The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2) (12 page)

I
WAKE WITH
a start. My eyes blink heavily in an attempt to clear the sleep though my body protests the action, wishing to relax and fall back into a sound slumber among the warmth and weight of the blankets. Then, I see Kash’s eyes are open, barely a foot separating us. He’s lying on his side, propping his head up with one hand, exposing one of his forearms that I spent so much of last night admiring.

“Good morning.” His lips expose the hint of a smile, but it’s not the bright and vibrant one he usually greets me with, signaling that something is wrong—or at least not right. “Last night was … amazing…”

There’s a
but
. I can feel it, like you can sense it in every cheesy movie.

“And now things are…”

“Confusing?” I say. It’s a question for both of us. Is that what I’m feeling too—confusion?

“Yeah. I mean, you’re my best friend.”

“And you’re mine,” I reply automatically. “And we work together.”

“But this wasn’t a mistake.” Kash shakes his head.

“No. No. No. Of course not.” I’ve said no three times too many, making things even more awkward.

“It doesn’t have to mean things will change.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Dad! Daddy! Hey, Dad!” Mercedes’ voice bounces around the room, landing on everything before falling squarely on my discarded pile of clothing.

I think I might puke.

Mercedes stops, her green eyes narrowing and her lips twisting into a point, as she looks between us.

“What’s up?” Kash’s complete lack of … well, everything nearly makes me balk, but it has Mercedes shrugging the moment off.

“I didn’t know you were staying over, Summer. Since you’re here, maybe we can have a movie day. Pajamas, junk food, pizza—”

“Did you come up here just to say good morning?” Kash interrupts her thoughts.

“No. I came to get you because Uncle King says you have to go get doughnuts if he has to make waffles.”

“Robert can’t eat doughnuts,” Kash argues.

“Lo already told him that, but he said his heart needs sweetened this morning in order not to kill you.” She recites the words with so little emotion, I can’t stop from laughing.

I’m sure King truly is on edge this morning between having the hellish shoot, Lo being gone, and still waiting for the other shoe to drop with unknown news of Robert’s health, and Lo’s future plans, he’s been desperate to spend time with her alone.

“I’ll get dressed, and we can go wait in line,” Mercedes announces, already knowing her dad will agree.

“Blue Star, again?” Kash asks.

“I have an addiction!” she screams. Mercedes makes her way out of the room and noisily clomps down the stairs where we hear her announce, “He’s up!”

“Remind me later that I don’t hate King,” Kash grumbles as he sits up, exposing his bare back. Visions of my hands running over it are all I can see for a full second. “’Cause, right now, I really feel like I hate that son of a bitch.”

He pulls on his jeans and the white V-neck I helped remove last night, and I watch as it hugs his torso, once again drawing my attention to everything that happened in this bed. Pulling on a black hoodie with his logo on it, he turns to me and sinks an old baseball hat over his hair. With one step, he’s beside the bed. The empowerment I felt last night is now heavily tinged with embarrassment.

“Kash!” King’s voice is halfway up the stairs, announcing his imminent presence.

Kash swears and focuses a glare on the door. “Want anything while I’m out?” he asks me.

King’s fist shakes the door with heavy knocks, and my embarrassment morphs into pure humiliation. Having him find me naked in Kash’s bed would change everything, not because he would tease or heckle me. It would just make everything a hundred times more real. It wouldn’t be only Kash and I who would know what happened. King is a game changer, one that I’m not ready for.

Apparently, Kash isn’t either because he moves swiftly to the door. Even if it were to open, no one could see me. Kash’s room is wide, and his bed sits in the far corner. Still, he positions himself as though King could, and only opens the door as far as his chest.

“What the hell, dude?” Kash’s voice is raised, his upper body pushed forward.

It’s such a rare occasion that we ever witness this side of him.

“I don’t like you this morning, either,” King says, catching the anger and not caring. “Lo made me check on Robert, like, ten times last night because she was paranoid he was going to die.”

Kash’s shoulders sag. I’m fairly certain he’s the most compassionate person alive. It’s one of the traits I love most about him. “I can blow up an air mattress and sleep in there tonight.”

“If you do, I won’t make you go get donuts,” King offers.

“That’s all right. I’m up.” Without looking back, he follows King, closing the door behind him.

Kash and I have so rarely struggled with miscommunication or misinterpretation. We don’t make assumptions or reflexively answer. We care about and respect each other too much to do that. But asking my best friend what last night meant, and what our brief conversation of it this morning means, makes me feel ridiculous. With my pride already stripped, the idea of saying anything is humiliating.

I dress quickly and ensure the removal of any traces of me from his room even though I know there aren’t any because I came up with only my clothes. Taking a final deep breath and a last look around, I head for the door and remind myself that the others won’t think anything of this. I’ve stayed over dozens of times. Hundreds. Even though none have ever taken place in Kash’s room, I still doubt they’ll think anything of it.

If the upstairs hallway led to the front door, I’d be out of here with only a yelled,
Good morning
, but it’s of course not. I have to go through the living room
and
kitchen where I already know they’re all congregated.

“King’s making huckleberry syrup for the waffles!” Mercedes chimes, noticing my presence.

