions, their grips, the way their hips rose and shoulders dropped, their narrowed eyes of determination and wide ones of thrill, every image taught me an important lesson and inspired me to spend hours upon hours in front of YouTube to learn how to take better pictures, while practicing riding longer and harder every day, so I could be a legitimate competitor.

  I used that camera for years, even after I’d braved joining numerous riding classes and expanded the ways to flip anyone off who dared to laugh at me when I made a rookie mistake. Never once did I admit to any of them that I actually was new. I preferred for people to think that I wasn’t that good or that I had made a monumental mistake than believe I was a newbie. At the age of sixteen, that would have implied I was a poser in their eyes.

  Less and less, I would reach for my camera, as my time spent riding and later competing increased. I didn’t resurrect my old friend until a few years later when I met Kash. Now, that same camera is safely stored in my bedroom, a chamber of memories.

  Once again, I wander through my house, flipping on the lights. It’s barely after 4 p.m., yet it looks like it’s after ten. I forget about the beauty and fun from earlier today, hating this time of year here in Oregon and the lack of vitamin D. I end in the kitchen where I pull open the fridge door, my stomach growling angrily with hunger.

  Normally, my fridge is well-stocked, though I commonly eat with the Knights. I find something incredibly depressing about going to dinner by myself. But, being home so much has left a serious dent in my groceries.

  “How is there food, and yet nothing to eat?” I ask the cold shelves as I shove a jar of pickles farther into the back. I have the ingredients to make a salad, but after today, that hardly sounds satisfying. A lonely half loaf of French bread sits on the bottom shelf. I can’t recall when I used the first half. It might have been before Florida. Still, I carefully examine it and don’t find any mold, so I deem it edible. I pull out some pre-sliced cheese I was lazy enough to buy, and turn to the stove.

  Years of helping King in the kitchen has taught me that butter heated with garlic and then brushed over both sides of the bread is what makes a really exceptional grilled cheese, but my stomach doesn’t have the patience for that. I hastily grab a frying pan and crank the knob to make it heat up before getting a cutting board and knife so I can slice several rounds of bread.

  I crowd three mini sandwiches in the pan, enjoying the promising sizzle until it’s interrupted by my doorbell. My shoulders drop, my head drops, and my spatula drops to the counter.

  Don’t be Lo. Don’t be Lo. Don’t be Lo.

  I stop, startled by the thought that it could be King—or, even worse, Kash.

  Please don’t be Kash. Please don’t be Kash.

  Please don’t be anyone I know.

  My face is set with a scowl as I swing the door open. Even if I wanted to tame it, I couldn’t.

  A man with a beige hat and glasses stands on the other side, holding a large bouquet of red flowers in a crystal vase. He smiles as though he’s granting me lottery winnings. My frown becomes more pronounced.
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  “Summer Pierce?” He must be used to delivering pity flowers because my intense glare doesn’t even have him flinching.

  “Those aren’t for me.” I begin closing the door.

  “You aren’t Summer Pierce?” he asks, sticking a foot out as if he’s considering stopping the door. Wisely, he doesn’t.

  “Who are they from?” I ask.

  He shrugs, remnants of his smile still visible.

  I’m not amused, but I am curious. I open the door enough for him to pass them through and wonder if I’m supposed to tip him. I can’t recall ever having flowers delivered to my house before. The vase of flowers makes a loud thud as I place them on the floor beside me and reach for my purse. I dig through my wallet, grateful to find a five, and hand it over to the man. His smile stretches back into place as he accepts it. He tips his hat before retreating back to his van.

  Leaning against the closed door, I stare at the flowers. “Who sent you?” I ask, peering around the many blooms. “And, more importantly, why?”

  I grunt as I lift the heavy vase and haul the flowers into the kitchen where I drop them in the middle of my small table with another heavy thud before dashing to my stove where smoke is emanating from my ruined dinner.

  “Son of a bitch!” I shove the pan off the burner and open the window, eyeing the smoke detector with a silent threat that must intimidate it because it doesn’t start screaming.

  There isn’t enough bread left over to make even a single sandwich. I grab a slice of cheese and chomp down. Circling the flowers twice, I inspect the blooms that range from roses to gerbera daisies to carnations that are all varying shades of red. The bouquet is bizarre and attractive from a distance, but the longer I stare it, the weirdness of it makes it less so. Stopping between chairs, I dig my hand through several stems and catch the small white card.

  My heart pounds with anticipation as I slide the card from the too-small envelope, ripping it in the process.