Falling for Colton (Falling #5) (27 page)

But the next morning, it’s awkward. I’m in jeans and a tank top, and both Mom and Dad are staring at me like they’ve never met me. They don’t hide the fact that they’re blatantly examining all my new ink, and the various scars I’ve got on my arms and shoulders. They’re staring at me like I’m an alien, is what they’re doing. Mom is haggard, red-eyed, broken. Dad is just…tired. As if Kyle’s death has sapped him of all his energy. It’s so tense. So much is unsaid between us.
 

“Colton,” Dad starts. “Now that you’re back—”

I cut him off. “I’m not back. I’m not here to talk about old bullshit. I’m here for Kyle’s funeral, and that’s it. So you can take whatever you were going to say and shove it up your ass. I don’t want to hear it.”
 

“Colton, at least hear him out,” Mom says.

I shake my head. “Fuck that.”
 

I walk out. Take Carl’s big, tricked-out F-250 and cruise the old neighborhood. I stop at a liquor store and buy a twelve-pack of beer, a bottle of Jameson, and some smokes. I don’t know how else to mourn Kyle, how else to cope with being back here.
 

I stopped cutting months ago, ever since I’ve been living with Tilda. Don’t even smoke pot anymore, now that I’m not around Split and Callie quite as much. It’s just too hard to be around them—reminds all of us of too much bad shit, I think.

My only vice left is booze and, even then, I don’t use it that much.

I remember, as I’m headed back to the house, that I don’t own a suit. Can’t very well show up to a funeral in jeans and a wife-beater, can I? So I hit a Men’s Wearhouse and buy a suit. It is a little tight in the shoulders and biceps, and too long at the heels, but whatever. I’ll never wear it again, most likely.

He’s fucking dead, so it’s not like Kyle gives a shit what I wear to his funeral.
 

Jesus.
 

It hits me every time I think about it. What a shitty brother I was. I mean, really, I wasn’t a brother at all. He might as well have not even
had
a brother. He was, what, eleven when I left? Something like that. Just a damn kid. Not even in junior high. Been what…? Six, seven years or more since I left? He’s eighteen, or was when he died. And that makes me twenty-three, going on twenty-four. Damn. Time went quick. I hate that I abandoned my kid brother. But I wouldn’t have done him any good, even if I’d been around. I’m nothing like he was. He was smart, good, talented. Full ride to fuckin’ Stanford University for football, damn near perfect grades. Had a girl he loved, a good girl, from what I hear. I remember Nell Hawthorne being a sweet, skinny little thing in red-blond pigtails with these freckles across her nose. Skinny legs flashing in the sun as she and Kyle ran around in the backyard while I studied.
 

Me? I mean, I’m getting there. Making something of myself. Out of the gang, out of the ring, working an honest job, living with a sweet little old lady. Shit, I’m even becoming something of a musician. Who’d’a thought?
 

Not like Kyle, though. Kid could have
been
something. Owned a company like Mr. Hawthorne, or a senator like Dad. President. Football player in the goddamn NFL. Who knows?

But he won’t be anything now, all because of a freak accident.
 

And I don’t know the first fucking thing about him. His favorite color, favorite band, favorite food. Was he funny? Serious? Shit, I don’t even know what he
looked
like. Haven’t seen a photo of him since I’ve been back. There are some on the mantel at Mom and Dad’s, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to look at them too closely. I just have an impression of a tall, dark-haired, good-looking kid.

Dusk comes and I’m rumbling down dirt track roads somewhere far from anything. It is a beautiful summer night, warm, the air is soft and the stars are out. I pull Carl’s crazy, big-ass truck over, just lie in the bed and stare up at the stars for a long, long time. You don’t see stars like this, back in New York.
 

It’s damned peaceful and I could almost forget why I’m back here.

Almost.

When I get back to the house, sometime well past midnight, all the houses on the street are dark. There are no lights on except one at the Hawthorne house. The blinds are drawn, but a dull yellow glow lights up a patch of perfectly manicured grass between our house and theirs. The window must be open, because I hear music. Mumford and Sons.
 

And someone is crying.

‘Crying’ is not the right word—shit, that word isn’t even close to the reality.

