Refusing to Fall Read online

  Refusing to Fall

  Copyright © 2016 by G.L. Moore

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Editing:

  Indie Solutions by Murphy Rae

  Proofreading:

  Love N Books

  Cover Design:

  By Hang Le

  Interior Design & Formatting:

  Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

  To the original G.L., the woman who gave me the strength, courage and ambition to write.

  Contents

  REFUSING TO FALL

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  June

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  July

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  August

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  September

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  October

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  November

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  December

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Day After

  I MADE A choice last night that you might not like.

  Decisions are never easy to make when something is at stake. You come to a fork in the road and have to make a choice. You have no idea where either path leads, but you hope one will at least get you to where you want to be. Some call it blind faith. Some call it logic. Some call it life.

  But life doesn’t just happen to us. We carefully construct it based on which paths we choose to take. More so, the choices we make in life define who we are, often putting our character or priorities or fears on display for everyone to see.

  The scene from last night replays over and over in my mind now, and I just sit here, in disbelief of it all. How did we ever get to that fork in the road? In a split second, I remember having to weigh the options—choose the path on the left and possibly obliterate my heart, self-worth, and what’s left of my sanity; or choose the path on the right, which shatters his heart on the spot. Yeah, not really cupcakes and kittens.

  Either choice was going to require a mourning period, time to come to terms with the decision I’ve made and what that means for who I am as a person.

  The last twenty-nine weeks have been an endless maze of decisions and choices, forcing me out of my comfort zone on numerous occasions, putting me on a ledge to teeter from. I didn’t want to fall, to plunge into the abyss of the future in front of me. I like a carefully orchestrated world that I can control. But I did fall, something I swore I would never do again.

  Let me explain what happened.

  MEET CUTE

  29 Weeks Before

  PIERCING BLUE EYES.

  I hear the sounds of babies crying, overhead announcements being made, and the grunts emitted as people shove their bags above them. I see a spectrum of colors between business suits, casual outfits, neck pillows, and luggage. The aromas wafting by attack my nose as they get filtered and then recycled back out into the cabin—greasy burgers, someone’s perfume, and oh, that baby needs to be changed. So many things are assaulting my senses right now, but his eyes are all that I can focus on.

  They are electric, almost translucent, so blue that looking into them makes you feel like you’re in the warm ocean water and the white flecks of his irises are the subtle ripples as fish swim by.

  I am transfixed by his eyes. I’m frozen with my earbuds in my hand and no music playing. His blue eyes are so sexy. And if I take a minute to register anything else besides his eyes, I’d see that the rest of him is sexy too. But I’m locked on his eyes, and they’re still staring straight at me from where he stands at the front of the plane.

  Man, do I hate flying. But it’s not because of the heights or the turbulence or the germs. I hate that uncomfortable game we have to play with the person sitting next to us. Honestly, every time I get on a plane, I pray that the seat next to me will remain empty. Mostly it’s because I’m not a chatty person. Ninety-nine percent of the time I could not care less about making small talk with the person next to me. The likelihood that we’ll actually have something in common is slim, and instead, we’ll both sit there, silently judging each other, or get annoyed by the gentle snoring when the other person is able to find some relaxing sleep.

  For the first time in a long time, I wouldn’t mind if someone sat in the seat next to me—if that someone was Mr. Blue Eyes. I continue to watch him as he stands at the separation between First Class and Coach, waiting for someone to find space for their bag. He’s not even looking around but rather just keeps looking my way. It certainly seems like he’s staring right at me.

  My cheeks flush, and I shift my eyes away as my shyness kicks in. I don’t want him to know that I was staring back. With my luck, that would only bring me unwanted attention. Historically, guys who pay attention to me don’t have good intentions or even respect for women in general. When a guy hones in on me, he can sense my lack of confidence and how insecure I am. Then they think they can take control and have their way with me—whatever that may be. In my twenty-eight years, my luck with guys has been nothing but crap. So I turn up my bitchy attitude in the hopes that people will leave me alone.

  The passengers file by, and Mr. Blue Eyes is now only about five rows away. When he reaches my aisle, he smiles, and I’m mesmerized by it and all of its sparkle. Who is this guy? My pulse starts to accelerate, and the warmth that brushed my cheeks turns to burning heat—from excitement, or nerves, or uneasiness, I’m not even sure.

  “Hey, that’s me,” Mr. Blue Eyes says as he points to the middle seat next to me and places his laptop bag in the overhead space. All I can do is press my lips together and sort of smile with a nod of understanding. I look down at my earbuds and e-reader and realize I haven’t even started listening to my music yet. I had hoped that with my earbuds and e-reader out, it would indicate that I’m not interested in socializing, but it doesn’t seem to deter him. He takes off his sports coat, folds it, and places it with his bag overhead.

