The Hardest Fall (Roadmap to Your Heart Book 3) (21 page)

T
HANK
YOU for reading THE HARDEST FALL!

I
hope you enjoyed it
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eviews help
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ead
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TOUCH THE SKY,
the New Adult M/M I co-wrote with Nyrae Dawn.

A
bout the Author

O
nce upon a time
,
Christina Lee
lived in New York City and was a wardrobe stylist. She spent her days getting in cabs, shopping for photo shoots, eating amazing food, and drinking coffee at her favorite hangouts.

N
ow she lives
in the Midwest with her husband and son—her two favorite guys. She’s been a clinical social worker and a special education teacher. But it wasn't until she wrote a weekly column for the local newspaper that she realized she could turn the fairytales inside her head into the reality of writing fiction. 

S
he’s addicted
to lip balm and salted caramel everything. She believes in true love and kissing, so writing romance novels has become a dream job.

V
isit my 
WEBSITE
.

M
y private Facebook reader
/fan group: 
THE SWOON ROOM
.

A
private Facebook Group
with six other male/male romance authors: 
THE M/M DAILY GRIND

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ind me on
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ign up for my
NEWSLETTER
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f you're a Blogger
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T
o Cindy
: Thank you for being my first real friend in a large, overwhelming, and sometimes lonely city. You introduced me to many of the things that I still treasure about NYC.

To Stina, Keyanna, Felice, and Nyrae: Thank you for offering your fantastic and important feedback because it made this book that much stronger.

To Deb: Your work with the transgender community is to be admired. Many thanks for reading and giving me valuable insight.

Melinda from M. Ute, and Hope and Jessica from Flat Earth Editing: Thank you for sprinkling your magical fairy dust to help whip this book into shape. Your uncanny perception and shrewd attention to detail is to be admired.

A special shout out to Keyanna, from Indie Author’s Apprentice, for all of your help and for keeping my bookish things organized during this release month. You are always so lovely to work with.

To Greg and Evan, for not complaining when I have to disappear to work at odd hours of any random day. I don’t want to be in any other place in the world except right next to you, every single night.

To my family and friends for your constant, unwavering support. I love you.

To the amazing book blogging community: please know that I appreciate all the work you do—all on your own dime—for the simple love of books.

Last, to the readers: THANK YOU for taking a chance on my books and reaching out to talk to me about them. For an author, there may be no better feeling.

F
ive years earlier
…

L
ucas
,

Dude, are we really doing this? I can’t believe we’re going to come out to our families. I mean, I’m glad. I really am. No matter what. No matter how my dad responds—and he will respond—hopefully not with his fist. But fuck, I can take it because it’s eating me alive, being locked inside myself like this. I’ve been going stir crazy, man.

I wish we lived closer and we could meet up someplace afterward, especially if it doesn’t go so well. You know my dad; he can be a bastard. But from what you’ve told me about your mom… I think she’ll be great. And my mom, she might just do what she normally does, which is ignore me. But at least it’ll be out there and they’ll know.

Because shit, it’s so lonely… I sound like such a wuss when I say things like that. I’m alone, because no one knows me. Not like you do. I don’t feel as empty inside when I message you. It’s like you get me. I know you do. But this time next week our families will know who we are too.

And maybe… I don’t know, I’ve got to have hope. I’ve got to believe it’ll be okay. If not, it’s not too much longer until we’re eighteen. We’ll go to West Hollywood and really live. I can’t wait to do everything we talked about! I can’t wait to meet you in person one day. I’m so damn glad we found each other on that message board.

We got this,

Gabriel 

I
stare
at the five-year-old email with a lump in my throat. I saved them all, even the photos he sent me of himself with that wavy black hair, green eyes, and lips that I pictured kissing on more than one occasion. Mostly, I imagined having a friend. Somebody I could trust through the emotional wreckage that had been consuming my life.

But that message was the final one I’d written to him. The last time I remember being so fucking scared of what would happen. If you didn’t count when the steel door locked behind me with my parents on the other side. That was the night some stranger saw me teetering on the ledge of a bridge. I wasn’t going to jump, for fuck’s sake—I was only chasing a high. Trying to quiet the buzzing noise inside my brain. It was better than feeling numb. Way the hell better.

Moving here wasn’t nearly as frightening as all of that. It was a relief to leave San Diego and come to West Hollywood. To drop my general courses at SDU and figure out my own path. This is the city I thought I’d be meeting Lucas in someday, and somehow being here, even though I haven’t spoken to him in years, makes me feel like I’m working toward some goal. The same goal I had confided to him so long ago.

