Never Stop Falling Read online

  “It’s okay, Corinne.”

  My eyebrows scrunch together in confusion as Tess’s coral lips form a reassuring smile. “I’m okay with it,” she says. “It may take some getting used to, but I’m okay with it. I always have been.”

  Not only has she confused the crap out of me with her effortless approval, now I’m even more perplexed as to what she means by that. Stating that she has always been okay with anything more than friendship between Nick and me implies longevity. Does Tess know something I don’t?

  “I don’t understand,” I remark. At the same time, my attention is pulled to the other side of the room to Gemma and her cackle, which carries over the boom of the base pounding out of the speakers. Right beside her? Nick, of course, laughing along. I let out an exasperated sigh and roll my eyes in annoyance, then realize I wasn’t even attempting to be subtle in front of Tess.

  Smiling tenderly, Tess’s eyes wander to Nick and Gemma, who are heading toward us. “What don’t you understand, Corinne? Because to me, it’s crystal clear. I’m not blind, and neither are you. You just have to open your eyes.”

  Braiden appears out of nowhere, and yup, he’s stoned out of his mind.

  “If it isn’t my two favorite girls in the whole wide world,” he happily proclaims and stretches his arms over each of our shoulders, bringing us in for a group hug.

  Gemma throws herself into our hug. “Three favorites, you fart-knocker,” she corrects him.

  Nick follows behind her, water bottles in hand. I wonder what had been so funny as it continues to annoy the shit out of me. Handing me one of the bottles, he winks at me, a warm smile accompanying it and just like that, my mood shifts from so damn peeved to utterly euphoric. Shit. If this man, and man is totally the right word to describe him, can have such an effect on me, I am in major trouble.

  “What’s with the shit-eating grin?” Gemma asks Braiden.

  “I’m so fucking happy right now, that’s all,” he says with glee. “I’ve got my friends. I’ve got the air in my lungs...that sweet, pungent ganja air.” He inhales deeply while stirring the air with his hand and releasing a long exhale.

  Gemma jabs Braiden in the gut with her finger, and he flinches in response. “Dick! No wonder you were gone for so long. Thanks for the invite, ass.”

  “It wasn’t intentional, babe,” he assures, puckering his lips against her cheek. “On my mission to find ice, I got caught up in a conversation with a couple of guys in the lobby. They had some strong shit on them. Could practically smell it as soon as I walked out of the elevator, so I had to scope it out. By the way, Corinne, are your parents here? I swear I saw your dad in the lobby before I came back up.”

  Braiden once said he saw Janet Jackson at Kelley’s. He swore up and down that it was her, even though the woman was on the other side of the pub, and it was pretty dark inside. Turned out, not only was the woman not Janet Jackson, but she was actually a he, as the Adam’s apple proved once we got a closer look. The only similarity between he and Janet was his rocking body; he pretty much put all of us girls to shame.

  I playfully shake my head. “No, you didn’t see my dad, you goof. He’s on a fishing trip in Monterey, and my mom is with the Kelleys.”

  “I’m telling you, dude. If it wasn’t your dad, he has a clone walking around this town.”

  I drop my jaw sarcastically, asking Braiden, “What if it’s an alien conspiracy? Maybe we’re all clones of our actual selves, and we’ve been brainwashed to believe that we’re the real version of ourselves, when really, our sole purpose is to destroy them all. Once our real selves are obliterated from the earth, our clones will rule the world!” I let out an evil laugh, adding a dramatic flair to my completely ridiculous narrative.

  “You’re mocking me again, aren’t you?” Braiden turns to Nick. “She’s mocking me, isn’t she?”

  Nick raises his eyebrows and nods, chuckling as Tess and Gemma pat Braiden on the back and direct him toward the balcony, where people are grouping together to await the start of the fireworks.

  Nick and I slowly trail behind the rest of the crowd, our arms lightly brushing against each other, teasing us in the most torturous way. “Where do you come up with your lines?” he asks, flashing the most adorable grin.

  Smiling from ear to ear, I remain silent, only pointing to my head and giving it a couple of taps.

