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

“A leaf?” My words are irate, said far too loud and with enough attitude to rival Mercedes when someone dares to cross her. “Am I Canadian? Is this because I like maple syrup? Who in the hell sends someone…” I survey the flowers again. How can something be so beautiful and ugly at the same time? They don’t go together based upon shape or size or even color in several examples, yet at the same time, there’s something about them, perhaps because they’re all flowers, that makes them interweave with a unique and undeniable attractiveness.

  I stride to the front door with purposeful steps that echo with each foot. Grabbing my camera bag, I spin on my heel and unlatch it as I make my way back into the kitchen. The lens cap drops beside my inedible sandwiches so as not to accidentally get in the way of the pictures. Then, I raise my dear friend, so I can use her perfect memory to capture every detail. After snapping pictures of several individual stems, I zoom out, focus the lens, and take multiple shots of small gatherings before expanding it, so I can capture the entire bouquet.

  My hunger pains aren’t as intense with the new distraction, but my hands are beginning to tremble, a sure sign that my body is running on empty.

  Ironically, I feel more shocked to realize the fridge is still empty. I move to my pantry that is filled with foods I usually only face when Kash or Parker swings by because they’re all filled with fats and preservatives my thighs love a little too much. Skimming over fruit-filled breakfast pastries, granola bars smothered in chocolate and peanut butter, filled pretzels, and several other containers that have my mouth watering, I grab a sleeve of crackers and tightly close the door behind me. My pre-sliced cheese and crackers aren’t nearly as satisfying as the grilled cheeses would have been, but I scarf them down while standing over the kitchen sink. There are only a few crackers remaining when I decide to open another bottle of wine.

  Many of the labels are formal and plain, ensuring they likely cost too much in an attempt to appeal to people who can afford expensive bottles and are too hoity-toity to appreciate art and humor or believe the two should coexist. Sadly, I love the flavors bottled in most of them, but tonight I need something obscure, elaborate, and striking. A light blue bottle pulls my attention. It’s wrapped with a golden label and adorned with stars. Even the bottle looks expensive and elaborate, taller than the others. It’s beautiful, but it is also a white wine, and right now I need an aromatic red. Another long neck is on the top shelf, and I reach for it to find another uniquely shaped bottle—this one stamped with, of all things, maple leaves. I don’t bother reading what kind of wine to expect. I simply grab my wine opener, and with a few quick maneuvers free the cork and take a deep breath of what promises to warm and nourish me.

  It’s a red. This was destiny.

  I fill a glass with and take it back over to the sink where I take a sip.

  It tastes awful.

  Strong. Bitter. Too dry.

  I take another sip and grimace. So much for fancy and pretty labels guiding my taste buds.

  My phone rings, and I gladly set my glass down to retrieve it, remembering I need to call Mercedes.

  It’s Kash.

  I think my heart has surpassed beating fast. I am fairly certain it’s spinning.

  “Hey.” It’s pointless to pretend I don’t know it’s him. In this day and age, you usually only look like an asshole or a moron when trying to play it cool.

  “Hey.” His voice is refined and smoother than velvet—the very qualities I was eagerly searching for within the bottle of wine. “What are you doing?”

  I eye the crumbs scattered in my sink and then the flowers. Would Kash have sent me flowers? He’s never sent me flowers. Ever. Are they from Tommy? I’m unlisted, but maybe he asked someone for my address?

  “Just finishing dinner. What are you doing?”

  “Checking out the photos from Canada.”

  My eyebrows shoot skyward. “You have them back already?” And you’re looking at them without me? This is the one thing that sets me apart and makes me a necessary part of Kash’s small team: I know photography. It is the single most important factor that makes me feel both useful and essential, so I don’t feel guilty about being paid by my best friend.

  “Yeah. They sent over shitloads of them. I have Tommy’s and King’s too.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “It’s kind of a pain in the ass. They can’t be wanting to use all these images. There’s way too many of them.”

  “Maybe they want your opinion?” I suggest.

  “Maybe.” He sounds distracted. “Yours are way better. In some of these, we’re smaller than fleas. You can’t even tell who it is.”

  I blink several times while attempting not to turn his compliment into something it isn’t—a weak praise of my work that says I am okay because you can at least see who I take pictures of.

  “Why are you working so late?” I ask.

  “I needed something to distract me, and don’t have enough focus to go ride.”

  “Distract you from what?” My heart is spinning again, this time faster. I think it might be turning somersaults in tandem with my stomach. There aren’t specific words I am expecting or waiting for, so why do I feel as though I am?

  He sighs heavily. “Just my thoughts.”

  “Want me to wear a Dear Abby hat?”

  Kash’s laughter is soft, confirming he’s in a strange place. Normally, his laughter is hearty, providing me with the mental image of his head being thrown back and his eyes squeezing shut.

  “Your advice would be something like, ‘Stop being a pussy, and get over it.’”

  “In the ten years you’ve known me, have you ever heard me say that word?”

  “What word?”

  “You know which word.” My lips twist into a pucker, and I shake my head. I really don’t want to laugh right now, and he knows it.

  “Over? Advice?”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “You have to give me a hint.” His tone has turned light and teasing.

  “Stop being a pain in my ass.”

  He laughs. This time, it’s one that confirms his eyes are closed with enjoyment. “You never told me what you were doing.”

  I plop onto one of my two dining room chairs and stare at the flowers that are so out of place in my sparse and industrial-styled home. I could very likely fit everything I own into an RV, albeit I’d have a very large bike rack, and would have to leave all my furniture. Knickknacks and things have never appealed to me, and after moving out when I was sixteen with little more than a suitcase, I’ve never found a reason to accumulate much, especially with how rarely I am home.

  “I did. I told you I just finished eating dinner. Now, I’m trying to muster the energy to go grocery shopping.”

  “Want me to come by? We need some more things too. Mercedes is on this kick of eating Cheetos with milk.”

  “That’s so disgusting.” My half-filled belly protests the thought with a flop.

  “Parker claims it’s not bad, but I’m not interested in finding out. Lo brought us Mexican food.”

  “Tease!” I cry, knowing it’s from the restaurant she used to work at. “Tell me it sucked and was mushy, and they were out of guacamole.”

  “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 doi
ng 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.

  MY 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.