The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2) (24 page)

As seconds continue to pass, my eyes become progressively blurrier. I can’t see Lo when her arms wrap around me, but the tightness in my throat breaks when I release a garbled cry into her shoulder.

Whenever I cried as a young girl, my mother would hold me, and while doing so, she would continually say, “Shh.”

I don’t know what sparks the memory because Lo doesn’t make a sound. She just holds me and allows me to cry like I’ve seen her do with Mercedes. Objections bubble in my mind. I don’t want or need to be treated like a child. I don’t want or need to be acting like this. I’m fine. I survived. I especially don’t want or need to feel like I am dependent on this moment and her support because I feel so lost and lonely.

Then, I hear her shudder and take a deep breath as her arms tighten around me, and all objections dissipate with the feel of her tears on my temple, breaking whatever strength I had left inside me.

“S
ERIOUSLY, I AM
fuming. I can’t believe he laughed!”

I have retold the story three times. With each account, Lo has a new list of questions. Some, I can answer easily and others, not at all.

“Did you punch him?” She takes a sip of her wine. “He deserved to be punched. Who laughs when they cheat death? That’s not an adrenaline junkie. That’s like
…
I have no idea what that’s like. A sociopath? They would likely find something like that funny.” She nods with conviction.

Thoughts of my pathetic slap-fest come to mind, and even after crying on Lo’s shoulder for a long period and getting both snot and eye makeup that is guaranteed to stain her sweatshirt, I still am too embarrassed to admit my failing actions.

“The driver of the truck got him pretty good.”

“They didn’t arrest him for that, right?”

I smirk. At the time, I was panicked, fearing they would for sure, but leave it to Tommy to roll over with a smile across his arrogant face and admit he deserved it and that
close
now counted for horseshoes, grenades, and also punches. I don’t know if he was referring to where or how hard a person punched. I didn’t ask. As soon as statements were made to the police, I made a beeline for an officer and asked that he take me back to my uncle’s shop where I got into my truck and drove home.

“Nope.” I reach for my wineglass Lo refilled. “He called someone, and a tow truck and his ride got him and the mess out of the road, which was good because I saw news cameras arriving when I left.”

“Are you going to tell Kash?”

She asked me this same question after the first time I’d recounted the accident. I didn’t answer then, either.

“The entire date was so weird. I hate admitting this, but I was actually excited and really enjoying his complete drive for fun and adventure.”

“You can seek fun and adventure without being reckless and selfish.”

She doesn’t even know how much he drank or how we didn’t eat a thing. The cops likely could have arrested me along with Tommy. I’m sure I would have blown over the legal limit. For the first time in my life, I was grateful the damsel-in-distress act I did not have to work for was strongly in my favor.

“He’s going to find out. It would be better coming from you,” she says.

Everything hurts, even my toes feel strained, but I don’t consider my aches for more than a second. I relax farther into the couch and release a theatrical sigh. “How do I tell him?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been hours.”

Doesn’t she understand? Kash has always been my first call. By allowing this much time to pass, I have already admitted that things have changed.

“Kash won’t mind.”

“I do,” I whisper, feeling more tears glide down my cheeks like well-oiled machines. This time, my vision isn’t even blurry. They come and fall quicker than I can process.

“It’s not bad that things have changed.” She puts her glass down and rests her hand on mine. “You need to remember, you are half of the equation, which means you get a say in what happens, when, and how. Falling in love isn’t about losing who you are, it’s about finding the best version of yourself. And compromise. And patience. And,” her head shakes, “acceptance.” She rolls her eyes dramatically, ending with a smile. “You already know those things though. You know them too well because you’ve gotten so used to giving that you’ve forgotten to make your own requests.

“Kash knows you’re strong, and he still cares about you. Telling him you need and expect things isn’t going to make him care less, and if it did, he wouldn’t deserve you.”

“I really want him to care.”

Lo’s fingers link with mine. “He does. Why do you think he’s been trying to clean the house?”

Through more tears, I look to Lo with surprise. “I thought that was you?”

“Give me some credit. I am way better and faster than Kash when it comes to cleaning.”

“He’s doing it?” I whisper.

“And it’s not only for Mercedes,” she assures me.

I
MAKE MY
way into the kitchen and find one of Lo’s sketches on my dining room table beside my flowers that are beginning to wilt. She never asked me whom they were from. Maybe she knew. Likely, she just didn’t care. I would probably dwell on how much I like her for that for the millionth time, but her drawing has captivated my full attention.

Lo prefers working with charcoals, keeping her colors to a gray scale that speaks to my sometimes gray heart. The image is of Mercedes and me. We’re lying in the bed of our hotel room in Florida, asleep, my arm draped over her torso, her head tucked back into the small space below my neck. If I had been awake, I doubt I could have stayed put with my strange obsession about not having people touch my clavicles.

The details I have already long forgotten about the room aren’t drawn on the page, yet somehow seeing us in the setting brings back the humid feel and the slightly strange scent of the room. Lo and I made wild bets of the source, but never found out what it really was. I’m still confident the smell was due to mildew and moisture, and she’s probably still as confident that it is from being so close to the heavily chlorinated pool.

Mercedes looks so young in the picture. Without being conscious to deliver her attitude and strong will, it almost surprises me to realize she
is
young. I look at my features last. Like everything Lo sees, I look more beautiful through her eyes than in any normal reflection. I look peaceful, loving, and maternal, as though I could be Mercedes’ mom.