  He slips his bulky, tall frame—he has to be over six feet tall—into the middle seat, and his muscular arm rubs against mine as he sits back. I still as the delicious warmth from the friction spreads over my skin. Once the sensation fades, I try to lean into the wall of the airplane so that I’m not invading his personal space, assuming he’d get annoyed if our arms continued to rub against each other throughout the flight.

  I can’t help but to subtly drink him in with my eyes. He’s wearing a light-blue dress shirt with black dress pants and dress shoes that I can tell must have some well-known
name attached to them.

  He’s really tan, as if he works outside and has that problem where his skin bakes without burning to become the caramel tone that I envy. My skin does nothing but burn. I am Casper the Friendly Ghost, I’m so white. Other women constantly compliment how beautiful my milky white skin is, but I become an embarrassing shade of lobster-red if I end up in the sun too long, even with sunscreen reapplied every thirty minutes.

  His hair is dark and long enough that I could run my fingers through it. And I really have the urge to run my fingers through it right now. What the hell, I don’t even know this guy.

  My heart is fluttering fast, nervous. I take a deep breath to slow its pace, and that’s when a very masculine, seductive aroma assaults my senses. The mingling scent of oak and sage is soothing. I instinctively want to lean over and breathe him in deeper, but I lay my head back and roll my neck to relax my shoulders and clear my mind instead.

  When he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, I notice how strong his arms look. He has the kind of arms that would feel really good to be wrapped up in. Somehow, I know that when he holds his girl, she must feel really safe. Maybe I could just wrap my hand around his bicep. Large, toned biceps definitely make me weak in the knees.

  Just as the silence starts to calm my nerves and I move to place the buds into my ears, his honey-rich voice lilts over the static of the cabin, caresses my ears, and ignites a flutter in my stomach.

  “You headed home?” he asks.

  It takes me a minute to process his words. I just sit there, staring at the earbud lifted midway to my ear. I turn to look into his eyes. I want to stop the world and just get lost in the pool of blue.

  “Huh?” I say dumbly.

  “What takes you to Atlanta? Are you headed home?” he clarifies.

  I smile shyly and answer, “Yeah. You?”

  Usually when a guy tries to chat me up, I don’t use follow-up questions; his eyes have tricked me into some sort of chit-chat.

  “Yeah, sort of,” he replies.

  My mind whirs as I try to come up with what he might mean by “sort of” living in Atlanta. Maybe his work requires him to be in Atlanta so often, that even though he technically lives in Texas, it feels like he practically lives in Georgia too. Or maybe he’s a traveling salesman, living out of a suitcase, and his bed and record collection remain in Atlanta while he travels. Perhaps he’s got a secret second family, and it is their week to have Daddy around. My imagination runs wild.

  I raise one eyebrow and look at him skeptically.

  He chuckles. “I work for one of the world’s largest public relations firms.” He pauses, and I assume he’s waiting for a reaction.

  “Congratulations?” I say, half sass, half curiosity. That was certainly not the explanation I was expecting.

  “My company just transferred me out to the Atlanta office. Sterling Global,” he says with a smirk. “I just closed on a condo in Vinings. Are you familiar with where that is?”

  “Uh-huh. That’s nice,” I mumble and look out the window, immediately put off by his bravado. This guy is definitely a chatty Cathy, so if I look out the window, maybe he’ll get the hint that I just want to be left alone.

  His knee bounces nervously next to me as he checks his phone. The image is jarring. This well-groomed, well-dressed, strong-looking man has a nervous tick. And in that instant, it is as if I can see his soft underbelly. I’m no longer as put off as I was before.

  His leg brushes against mine, and Mr. Blue Eyes catches me eyeing his twitching knee.

  “Sorry,” he says meekly. “I’ll try to keep my nerves in check. But I may fall asleep on your shoulder.” He gently nudges my shoulder with his. A butterfly makes an appearance in my stomach at the thought of this gorgeous man snuggling up against me.

  When I look up at him, he winks. I feel like I have whiplash. This man goes from showing an ounce of vulnerability to arrogant flirting in a half second.

  I give a slight disappointed shake of my head and stare straight into his eyes. “Not a fan of airplanes?”

  His eyes widen just a fraction before a small smile forms on his lips. “Not much makes me nervous, except for takeoff and landing,” he admits.

  I laugh softly. “It’s not that bad. I promise you’ll be safe.”

  “Are you going to protect me?” he asks with a suggestively raised eyebrow.

  Barf. He’s so sure of himself. I’m sure he has women falling all over him wherever he goes, but I will not be one among the masses.

  I close my eyes as I sigh and shake my head. “I think you’ll be fine, Sparky. No protection needed.” And with that, I swiftly insert my earbuds.

