The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2) (19 page)

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.

“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.

“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.”