My gut twists. With working so hard to sort out my feelings, I have disregarded all of hers, keeping my phone off, not showing up at the house, making no effort to seek her out and see how things are going. I know she has a large support system, and with knowing Lo and seeing the dependency Mercedes has with her, there’s a possibility she hasn’t noticed my absence, but there’s also the possibility that she has and is continuing to.

I retreat back to my bedroom and take a fast shower.

Kash crosses my mind as I dig through my underwear drawer, and I intentionally avoid pulling out the brightly patterned socks he remembered me purchasing in San Francisco years ago. He hasn’t called or texted since I left yesterday for my date. I have wondered if he saw anything on the news about the accident, but after extensive research on my behalf last night, I already know names were omitted; therefore, he still has no idea that I was involved.

While the memories of yesterday’s events are still poignant, there’s a strange addition this morning. It remains patiently in the back of my thoughts, waiting for me to acknowledge it and the taunting idea that I grossly overreacted yesterday. Maybe I didn’t nearly die. Maybe Tommy really did know what he was doing and didn’t endanger us. Maybe the guy driving the truck was also at fault.

Why did I cry? Why did I cry in front of Lo? On Lo!

“Oh my God.” I collapse back onto my bed, wishing I could erase the last twenty-four hours—the entire past two weeks, really.

I focus on how awkward I’ve made things in so many respects, and only sit up when I realize there’s absolutely nothing I can do to erase them. If I learned anything at all from what occurred yesterday, it is that actions
and
time only allow you one chance before returning an equal or greater reaction.

It’s early, and knowing Mercedes is likely still asleep, I choose to go to my uncle’s shop before making the trek out to the Knight residence to make amends with both Mercedes and myself. I need to talk to Kash and, if nothing else, make a decision about whether or not most of what he is to me is merely a fabrication or more.

The shop is closed, allowing me front-row parking. My relationship with Uncle Toby is unique at best. I often wonder what my grandparents were like because neither he nor my mom is affectionate. They also lack empathy, sympathy, and, all too often, compassion. I sometimes think of us as having a business connection rather than a blood one. Still, I have a spare key for the shop, and at eighteen, I signed a waiver for my safety to be my responsibility; therefore, I don’t think twice about wheeling one of my favorite bikes inside and flipping on all the lights.

Uncle Toby’s sound system is subpar compared to the one Kash had installed, but it doesn’t stop me from searching through the unfamiliar stations and stopping when one promises continuous music.

The click of my helmet awakens every nerve in my body, loosening my muscles and getting my blood pumping. I roll my bike to the center of the box, not seeking an immediate edge, but the opportunity to ride and lose myself. This is one of my lightest bikes, yet it still feels heavy as I pull up on the handlebars to catch a small amount of air, confirming I shouldn’t try to do anything more than lazily ride along. I’ve always wondered if people that started riding when they were little had an advantage or disadvantage. On one hand, learning to ride at a young age allows you to discover and trust yourself explicitly. But does it inhibit you from finding your own strengths and weaknesses so that you don’t know when to stop or push, or is it the opposite?

“I thought you were going to make me show up at Kash’s and risk having fisticuffs with the guy.”

My body jolts. If I wasn’t going so slowly, I would likely have fallen, but I am able to brake and firmly put both feet down to balance myself as I look to the doorway and see Tommy. To be fully honest, I was hoping someone would stop by, whether a student seeking open riding time or my uncle, just another person to quiet the thoughts I can’t seem to stop. Tommy, however, was never on that list of possible outcomes.

He stands with his shoulders relaxed, his smile friendly, easy. There isn’t a hint of guilt or discomfort. Only the faint traces of a blooming bruise on the side of his chin reveal evidence of yesterday.

“Fisticuffs?” I ask.

His smile grows broader. “I’ve given him two reasons to hit me now.”

“Two?”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”

I shrug.

He laughs. “I can’t say that I’m not relieved to find you here.”

“You do know Toby is my uncle.” It’s a revelation, not a question.

“I didn’t.” Tommy walks closer. His skate shoes are clean and a bright white in contrast to the dark cement. “I guess I’ve given him three reasons, huh?”

Once again, I shrug.

“Are you okay?”

I look him over more closely.
Was yesterday as bad and serious as
I believed? “Yeah.” I clear my throat when my voice doesn’t come out strong or loud. “I’m fine.”

“You seemed a little freaked out yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, I had to make up for how little you were freaked out.”

The smile slips from his lips, and he wipes at his brow, like he’s broken into a sweat. “I try really hard not to take anything too seriously since the accident happened.”

“You should warn your passengers.”

His smirk is grim. “I had a good time with you, Summer. I don’t want you to think that I’m some crazy asshole with a death wish. I’m not.” Tommy shakes his head. “I just refuse to be afraid to live or to die. I want to enjoy every moment of this life and not worry about everything.”

“You don’t have to worry about everything, but you need to consider the effects of your actions.”

He nods somberly. “Maybe I’m reaction, and you’re thought.”

This time, I laugh. My head is shaking a protest before I can even think of a verbal one. “No chance in hell. I have my own issues with being impulsive and hotheaded. You have to figure out that balance on your own.”

He closes the gap between us with more measured steps, and as he draws close enough so that his hand can easily brush along my cheek, I realize he’s been moving closer the entire time.

His blue eyes are bright with a playfulness that tells me he might try to kiss me or deliver a smartass remark, but they dip over me, stopping on my stare. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

His touch numbs me. It’s thrilling, and I want to press my cheek into his palm, yet in the very same breath, I want to pull away.

“How’s your face? You totally deserved that right hook, by the way.” My comment seems to accomplish both of my desires as his palm goes flush against my cheek and then pulls away.