You and Everything After (Falling #2)(64)

“Thank you,” he whispers, interrupting my homemade panic attack. His whisper is soft, but perfectly clear. I don’t say anything in return, because I know what he meant by thank you. I squeeze him tightly and kiss his chest once more before closing my eyes, my lullaby the chorus of I love yous that cease to end in my head.





Chapter 21





Cass


The debate over whether or not I would join the soccer team picked up right where it left off the night before. When Ty left for his workouts with clients, I turned the sound back on for my phone and endured the three messages waiting for me—one from my father, reiterating his reasoning; one from my mother pretending nothing was wrong at all; and one from Paige, telling me she heard about it all from Mom.

I don’t feel like talking to any of them, but I call my dad back anyway because if I have to talk to one of them, at least he has a valid point. He isn’t going to waggle a finger or feign like everything’s fine and my spirit isn’t destroyed.

“Hey, sweetheart. Just got in the car to head to the office, but I can talk for a few,” my dad says. “How are you feeling about things this morning? Fresh perspective after a good night’s sleep, I hope?”

I wait a few seconds before responding, half tempted to shock him by saying something like “…no sleep for me. Spent the night with my boyfriend. Thinking about getting pregnant. Oh, and then joining the team. And maybe I’ll pose nude for Playboy, too.”

I don’t say any of those things. But I don’t roll over either.

“Yeah, I thought. I’m still joining the team,” I say, and his heavy sigh comes fast, just like I knew it would. He’s disappointed. What’s new?

“Cassidy, we talked about this. I know what your mother said, how she doesn’t feel comfortable with you overexerting yourself. But it’s more than that. If it were just the physical demands, Cass…if that were it…? I could hold your mom off. But this Paul Cotterman thing—Cass, we just don’t know how it’s going to go.”

That’s what had me in tears last night, more than anything. I called home to tell my parents I was going to play for McConnell, and in seconds, my father stripped my power away with news that Paul Cotterman was thinking about not signing the bargain—not following through with the carefully laid plans my father had constructed—the plans that would erase that awful experience from my life.

He was the one who was wrong. He was the one who should be punished. But I was the one who was going to suffer.

My mom found out. My dad tried to keep it between us, but the Cotterman issue, as it was now referred to, was just too big for him to keep hushed. She didn’t really believe me either. I know she didn’t. My dad said she knew, but my mother never brought it up when we spoke. Like so many things, she just liked to pretend that none of those bad things were real. Instead, after she told me soccer would kill me— exact words—she spent the next ten minutes filling me in on her bead workshop and the new things she got in the store.

“Cass, listen. I’m just pulling into the office. I’ve got a few calls out, and we’ll see where things stand in a day or two. But for now, honey…” I hate it when he calls me honey. “For now, let’s just sit on this. Sit and wait this out. Maybe next week…maybe the outlook will be different.”

It won’t be. I know it. But I am going to play anyway. And everyone trying to take this away from me can f*ck off.

“Whatever,” I say. Not even goodbye. My dad doesn’t notice, telling me he’ll talk to me Tuesday or Wednesday, like one of his clients. That’s what I am.

Whatever.



It didn’t take long for my mom to figure out that she could catch me. My dad must have told her we talked, because she called only a few minutes after. I let her go to voicemail. But she called again. She would keep doing this—I knew it.

Just before the second call fades to my voicemail, I catch it, taking a deep breath before I dive into a conversation where we pretend I’m not pissed, that she doesn’t think less of me, and that the only things on the table to talk about are Thanksgiving plans and beads.

“Hi, Mom,” I don’t have the energy for the fake voice, so I don’t put the effort into my greeting.

“Well, look who’s finally awake?” She sounds like one of those workout videos, where the person counts down the reps with so much enthusiasm that you start to think they might be high on speed.

“Yes, I’m awake. What is it, Mom? I have things to do.” I don’t have anything to do—my homework was done Friday afternoon, and Rowe is probably spending most of her afternoon with Nate. And I’m sure, somehow, Paige is also caught up on the Cotterman issue, so I’m looking at an afternoon of reading and MTV until Ty gets back.

“I was just making your flight plans for Thanksgiving. Your sister said she was okay with an early-morning flight, and I wanted to make sure it would work for you,” she says, knowing full well she already bought the tickets. I hate early-morning flights. You have to get to the airport before the sun is even up. But my mom uses Paige as our litmus test—if she’s fine with it, then the other child must be as well. We’re twins, after all.

“Early is fine,” I say.

“Good. You’ll be heading out at 7:50 a.m.”