  A few minutes later, the pilot makes an announcement that we’ll be leaving the gate and taking off shortly. I watch as the flight attendant makes her way down the aisle, checking seat backs, tray tables, and seatbelts, getting stern about turning off electronic devices. I can’t help but think of my mother and all of the stories she would tell me growing up. She definitely had a way of putting people in their place with a smile. I may or may not be a chip off her block. I just don’t use a smile like she did.

  When the flight attendant stops at our aisle, she notes the two of us sitting next to each other and the seat along the aisle being empty.

  “We’re finished boarding, sir,” she addresses Mr. Blue Eyes. “You’re more than welcome to move to the aisle seat if you’d like.”

  He smiles up at her and then looks back at me. “Thanks, but I’m happy where I am.” He leans into me slightly as he says this.

  The flight attendant smiles, nods, and then moves on. Either this man is working hard to get my attention, or I am the butt of a big joke, and it’s scaring me that I can’t tell which situation I’m in. I smile at him indifferently, lean my head against the window, turn up the music on my phone, and close my eyes. I am so ready to just be home. This week was exhausting enough, and I don’t have the energy to deal with a man who has an ego the size of metro Atlanta. Hopefully I can find some reprieve in a two-hour nap. Sleep . . .

  “Have you been up all night?” he asks.

  I nod slightly in answer, but I remain staring at the carpet across the room. The family room is dim, lit mostly by the muted television screen. Sun streams into the adjacent kitchen, but I’ve pulled the blinds closed tight because I don’t want to face the sunlight right now. I don’t want to face the day. I don’t want to face the reality that I’ve been thrown into or deal with the pain. I just sit there, cross-legged on the couch, the afghan pulled across my lap. I stare blankly at the carpet, my eyes barely blinking.

  Grady sighs as he sits next to me on the couch. “You really should get some rest, Keltie.”

  “I can’t. I tried. I just . . .” I respond flatly before trailing off. I don’t want to talk either.

  He brushes some of my messy hair behind my ear and off my forehead. “Do you want something to eat?”

  I shake my head.

  He takes my hand in his, turns it palm up, and begins to massage it with his thumbs. My hand is limp and motionless, just like the rest of me. He could move and position me like Gumby, and I would comply. I have no will. I have no desire. I am alive but not living. I am numb.

  This does not seem to deter Grady. He’s committed to this role and is going to see it through, no matter how checked-out I am. The average seventeen-year-old boy would not have chosen to take on the responsibility of caring for their grieving ex-girlfriend. Regardless of his faults and all the reasons we broke up, this PBR-loving, BB-gun-shooting, weed-smoking, football-playing asshat who thinks school is a joke gets all of my love for being here with me today—even if I can’t feel or process any emotion at the moment.

  He places a kiss at the center of my palm, soft and gentle but just enough pressure to bring me out of this haze I’m in. I turn my head to look at him. His dirty blond hair is bed-ruffled. Concern, strength, and determination swim in his murky green eyes. He plays with the collar of his polo shirt—a n
ervous habit of his—while he waits for me to have any sort of reaction. When he doesn’t get one, he stands and tugs on my hand.

  “C’mon,” he insists. “I brought the Mustang. Let’s go for a ride.”

  I want to resist the movement, stand my ground and stay curled up on the couch, but Grady is a lot stronger than I am, and I have no energy to even protest verbally. He leads me down the back hallway and out through the garage to the driveway where he’s parked the Mustang. He opens the passenger door for me and I pile in, tie-dyed pajamas and all.

  The car is brand new—a black 2004 Ford Mustang GT with leather seats. Grady’s parents got it for his brother, Tommy, as a high school graduation gift in the spring, but Tommy kept it at home when he left for his freshman year at Columbia University in New York City. Grady isn’t supposed to be driving it, but I’m hoping Tommy can forgive him for today’s infraction.

  Without speaking a word, Grady backs the Mustang out of the driveway and out of the neighborhood. When he gets to the back roads of farmland, Ohio, he rolls down the windows and treats the road in front of him as if it is a race course, shifting hard and often as he rounds corners and obeys most stop signs. I close my eyes and let the wind beat at my face while enjoying the thrill of the speed of the tires beneath us.

  When he lingers at a four-way stop, allowing other cars to move along without him on their tail, Grady squeezes my knee with his right hand and then just holds it there, as if he’s saying, “I’m not going anywhere.” What a rather loud message on a day like today.

  “I can’t imagine life without her,” I murmur. I don’t know where the words are coming from, but I let them come. “I feel like a piece of me has been taken away—like my arm, or my leg, or a life-sustaining organ. I don’t know how to continue to live. My head knows it’s possible, to go on without that missing piece, to live life and just adjust to the change. But she was the blood that my heart can’t beat without. And she was the oxygen my lungs need to breathe. How . . .”

  My eyes are getting heavy now, so I lean my head back against the seat and close them. The vibration of the car along the road is calming. It soothes me back into a numbness I can handle.