The Truth About Falling Read online

  Table of Contents

  THE BUILDUP

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  THE FALL

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  THE CRASH

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  THE REVIVAL

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Connect

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by H.M. Sholander

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by H.M. Sholander

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.hmsholander.com

  Cover Design by RBA Designs: Romantic Book Affairs

  Photography by Mae I Design and Photography

  Edited by Chelsea Kuhel

  Formatted by Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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

  Playlist

  Pinterest Board

  For my madre.

  You gave up everything for me,

  and I’d give up everything for you.

  THE BUILDUP

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  THE FALL

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  THE CRASH

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  THE REVIVAL

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Connect

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by H.M. Sholander

  About the Author

  Life is a balancing act of learning how to manage

  responsibilities, free time, and relationships.

  I’m failing at all three.

  I’ve been stuck in this hellhole for way too long. I had dreams when I was a little girl. Of course most girls dream of growing up to be a princess but not me. I dreamed of getting out of this place, to pursue something more–to be more than this. That was my only goal, and I failed.

  Instead, I’m stuck here, wasting my life away because of them–my parents. More specifically, my dad because I could never lay blame on my mom. None of this is her fault. Even though what happened to Mom was out of Dad’s control, I still blame him–for everything.

  I wasn’t forced to stay and live this life, but really, what kind of daughter would I be if I left my parents alone? Left my mom alone with only him? I’d be a shitty person, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I felt obligated to stay–to help Mom when she needed me the most.

  So instead of pursuing my only dream to get out of Nowheresville, Georgia, I stayed, convincing myself it would only be temporary. But here I am, three years later, stuck in the same place.

  I do the same thing day in and day out. I wake up at the ass crack of dawn to make sure my parents are still breathing, spend ten hours at my day job before I work the night away, and then I collapse on my bed for a few measly hours.

  Rinse and repeat.

  It’s an endless cycle.

  “Jade, get over here!” my boss, Harry, yells from his office chair, snapping me back to reality.

  Grumbling under my breath, I stalk to his grungy office, pushing through the broken wooden door that separates him from the shop.

  Stepping inside his office, I take in the empty soda cans lining the stained, greasy carpet, and empty bags of food littering his desk. Chip crumbs and a handful of Skittles litter the chair adjacent to his desk. I shake my head at the chair, not daring to sit in it.

  I would hate to see the inside of his house if his tiny office looks like this. I shiver, my skin crawling just from envisioning it.

  “Yeah,” I say with more attitude than I should, considering he is my boss.

  “Are you almost done?” he hisses, wiping his hand across his raggedy shirt.

  I stare at the piece of food stuck to his lip, trying not to cringe. “I’ll be done in five.” I cross my arms.

  I would have been done already had he not called me in here, but I know what he wants. He wants to look me up and down with his beady eyes without the other guys in the garage judging him. I see it every time he looks at me, even if no one else does.

  “Well, hurry up. We’re booked solid today.” He stares at my chest, thinking I don’t notice, but I do.

  Because I have an ass and boobs, people think I flaunt my looks. I’m always in a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a tank top, which has attributed to my tan skin. If I had the stereotypical white girl ass and a flat chest, they wouldn’t think I was flaunting anything. The would know I was trying to survive the heat.

  My long, dark brown hair hits the middle of my back and appears almost black at a glance. I wear more eyeliner and mascara than I should, considering I live in the humid climate of Georgia where the sun beats down on me without apology. Besides the makeup, I’m as simple as it gets.

  I roll my eyes at him, and his brows furrow, and I swear I hear a snarl rumble in his chest.

  “Yeah, all right,” I mutter under my breath before walking out his door as fast as I can and into the fresh air of the garage.

  Fresh air? I guess you can call it that. That is if you like the smell of oil and car fumes.

  I pick up the timing belt from the ground next to the car I’m fixing and get back to work. I’ve been a mechanic for three years, so the smell in the shop doesn’t bother me. It almost comforts me, allowing me to get lost in another world where I can pretend to be someone else before skittering back home.

  I’m a damn good mechanic. Just another reason Harry keeps me around. I can finish three cars before the other guys I work with can finish one.

  Don’t stereotype me because I’ll tell you now, I’m not a lesbian. I love men. Especially the ones with tattoos covering their bodies and intrigue hidden inside, begging for someone to understand–a lot like me in that way.

  All I want is for someone to see past my hard exterior, but that would require me letting someone in,
and that’s not something I do. The past can scar you, ruining you more than you ever thought possible. Most guys don’t want complicated women with wounds hidden beneath the surface. They want easy, and I am far from easy.