  “What I wouldn’t do to get inside that cute little head of yours,” Nick admits unabashedly.

  A vociferous pop signals the start of the fireworks, and a rainbow of streaks shoots across the dark, cloudless sky. Simultaneously, the sound of sirens wails off in the distance, possibly a fire truck or an ambulance, maybe both. Either way, sirens are never a good sign.

  Nick and I move closer to the balcony and take a spot behind the rest of the crowd. No one notices when he lightly weaves his fingertips with mine, sending a rush of adrenaline through my veins as we revel in our secret moment of intimacy.

  Before today, I would’ve never imagined being in this moment—feeling the way that I do, seeing Nick in this way, wanting him the way that I do. Then again, perhaps those feelings have always been there, buried deep within my heart. All it simply took was for Nick to crack my shell and dig them out.

  And for me to let him.

  The sirens grow closer, competing for control with the fireworks’ acoustics as they wail with the earsplitting booms and pops above us.

  All of a sudden, Nick’s fingertips leave mine when a loud cry for help from out in the hall travels through the paper-thin walls, and a few of us go out to investigate. Nick stands directly in front of me, like he’s using himself as a shield to protect me while he scopes out any possible danger. He reaches behind him and grabs my hand.

  “It looks pretty serious,” Nick says bleakly, squeezing my hand. A couple of paramedics shuffle in and out of a room three or four doors down, and a couple more hurry past us in that direction with a squeaking gurney in tow. We quickly move out of their way.

  A distraught, middle-aged man in a white robe is escorted from the room by one of the paramedics. He nods and then shakes his head, running a hand over his short buzzed hair with every question the paramedic asks him.

  All at once, he stops talking and freezes. He’s looking in our direction, and I may be wrong, but it seems like he’s staring right at me.

  “Do you know that guy?” Nick asks, confirming that the man is indeed looking at me, and I can hear the protective tone in his voice.

  “I don’t think I do. How would I?”

  But then, I get my answer. Like a head-on collision at ninety miles per hour, I get my answer.

  I don’t know him, but he knows me.

  I’ve heard when a person is struck with tragedy, the details surrounding it tend to become hazy, forgotten, or broken up. Tomorrow, I may not remember every detail of the events unfolding. I may not remember the color of the man’s robe, or the sound the gurney makes as it is wheeled past us, or how the scent of liquor and smoke escapes the suite, colliding with the chaos-filled hallway.

  I may forget all these things, but I will never forget the image of my dad.

  Wrapped in a white bathrobe. Lying lifeless and barely breathing. Being wheeled out of the room on a gurney. Coming down the hall right past us. Right in front of me. Me. His daughter. Shocked. Discombobulated. Reaching out to touch him. Grabbing him. Screaming for him. The ding of the elevator door. Flashing red lights illuminating the dark. Fireworks pounding the sky. Confusion pounding my head. The cold seat of the ambulance. Dad’s cold hand. The mystery man. Still in his bathrobe. Still staring at me through the tiny window as the ambulance drives off. The eruption of fireworks, one emphatic pop after the other. The wailing siren. My wailing heart.

  Braiden had been right about seeing my dad. He had been right all along.

  I remember the last time I was running through these hospital corridors. I ran as quickly as my eleven-year-old feet could carry me. My heart thudded against my chest and dropped
every time I thought a nurse or a doctor saw me hiding behind a door or a corner, possibly resulting in my failed mission, and I couldn’t fail.

  That kid and I aren’t much different from each other today. We both wouldn’t give a shit if some hospital authority tried to stop us, or tell us that we couldn’t be here. Because we share the same motivation.

  Cori.

  Nothing in this world could ever keep us from getting to her.

  But the moment I reach the waiting room and see her, alone, staring into the darkness behind the window, the differences kick in.

  My eleven-year-old self saw pure joy in young Cori’s beaming eyes and cute-as-hell grin.

  But now, I see nothing but the reflection of darkness in her eyes, cold and hollow. Her face blank. Her smile non-existent.

  That kid felt the way she found relief in his presence, the way she curled into him the moment he lay beside her on the hospital bed and held her tightly.