I also came because I was itching to get the hell away, to finally be on my own. I was too much of a chickenshit the year after my hospitalization to message Lucas and admit that they’d slapped a bipolar label on me. That I’d been given powerful meds because apparently you can also become delusional or some shit while manic.

My dad’s face, though, that was the worst. And when I came out to him in that inpatient therapy session—fuck. Worse than his fist against my stomach. But we never talked about his threatening words, his punishing glares. My mom catering to him and never to me. I was the dirty secret, me and my messed-up head, not him.

My back slides against the wall until I’m sitting on the floor in my room with my laptop on my knees. The cold plaster feels good against my skin. I should delete that email. But I don’t. I can’t. I think of Lucas often, wonder what he’s up to. If he found somebody else who got him. A good guy, a beautiful guy.
Love.
My chest seizes up.

I want that for him, wonder if we could have had it together. Or maybe he would’ve continued to just be my friend. Hell, I’m not sure I’ll be able to have that with anybody. Not with the way the wires are crossed in my brain.

My foot connects with my forgotten glass of soda, spilling it in a small river over the hardwood floor. “Damn it!” My thoughts are all over the place lately, thinking about those old emails, and starting to feel like shit for no reason that makes any type of sense.

I toss aside my computer on the bed and grab for the tissue box to clean up the mess.

“Everything cool in there?” My roommate calls to me through the locked door.

“Fine,” I grumble. Gotta keep this place clean or Ezra might find a good excuse to kick me out. Dude smokes his share of weed but he knows when even one thing is out of place in this apartment.

“You call off sick today?” he asks in a muffled voice. The problem with renting a room on the outskirts of West Hollywood from a dude who paints in his home studio is that he knows my schedule too well, including how early or late I get home. But years ago, Lucas and I didn’t bank on how pricey the area would be, only that it was liberal and thriving enough for two kids who had wanderlust.

“Nah, the supplies didn’t come in on time, so the foreman let us go early.” At least I’m being honest. Besides, I don’t want to be on that scaffold today. Not yesterday either. Not with these scary hopeless thoughts running through my scrambled brain. Man, I normally love being up there with a birds-eye view of the entire city. And right now we’re reconstructing a building in a rundown neighborhood in North Hollywood, which still has a clear shot of the Pacific from the highest level.

I even turned down going out with the construction crew for a liquid lunch. I can hold my own and be the life of the party if you catch me on the right day. Those same dudes would probably rip me a new asshole if they saw me sniveling in my room like this. Lou would understand though; he’s been cool to me. He always talks to me about his teen boy’s problems, probably because I’m closest to his age.

A knock at my door. “I’m heading across the street to get some food. Want to come?” Ezra asks. There’s a small diner we order from on a regular basis.

I’m tired, so fucking tired that my limbs feel like dead weight. I should drag myself up, though. I only do this weeping shit when I’m crashing. Which is why I pulled up those messages from Lucas again. I needed some type of quiet comfort because this part always scares the shit out of me. How I can’t control it. I can only just roll with it.

But my body is fighting me, only wants to sleep. Add in my jumbled thoughts and I wouldn’t be good company to anybody. I know this pattern. You start to understand your body after a while. If I hold on another day or so, my energy level will return and I’ll be on top of my game again.

“Go ahead without me.” I shouldn’t be anti-social but it’s hard enough pretending at work this week. I don’t want to pretend with him too.

His feet scuff the floor, and I can hear him hesitating, deliberating. Like he knows. Knows something is wrong with me again. “How about I bring you back something? Have you even eaten today?”

Damn, he feels sorry for me. I glare at my top drawer where my two empty pill bottles have remained unfilled for well over a year. I know I should start the meds again, now that I finally have insurance. They might even help me pack on some extra weight. But then that veil will go up, the one that keeps me at arm’s length from the world, and I fucking hate that feeling.

I force myself to stand up and glance in the dresser mirror. My blond hair is all disheveled and I’ve got shadows beneath my eyes, even though I’ve been sleeping a ton. I need to get my ass in gear, especially since I have a paper due for my on-line class tomorrow.

Another knock.
Shit.
I had left him hanging. “Gabriel?”

“Uh, sure man,” I say, in the cheeriest voice I can muster. “Any kind of sandwich will do.”