The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2) (30 page)

“She will be,” I say.

“They aren’t teasing her again, are they?”

“No.”

“Was it something I did?”

That laceration in my heart grows. “No!” I cry. “No, it had nothing to do with you. It was my fault. She’s upset because I haven’t been around as much lately.”

Kash nods a couple of times but doesn’t say anything. He starts the truck, allowing it to warm up a few minutes before we make the short drive into town with so many unsaid words dancing around the space of the cab that it’s hard to breathe.

I
SIT AT
Uncle Toby’s shop, going through a box of old newspaper clippings he left on the front desk with my name scrawled across a sticky note. My class begins in twenty minutes. I should have waited until afterward to dig through this mess, but my curiosity got the best of me, and I planted myself in front of it, carefully lifting the first article.

The image warms me, all of me, making me smile broadly, as I see a picture of myself with Uncle Toby’s arm slung around my shoulder, a first prize medal hanging from my eighteen-year-old neck. I scan over the article that paints the picture of me being the next big thing. As a local, they loved me, making me sound like a celebrity rather than a girl sleeping on her uncle’s couch, no college applications submitted or even filled out, dreaming to be a pro BMX rider.

“If only they knew,” I murmur.

“If only who knew what?”

“Why are you giving all this old crap to me?” I ask Uncle Toby as he steps into view from behind me.

“’Cause it’s your crap.” He sits in his office chair. “So, what do they not know?”

“Oh, nothing.” I drop the papers back into the box. “I was just thinking about how little I’ve accomplished when they made me sound like such a star.”

Uncle Toby raises his eyebrows and cocks his head, so one ear faces me. “Say again?”

“They made me sound so glorified. I didn’t even go to college.”

His eyes are closed as he vigorously shakes his head. “Kid, you’ve been killing me lately.” He leans back in his chair, making the springs protest. “College doesn’t make you a better person. College can’t teach a lot of shit. And not having gone to college doesn’t make you any less than anyone else. Come on, what if Mercedes chooses not to go to college? Are you going to tell her she can’t follow her dreams if one arises when she’s sixteen?”

“She should go to college. She’s smart,” I say.

“So are you!” he exclaims. “You’ve always been smart. Just because you might not be the person to cure cancer doesn’t mean you aren’t making this world a better place.”

I laugh humorlessly. “By taking pictures?”

“You moved in with me when you were sixteen and helped out, learned how to ride like a boss, and then owned every competition you entered. Your skill set is unreal, Summer. You’ve done things people only ever dream of!”

“But that’s not helping anyone.”

“Except helping raise Mercedes, helping Kash and King with riding, life, anything they need, realizing you were in a bad situation and getting yourself out.” He shrugs. “Maybe I’m just a simple thinker, but personally, I believe anyone who isn’t hurting others is helping, especially these days when you see the shit that happens on the news. You’re giving, helping, teaching
…
” His head tilts to the side. “I doubt Mercedes would be who she is without you.”

The front door bangs open, and he stands up to yell at a student to watch the wall, our moment gone. I’m grateful for having had it though, because lately, I feel like all I have been focusing on is what I haven’t accomplished and should have done.

G
ETTING BACK ON
a bike for the first time in several days makes me realize I should have come to ride sooner. It’s such a release.

“Lisa, you’re a star!” My language is improving with each week.

Growing up, if I had made that same move, someone likely would have said, “
Fuck yes, that was awesome
,” but I’m realizing Uncle Toby is right, and that while I possess a lot of skills and knowledge I want to pass on, there are other things I don’t need to teach a twelve-year-old.

I have learned of a junior league competition, and I am determined to have both her and Chase enter and allow the others to decide for themselves.

Placing two fingers inside my mouth, I release a loud whistle to draw their attention and beckon them to the side. “That was an awesome practice, you guys! You should be feeling proud of yourselves. I can see some real growth after just three weeks.” I rub my palms together, anxious to tell them the news. “I’ve been made aware of a competition that’s going to happen in Vancouver in a few weeks, and I would love to help you guys prepare for it if you’re interested in signing up.”

There are the expected cheers and smiles and a very unexpected frown from Lisa. Reaching for my bag, I grab the stack of papers I printed with information for them and their parents, and watch as they anxiously snatch them.

“Look stuff over, and make your decisions. If you need extra training time, I’ve written my number at the top. I’m sure we can make something work.”

The group breaks apart, heading for their parents with ridiculous grins.

“Hey, Lisa,” I call.

She stops, turning only a fractional amount, the only student not holding a flyer on the competition.

I walk the few steps to be even with her. “I think you should definitely sign up. You have a real chance of winning.” I again offer her a flyer.

“I can’t.”

“Because it’s a bad week? You have stage fright? You’re only here because it’s being forced upon you? Give me a little more.”

She points to the entry fee. “Toby lets me ride for free. I’m sure you’ve noticed my bike’s a little big for me. I got it at a yard sale.” Lisa looks past me.

My heart aches. “You can’t let that stop you. I can cover your entry.”

Her eyes stretch disbelievingly. “No, that’s okay. I’m cool with just coming and riding.”

“Lisa,” I call again as she starts to leave, passing by Kash, who holds the door open.

“I’ll see you next week!” she yells back. Then, she is gone.

“What was that about?” Kash asks.

I sigh deeply. “Maybe I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a tween.”

Kash laughs. “What?”

I don’t want to remind him that yesterday it was Mercedes I upset. “That junior league competition you were invited to speak at, I want a couple of my students to participate, and she said she can’t.”

Kash’s brows furrow, knowing that’s what every rider dreams of and works for. “Why not?”