  This Cori doesn’t even look at me. I hate that every time I step closer, she steps away. Who knows if it’s intentional, but every inch she moves away from me is like a knife to my chest.

  Eleven-year-old me saw how the pain from the incision on her torso affected her, even though she tried to play it off. He knew it every time she moved and winced, but he let her pretend to be tough.

  But this pain? It’s far worse than any cut or incision, its scars leaving more than a protruding patch of jagged skin across her waist.

  This pain, she hides. Because Corinne Bennett doesn’t cry. Corinne Bennett doesn’t show fear. But I see it.

  “Cori, is there anything I can—”

  “Why do people like to fish?” she cuts me off, still staring out the window. Her question catches me off guard, and I find myself staring at the window with her, wondering if it’ll give me any insight into her head. But all I see is her reflection and a trail of fingerprints smeared across the glass. “I’m not referring to the people who work in the fishing industry. I’m talking about the average schmucks who do it simply because.”

  The average schmucks. For some reason, I get the feeling Cori’s word choice is nothing short of intentional.

  Running a hand through my disheveled hair, I answer, “For sport, I guess.”

  “For sport?” She laughs, her voice icy and withdrawn. “Fishing is not a fucking sport.”

  I quickly scan the quiet waiting room, finding relief in our empty surroundings.

  And yet, it’s bizarre. Hospital waiting rooms aren’t known to be quiet or empty like this. Granted, it’s late and a holiday, but it’s eerie, as if this room had been expecting us the entire time.

  “Baseball is a sport,” Cori continues, finally leaving the window and walking toward the row of seats along the wall. “Football is a sport. You need balls to play sports.” I assume she’s not referring to balls in the literal sense. “Hell, even men’s figure skating is a sport because those guys aren’t afraid to show their balls under their skintight Lycra pants. Fishing is not a fucking sport.”

  She sits, and I take the seat next to her. “Cori, I know you’re trying to wrap your head around all of this, but do you want to talk about it?”

  “Talk about what, Nick?” she snaps, finally bringing her eyes to me, and as soon as she does, the hairs along the back of my neck begin to stand. That girl—the one I’ve loved ever since I can remember, full of vivacity and spunk—is nowhere to be found. “Fishing? My dad? That random bathrobe guy? I need specifics because there’s a shit ton of topics we can talk about right now.”

  “I don’t know,” I sigh, because I really don’t. “Whatever you want to talk about.”

  “What if I had said yes?”

  I look at her, puzzled. “What if you had said yes to what, Cori?”

  “What if I had agreed to go on that ‘fishing trip,’” she says, lifting her hands and motioning quotation marks.

  “He asked you to go?”

  “He always asks me to go,” she says matter-of-factly. She stands from her seat, presses her palm onto her forehead, and lets out a low chuckle. “God, he fucking knew.”

  Remaining seated, I watch as she paces back and forth and mumbles to herself. When her eyes find mine again, she must see the confusion written across my face because she cries out, “He fucking knew I would say no! He knew, Nick, and he still asked me.” She pauses, the defeat evident in her voice. “He knew.” Except for her heavy breathing, she grows quiet.

  I hunch over and brace my elbows on my knees, trying to understand what Cori is telling me. There has to be some logical explanation for all of this. This is Henry we’re talking about. There has to be. “I just don’t understand why he would ask you to go when—”

  “He was never going fishing, Nick! There was never a fishing trip!” Stopping abruptly, she grabs tight handfuls of her hair, surprising me that none of it comes out when she finally lets go. She wipes her hands over her face, a trace of wet residue streaked beneath her left eye. “Don’t you get it? He lied! The only fishing he was doing was fishing for my whereabouts tonight, finding out where I was going to be. He wanted to make sure. Because he…that guy…in the hotel…”

  Like pieces of an unfinished puzzle, her thoughts lie scattered all around us, so I can only imagine what it must look like in her head.

  “My dad, Nick,” she laments, closing her eyes, her voice turning calm. “He’s in the other room fighting for his life, and all I can think about is why he would lie to me, what he was doing, how he could do that to my mom.”