  Three hours later my arms are coated in a layer of grease with dirt trapped under my fingernails. I wipe my forehead with the back of my arm, diminishing the sweat dripping down my face. My white tank top is dingy, littered with oil stains, and smells like body odor.

  Closing the hood of the car I’ve been working on, I toss the dirty rag in the laundry basket that’s filled to the brim with oil stained rags and head out of the confines of the shop.

  I inhale a lungful of air as I step outside, letting the rays of the sun assault me. The trees sway around me, and a breeze soothes some of the heat, causing loose strands of my long brown hair to blow on my face, sticking to my cheek and forehead. I push my hair away, but the wind is relentless, whipping it in my face yet again. I let my hair float around me, knowing I can’t win against Mother Nature.

  Dragging my feet, I walk around the corner of Harry’s Garage where my bike rests near three other cars. I kick at the rocks on the gravel path, a cloud of dust forming around me, wishing I had somewhere else to go besides home.

  But I don’t, so instead of dwelling, I place my hands on the handle bars of my bike and throw my leg over, sitting on the padded seat. After finding my balance, I kick the stand up and make the journey home, pedaling away from Harry’s Garage.

  I do not own a motorcycle. My bike is in fact a bicycle. It’s my only mode of transportation, unless I’m willing to fork over money for a cab. A vehicle is a luxury I’m not privileged enough to have.

  My bike is red, adorned with a silver bell. The red paint on the bike is peeling off the metal frame, giving it a vintage look, and the right handle bar has a dingy silver bell that I use more often than not.

  My hair whips behind me, staying away from my sticky face for the first time since I stepped outside. It takes ten minutes for me to land in my driveway, but calling it a driveway isn’t right. It’s more of a narrow strip of dirt that turns into a mudslide when it rains.

  I drop my bike in the dirt, not bothering to put it up because if I’m being honest, there isn’t a place for it, which is sad considering it’s the nicest thing outside. We don’t have a garage or a porch, and there isn’t a deck to sit on to enjoy a glass of water.

  I stare at the tin can I call home and frown, hating that this is it. This is my life staring back me. A home that hasn’t been a home for three years because that’s when it all fell apart. That’s when the walls caved in and collapsed around me.

  They say you learn to accept things, acknowledge that it’s your new reality, but I don’t agree. In the years we’ve lived in this place, I have yet to accept it–to admit this is home.

  The trailer is rough around the edges and covered in rust. Blankets cover the windows because for us blinds are an extravagance. Something we’ll never have. Broken wooden stairs lead to a front door with a huge dent from the one time we were robbed. How they managed to find anything worth stealing is beyond me. Everything my parents and I had worth any value was sold before we stepped foot into our new home.

  A Frisbee, toy firetruck, tennis balls, and several other toys litter the front yard that I know I picked up yesterday. The neighbor’s kids have a habit of leaving their toys scattered far and wide. I don’t know why they can’t keep their crap on their own property.

  With a heavy sigh, I collect the toys and place them next to our neighbor’s trailer, hoping they don’t find their way back anytime soon.

  Trudging up the stairs, I pause at my door, wanting one more second of peace. Behind the dingy, old, banged-up door lays my own personal hell. Fights. Frustration. Anger. Solitude. It’s a place where I’m the adult, and the adults, well, they definitely aren’t adults.

  Opening the door, the smell of cigarette smoke greets my nose. I told my dad not to smoke inside, but does he listen? Obviously not.

  The television plays the news, illuminating the living room. Our trailer is so small you can see from one end to the other while standing in the doorway.

  I step inside, letting the door slam behind, and I swipe the remote off the recliner. I hit the power button, cutting off the only source of light.

  It takes me three steps to get to the kitchen where I flip on the overhead, fluorescent light.

  The old box television and ratty recliner are my dad’s most treasured possessions. I think if either one of them were to vanish he would cry for weeks. There’s just enough space leftover in the small living room for the loveseat that hardly ever gets used.

  I found it next to the dumpster in the neighborhood, and since it was free, I figured why not take it home. I gave a scrawny teenager a ten-dollar bill to help me get it back here and through the front door.

  I grab bag of stale chips from the kitchen cabinet and notice a pile of dishes in the sink. It’s not enough that I work all day to support my parents. I have to come home and work, too.

  Sometimes I wish I was a normal twenty-one-year-old. A girl who went out and enjoyed a party or two. A girl who made stupid decisions and regretted them in the light of the next day. But that’s not me, and it never will be.