Someone is sobbing.
 

Gut-wrenching, soul-wracking sobs.
 

A grief that could rip the world apart.

It’s the most god-awful tragic sound I’ve ever heard in my entire life.
 

And I know exactly how she feels.

I still feel that grief, every day, for India. It never goes away. The razor edge of grief is always sharp, but time has a way of making you numb to the agony of it.
 

I want to climb up the side of the Hawthornes’ house and pull that poor girl into my arms and let her cry, comfort her somehow. Do
something
. But I don’t know her.
 

And it’s not my place.
 

Besides, I’d probably just scare the shit out of her.
 

So I go inside, sit on Dad’s fancy leather couch that costs more than I make in a month, and drink whiskey and chase it with beer until I’m dizzy and numb enough to sleep.

Chapter 14: A Dock, a Kiss, a Mistake; a Beginning

Dad stands in front of Kyle’s casket and clears his throat. “Kyle—
ahem
. God, this is so hard. Kyle—” Dad has to blink, stare at the ceiling then clear his throat again. He starts over. “Kyle was my son. He was—he had so much
potential
. Not just in terms of athletics, you know? I mean, he was great at football. So talented. Such a natural leader. But…in who he was as a person, he had such great potential. Smart, charismatic, compassionate. Such a great kid. So much potential, cut short way too soon. I’ll miss him.”
 

And then he has to sit down, pinching the bridge of his nose, his shoulders shaking.
 

I’m standing in the back of the church. I don’t dare sit with everyone else. I’ve been gone so long, they’ll all probably wonder who the hell I am. I’m better off back here.
 

Some kid goes up to say a few words. He’s on the shorter end of medium height, stocky, blond, good-looking. “I’m Jason Dorsey. I had the exceptional privilege of being Kyle’s best friend. And I do mean privilege. He was the best friend anybody could ask for. He’d do anything for you. He’d be there, no matter what you needed. He was funny, but never at the expense of others. He was just…
cool
. I know that sounds stupid or whatever, but he was. He was truly just a cool guy. Everyone wanted to be around him, wanted to be his friend. He’d light up a room, you know?” The kid pauses, breathes deeply, composes himself admirably. I don’t know this this kid, but I like him. “And I got to be his best friend. I’ll always be grateful for the time I had with him. I’ll mourn him. But also, he’d want us to celebrate how awesome he was in life. At least, that’s what I’m going to do.”
 

A long pause, then.
 

Silence. Throats clearing, sniffles.
 

And then a young woman in a long black dress takes the podium. Her hair is…I don’t know how to describe it. Burnished copper? Red-gold. Strawberry blond. It’s down, loose, a few pins holding it away from her face, which I can’t see, because she’s got her head ducked. One arm is in a cast. She grips the side of the podium for dear life, holding on so hard I can see her knuckles going white.
 

She turns her face up, and I’m struck dumb.
 

She’s an angel. Lovely, perfect, exquisite. Gorgeous. Wide, vibrant gray-green eyes that stun from across the room. Pale, flawless skin. That spatter of freckles across her nose.
 

Nell Hawthorne.

I have to shake myself, because I’m staring.
 

She’s not looking at the crowd, at me, or at anyone. She simply looks up for a moment and then turns her gaze back down to the podium. Then she takes a shaky breath.

“I loved Kyle.” Another breath. Her voice wavers, shakes. “I loved him so much. I still do, but…he’s gone. I don’t know what else to say.” She slides a slender gold band off her finger, a tiny diamond glinting at the center. “He asked me to marry him. I told him we were too young. I told him…I told him I would go to California with him. He was going to go to Stanford to play football. But I said no, not yet…and now he’s gone.” She slides the ring back on her finger.

Then, choking on sobs, she runs on three-inch heels out of the church, right past me without seeing me, without seeing anything or anyone. I catch a glimpse of her face as she passes me; gray-green eyes wet with tears.
 

I don’t know why, but I follow her. Instead of going out the front doors, she rounds a corner and leaves via the back door. Once she’s outside, she starts to run, kicking off her shoes and just running. Flat out, sprinting. Her long dress is flying out behind her, and her long hair is whipping around her shoulders.
 