  On cue, Evelyn shows up, frantic and confused, with my parents right alongside her. As if this situation isn’t confusing enough, that strange man—the one at the hotel with Henry, who is now dressed in a short-sleeved, collared shirt and khaki pants—shows up behind them, bringing with him a loud, torturous silence that fills the room to the brim.

  Every set of eyes tears into him as he stands under the bleak fluorescent lighting, and while I swear that the walls of the waiting room are painted a paper white, the fiery glares engulf the room like an auburn wildfire, devouring every depressing inch of it. I’d bet all my money that hell would feel like a vacation in comparison.

  I glance over at Cori, now sitting beside me, her jaw clenched tight, her right leg bouncing rapidly up and down on the ball of her foot, and her fingers picking at her nails. A sliver of blood oozes out from beneath her fingernail, but she doesn’t flinch. I reach over the armrests of the chairs and place my hand over hers.

  “How long, Jamie?” Evelyn questions, breaking the silence, her voice steady and calm, but hollow. Like perfectly-timed puppets, everyone’s heads turn toward her. No one says a word, but I know what everyone is thinking. This man isn’t a stranger at all. “How long?” Her eyes show no signs of relenting.

  He steps forward and hesitates. I see the remorse in his eyes, and I almost feel sorry for him. This has to be the most awkwardly agonizing situation of his life. But all I have to do is look over at Cori and see the pain and fear in her eyes, to forget why I even felt sorry for him.

  He brushes a hand over his buzzed, salt-and-pepper head and gulps down a hard swallow. “I don’t think now is the right time to talk about this, Evelyn,” he responds, his voice shaky and hesitant.

  Crossing one leg over the other and sitting upright in her chair, Evelyn places her elbow on the armrest and rests her chin on the back of her hand. Despite the frizz of her sandy-brown hair and her dark makeup smudged along the pinkish rings around her hazel eyes, her posture exudes an air of confidence. I look at her, and I see Cori. The image is uncanny. She laughs, but not the humorous ‘ha ha’ kind of laugh. It sounds vindictive, almost evil. “Oh, we have time. Now is as good a time as any, Jamie.”

  He rounds the row of chairs opposite us and chooses a seat in the center, directly across from Evelyn. It’s like he’s on trial, waiting to be judged by a jury. I don’t know the guy, but I’ve certainly made a few judgments of my own. Cori’s hand moves beneath mine as she weaves our finger
s together.

  “Look, Evelyn, we didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

  “Is that so?” Evelyn scoffs. “And how did you expect us to find out? On Thanksgiving, while we’re enjoying a nice family dinner? Or maybe on Christmas morning, when we’re opening our gifts in front of the tree? Or here’s one...how about after my daughter and I come home early from a girls’ weekend away because we can’t wait to get home to Henry, only to find you in our bed?”

  I flinch, quickly glancing at my parents, only to see them look away, but Cori doesn’t react, and that worries me.

  “So, if this isn’t the way you expected us to find out, I’d really love to hear what you two had in mind. And if you have any plans of staying in this room until we hear word on my husband, then you will start talking.”

  Jamie doesn’t respond right away. He bends over in his chair and rests his elbows on his legs, cupping his head in his hands. The silence is suffocating, and visibly so in the rapid rise and fall of Cori’s chest.

  As the silence grows, so does the pace of Cori’s breathing, and despite the cool air flowing through the vents directly above us, her hand feels clammy in mine. I see the fire burning within her eyes. Like a rigid statue, her face hardens and her body stiffens as she digs her eyes into Jamie, and I realize it’s only a matter of time before that fire combusts, shattering her hard exterior.

  “Evelyn, please.” A pleading desperation rings through Jamie’s voice as he swipes his hand down his face.

  “Don’t act as if I’m the only one in this room, Jamie. If you’re going to address me, you can address my daughter.” Evelyn waves her hand between Cori and Jamie. “Forgive me for being rude! Corinne, honey, this is James Allen, but he prefers to go by Jamie. He once told me James sounds too formal. Isn’t that right?” She purses her lips into a hard smile. She seems calm and collected, and that’s what makes it all the more disturbing. Evelyn is definitely not calm, and she definitely is not collected. She is anything but.