  Our kitchen is really just a small counter with a sink, mini-fridge, and old-as-shit-oven. That’s right, no dishwasher, which means all these dishes will be done the old-fashioned way–by hand. I know that’s why my dad doesn’t do the dishes. He’s too lazy to take twenty minutes out of his day of sitting on his ass to do any work–too busy watching television to do anything.

  Leaving the chips on the counter, I turn on the faucet and scrub the dishes clean, placing them one by one in the drying rack that’s taking up half the counter.

  When I’m done with the dishes, I make myself a peanut butter sandwich and grab a handful of chips, scarfing it all down before I can taste a single bite.

  Since my parents don’t work, we can’t afford much. I pay all the bills and take on all the household expenses. I clean and “cook” and work over forty hours a week.

  Isn’t my life grand?

  The bathroom door swings open, sounding like a nail being dragged across a metal surface. “What are you doing here?” Dad croaks out in between coughs.

  “I live here,” I say.

  “Shouldn’t you be working or something?” He runs a hand through his scraggly gray hair. His eyes are dead, they have been for a while. I don’t remember the last time I saw him happy…about anything.

  “Don’t worry; I’ll be heading out soon.” To my other job, but somehow you can’t manage to get one. I throw my trash away and proceed to the living room to pick up his discarded cigarettes. “Didn’t I tell you not to smoke in here?” I ask with a raised brow.

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot.” He plays dumb, but I know he didn’t forget.

  I place all the cigarette butts in the ashtray, picking a few off the armrest of the ratty recliner. He’s lucky he didn’t start a fire. Once I’ve collected all the butts, I dispose of them in the trash and go crazy, spraying almost a whole bottle of air freshener from the living room back to the kitchen.

  “What are you doing, trying to kill me?” he complains, waving his hands in front of his face.

  “Just the opposite.” I lean my hip on the kitchen counter, placing the almost empty can of air freshener next to me, and stare at him. “Stop smoking in here. It smells like shit.”

  “You have no right to talk to me like that.”

  “Oh, now you want to act like a parent?” I say with wide eyes. “How about this, when you get a job and can take care of yourself, I won’t talk to you like that, but for now, I’ll say whatever the hell I want since I’m the one supporting everyone.”

  I wait for a comeback, but I don’t get one because he knows I’m right.

  “I’m going to my room,” I tell him, although it’s not like he needs to know.

  I sit in my room and stare at t
he walls that are littered with photographs and my artwork. I’ve drawn for years, and these days, it’s the only thing that eases my mind. It allows me to escape my day to day, but sometimes, like now, a pit settles in my stomach as my eyes skate over the drawings.

  I lost a lot when I graduated high school. Funny how must people’s lives start after they graduate, but mine crumbled to the ground like a dry cookie.

  I hung pictures of my mom and me from when I was younger around my room. It’s also a stab in the gut because those are some of the only times she was happy.

  I grab my drawing pad and pencil off my nightstand and sit back on my bed, propping myself up on my two pillows.

  My hand glides across the page, and I get absolutely lost in the flowers that begin taking shape on the page in front of me.

  I let out a yelp when my alarm blares that annoying buzzing noise, informing me it’s time to get moving–to stop daydreaming.

  I throw my sketchpad in my nightstand drawer, slamming it closed, and head out for the night to my second job.

  I’m always running on fumes, but it’s the only way for my family to get by in this thing that is our life. It’s the only way for us to survive.

  It’s insanely busy tonight, and of course, I’m flying solo behind the bar, and only one waitress, Kristy, is working the floor. The bar is packed with regulars and college kids. This isn’t a dancing kind of bar, but when the college kids invade on the weekends, it becomes just that. They can do whatever they want as long as they tip me before they leave.

  I sling drinks across the wooden countertop, praying they don’t fall over. I glance out at the floor, seeing there’s barely any room for anyone to navigate through the bar. There has to be almost a hundred people here when our capacity is eighty.

  “Three beers please,” a guy in a trucker hat shouts over the music blaring through the bar.

  “Six shots of tequila,” another man with a long gray beard hollers.

  I nod my head at both of them, adding to my ever-growing list of orders.

  “Where are my drinks, Jade?” Kristy yells, tapping her hand on the bar.

  Her short blonde hair is swept to the side, showing off the shaved side that can easily be hidden by her hair if she parts it down the middle. She has a full-sleeve tattoo on her right arm of vibrant colors and various designs, and both of her ears have five piercings each. She’s a tough chick, and I think that’s why we get along so well. Not like we are best friends, but I’d come to her rescue if a drunk guy was getting too handsy.