The sky is gray, heavy, and leaden with rain. A few seconds later the sky opens up and thick slow drops of rain begin to fall.
 

There’s a huge old oak tree behind the church, a lone sentry in acres of rolling green grass. She runs right for it. Collapses against it, shuddering, shaking.

I’m pulled across the grass toward her. I don’t know why, I don’t understand the compulsion to go to her. But I am. I’m compelled, forced by some unstoppable need to be near her, to offer her whatever comfort I possess.

So, out into the rain I go. As I get near her, I hear a…a keening. That’s the only word for it. Not sobs, not crying, more a sound as if she’s holding in some volcanic spew of grief, and it’s boiling over. Her shoulders are shaking with it. Her dress is thin black silk and it’s sticking to her wet skin, revealing a goddess body, all killer curves and slender, athletic lines that I can’t help but notice. I also notice that her skin is goose bumped with cold, and that she’s shivering.

She’s clawing at the bark of the tree with her fingers, her forehead smashed against the trunk. Keening, keening, keening, trying to hold back a tidal wave of grief.
 

I slip off my suit coat and settle it onto her shoulders.
 

She looks up at me. Eyes striated with shades of moss and stone gaze up at me, tears shimmering but not falling, eyes piercing, vulnerable, yet fierce somehow.
 

I’m changed in that moment. Something about her calls to me. A siren song weaving sorcery into my veins.
 

I don’t know what to do, what to say. So I don’t say anything. Just lean against the tree next to her and let the silence well up. She just looks at me, but I notice she’s backed away from the edge of shattering, so that’s something.

I don’t know what to say, so I reach into the inside pocket of my suit coat, pull out my Zippo and a pack of smokes. The cigarettes are a once in a while thing, for moments of stress and for breaks at work. It’s not an addiction, but something I still do every once in a while.

I pull one out and light up. Inhale, savor the rush. Her eyes communicate her disgust at smoking in general. Her nose scrunches up, her brows lower, mouth turns down. It’s a cute expression. Shouldn’t be, but it is.
 

“I know, I know,” I say, going for nonchalance. “These things’ll kill me.”
 

“I didn’t say anything.” Her voice sounds hoarse.
 

“You didn’t have to.”

There’s something here, something between us. As if I know her. I don’t, but she feels…familiar. Her presence, her proximity. It feels not like someone I just met, but rather…someone I’ve always known. It makes no sense. But it feels right.
 

Yet so wrong, all things considered. I shouldn’t be here, with her. My dead kid brother’s girlfriend. Her grief is that of a widow. She loved him, and here I am chatting her up.
 

“I can see it in your eyes. You disapprove.” I take another drag.

“I guess. Smoking is bad. Maybe it’s an inherited dislike.” She shrugs. “I’ve never known anyone who smokes.”
 

“Now you do,” I say. “I don’t smoke much. Socially, usually. Or when I’m stressed.”

“This counts as stress, I think.”

“The death of my baby brother? Yeah. This is a chain-smoking occasion.” I hate how casual that sounds, like I don’t give a shit. Like it’s any old thing. I wish I knew how to express my emotions, but I don’t. I don’t even understand how I feel.
 

Silence again, as I smoke. The cigarette is almost done.
 

“Can I try?” Her voice is small, hesitant. As if she’s daring to do something forbidden, venturing a thought she’d normally never voice.
 

I shouldn’t, but I hand it to her, cherry up, filter down. Our fingertips touch, and it’s like lightning striking me. Her fingers are small, delicate, clean. Mine are thick, rough, and permanently dirty, the lines and whorls of my fingerprints etched with grease, the underneath of my fingernails forever blackened.
 

She takes a drag. She takes too much, too soon. Especially for a virgin smoker. She coughs, and I can tell the rush hits her like a ton of bricks. I grab her elbow to steady her, and that touch, my hand around her arm—it’s as if I can feel every particle of her being through that innocent contact, as if I can read the nuclear fusion of grief coursing through her, as if I can feel the life and the sadness and the beauty and the pain.
 

Once I know she’s steady, I let go.
 

That was a fluke, that feeling. It don’t mean a thing; besides, I’m going back to New York tomorrow.