“She can’t afford it and isn’t interested in me helping her.” I glance over to the doors again even though I know she hasn’t returned, and then look back to Kash who hands me a red holiday Starbucks cup.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Hot chocolate.”

My smile doesn’t feel natural, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m talking to Kash or still struggling with Lisa’s conviction not to pursue this competition. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I made a promise last week that I need your help with.” His forehead becomes lined as he forces a smile that’s clearly trying to conceal guilt.

“What’s that?”

“I told Mercedes’ class that I know the best female BMX rider, Summer Pierce, and they freaked out. They want to meet you.”

“You lie.”

Kash shakes his head. “They love you.”

“They hadn’t heard of me before, you mean.”

“Anybody who knows anything about the BMX world knows your name. You’re the best female rider there is.”

“Was.”

“Are,” Kash says firmly. He drapes an arm around my neck and steers me toward the group of kids. “An accident doesn’t take away the legacy.”

I
T ISN’T UNTIL
I’m walking out with Kash at my side, pushing Mercedes’ bike while she speaks with a new friend a good ten feet in front of us, that I realize Tommy didn’t show up tonight. I’m sort of relieved. Tonight felt nearly normal with the addition of nine eleven-year-olds listening to our instructions and cheering each time we practiced anything.

“Don’t forget your box of crap!” Uncle Toby calls as we pass the front counter.

Kash stops, his eyebrows rising with curiosity as I go around the counter and produce the large box, which is much heavier than it appears.

“Mercedes!” Kash calls.

She wheels around, and without instruction, she sprints back to get her bike. Kash takes the box from me, folding down the flaps as we approach the doors.

“What is all of this?” he asks, dipping his head as we step out into the rain.

“A bunch of old newspaper clippings from different competitions.”

“No shit.” Kash slows as we near my truck.

“Can I see them?” Mercedes asks.

“I bet King would like to see them too,” Kash says.

“We can get Mexican!” Mercedes is bouncing, the entire evening already mapped out in her mind.

“Let’s let Summer choose.” Kash turns to me. “I mean, as long as it’s not too late and you want to come.”

He sounds hopeful, and I’m grateful he doesn’t seem defensive or even guarded.

“I could really use a chimichanga,” I admit. “But I get to burn the pictures I look stupid in.”

Kash smiles and time stops.For a moment, it is him and me and eleven years of memories that include that very smile, each and every one of them leaving me with the same giddy and dazed emotion.

“You want to ride with us, or are you going to follow?” Kash asks.

“I’ll lead.”

“Want me to order for you?”

“Well, I’ll just ride with you guys.”

Kash smiles, but this time it isn’t one to intentionally knock me off balance and distract me, this smile is of relief, and it has an even harder blow.

He moves to his truck parked two down from mine, and unlocks the doors, his face content. For so long, I have worked to ensure that look is on his face, and it feels different, better in some ways, to see it there because he has put effort into making me happy.

Mercedes sings along with a pop song on the radio, her mood light from riding. Kash fills me in on the training with the entire team that I missed to get press releases completed. His animated gestures tell me far more than his actual words. He’s excited and happy with the progression.

“Are you enjoying coaching?” Kash asks once our laughter settles from a story he told about Parker and his insistence to annoy Spencer, something Kash knows I love hearing about.

“I am.” Sitting back in the seat, I turn and watch him navigate the road.

Through his enthusiasm and stories, Kash’s eyes have remained focused on the black stretch of asphalt, never wavering, except for brief reprieves when stopped at traffic lights.

“More than I thought I would,” I admit. “There’s something rewarding about seeing someone improve under my guidance.”

“You mean, watching
more
people improve?” His eyes flash to mine as we stop at another red light. Before I can answer, he pulls his cell phone from his pocket and hands it to Mercedes. “Call your uncle King, please, and ask him what he, Lo, and Grandpa want for dinner.” As soon as she accepts it, Kash’s eyes are on me again, awaiting an answer.

“What are you talking about?”

“Me. King. Parker. Mercedes.”

“You guys are already top talent.”

“I respect your opinions more than anyone’s.” He moves his hand from the wheel and covers mine, which is resting on my thigh.

I know the feel, the weight, the warmth, every detail by heart from the many years we have known each other. Still, I take the time to carefully note them all once again, enjoying each one more than the last.

“Is it weird to anyone else that Lo still has their menu memorized? All of it,” Mercedes asks from the backseat.

“She worked there,” Kash reminds her.

“Yeah, over a year ago.” Mercedes hands the phone forward, and Kash lifts his hand to accept it as we stop at a red light.

The instant his contact is gone, I miss the details I was just carefully storing to memory.

“We go nearly every week,” I chime in. “I know their entire menu.”

“King doesn’t. And Grandpa didn’t know what half of the stuff is, so Lo picked for him.”

“Was Parker still at the house?” Kash asks.

“Yeah, but he’s leaving.”

I rub my palms together, my joints sore from coloring and riding.

“Let me see,” Kash says.

“See what?”

“Your hands.”

I look down at my lap where my hands are resting. They’re gently clasped to one another, as if seeking support. It’s as though they’re a separate piece of me. Tools. They look tired and aged.

Kash’s hand wraps around my left, and he gently lifts it into his, supporting my fingers and wrist like he knows they’ve recently started to betray me so much that, sometimes, their own weight seems to cause me pain. His fingers are slightly cool, and my skin welcomes it. Lately, my hands seem to constantly be on fire, a bizarre contrast to my perpetually cold self. I watch his thumb trace over the inside of my wrist and slide across the muscle holding my thumb before moving across my palm to my pinky. The sensation is heavenly. His thumb repeats the movement several times, my flesh absorbing the pressure and my skin, his coolness.