“And turkey bacon,” Robert says from the kitchen table where he’s holding a cup of coffee between both palms.

The nurses mentioned one of his medications had a high possibility of making him feel chilly.

He catches me staring at him and frowns. “How can you make turkey taste like bacon? It’s not possible.”

“Complain about it again, and I’ll have Parker come over with his paintball gear, and we’ll give your house a new paint job.”

King and Robert have never had a father-son relationship in the traditional sense, but anyone who knows both of them is also aware of the bond they share. Many times, it reminds me of my and Mercedes’ relationship—like the ease and comfort of being around one another and that each is always there for the other in ways much greater than a few holidays a year.

Still smiling from King’s threat, I turn to exit the kitchen and find Lo sitting at the bar, a large chunk of charcoal balanced between her fingers. Riding bikes was the first passion I fell in love with, and still am, but over the past seven years that I’ve been doing photography, there are moments like now when I wish I had my camera in my hands and not twenty feet away by the front door. I want to capture Lo in her pajamas, fitting in so seamlessly, something I know she still struggles with, and Mercedes at King’s side with an apron tied around her waist while she waits for the waffle iron light to turn green. And I want to snap shots of Robert sitting at the head of the table, like a beacon for the family.

Lo’s stare brings my attention back to her, and I realize she wasn’t glancing up from her drawing for inspiration. Her gray bluish-grey eyes are slit with concentration and perception. She isn’t smiling or frowning. In fact, her lips show so little that I don’t have any idea what she’s thinking.
Why does this bother me?

“I’m going to go wash the humidity out of my hair and get more sleep.” I don’t mention that I’m more emotionally drained today than I have been all week. “I’ll catch you guys later.”

“What about donuts?” Mercedes yells as I’m halfway to the front door.

“I’m good.” Wrenching open the front door, I’m met with a typical November morning in Portland—rain. Lots and lots of it. Puddles are forming in the driveway from
where Parker peels out every day, and a few more where our tires have created enough of a groove. There’s a large one near the back that we all refer to as Lake Knight. Mother Nature begins building it in October, and it sometimes lasts until August.

My truck keys were on Kash’s nightstand. Thankfully, he drops everything from his pockets there, so while I did have to sort through some stray wrappers, change, and a few bottle caps, they were relatively easy to find. The cab is cold, and the gray seats seem to blend into the skies.

I actually kind of hate my truck. It was one of the first purchases I made after placing in my third competition and landing my first endorsement contract for an energy drink that I guzzled several times a day for numerous months simply because it was easily accessible, as all I had to do was open the door to my garage to procure one. The gig didn’t only land a zillion cases of the heart-racing, sleep-reducing drink at my fingertips; it also came with one of the largest checks I’ve ever received. Why? Because
my ass was voted as the sexiest. Sleazy, huh? In what world should men have the right to not only stare, but also rate a woman’s body—specifically, her ass? I hadn’t signed up to wear feathered wings. When a hashtag circulated about feminism, things were made “right” when they allowed women to vote on the sexuality of the men. ’Cause an eye for an eye makes people even, right? Or maybe it continuously lowers our values and morals to the point it’s acceptable to say terms like,
Rape me
, and people find it funny rather than offensive.

No one wanted to hear my bitter diatribe about people watching the wrong sport if they were judging for anything besides technique. And, when I took to social media outlets and began responding to the disgusting things women were saying to my friends, my PR team went on red alert and banned me from that obligation as well.

Kash tried to help me see the bright side of placing third, and took me to buy my first large-ticket item—my truck.

I wanted something small with a smaller cab, and I wanted it to be as red as the lipstick my mother had always bought for me to wear to attract men. My truck doesn’t meet any of those parameters, and at first, I thought that was a good thing. Healthier not to choose a color to spite my mother or something small with the intention that I would remain single.

This morning, I wonder how many things I’ve done simply because of Kash.

Have I lost myself?

Is that an effect of loving someone?

E
VEN AFTER EVERY
light has been flipped on, my house feels dark. The rain falling against the skylights in my living room makes it feel cold and much later than 10 a.m.

I head to the thermostat and crank the temperature up before collapsing on my couch and flipping on the TV. Habit has me sending Kash a quick text, informing him that I’m going to catch up on sleep.

T
HE SKY IS
pitch-black when I finally stand up, my muscles feeling like I’ve been inactive for far longer than a single day. It brings back a rush of memories from when I had to lie in bed while my body was healing with time, medicine, braces, and finally physical therapy. I feel angry with myself for losing the day. I promised myself long ago I wouldn’t take life for granted again. Now, I feel like I’ve lost not just the past twelve hours, but also possibly the last eleven years.

I move to a spare bedroom where the walls are painted an obnoxiously bright yellow. Kash and King insisted that the glowing shade would encourage me to come in and work out. I don’t keep an empty bed and dresser in here but machines and weights to transform myself into a version of me I like—one that is strong, is capable of moving freely, has a tough stamina, and, yes, even has the best ass, like I was voted. Avoiding all the metal and barely padded seats, I drop to the floor and do forty push-ups. I used to do a hundred every single day before I could get back onto a bike. Now, I depend on my riding to keep me strong.

Gasping, I stare at my reflection across the room and comb over every detail until I can’t face myself any longer.