Fall With Me (Playing For Keeps Book 4)

I know the moment I open my eyes.

They crack open, immediately blinded by the flurry of white falling outside my window, the curls I forgot to wrap last night a tangled mess, and I just know.

Today is going to be a terrible, awful, shit-ass day.

There’s a chill in the air I’m not used to, because despite spending six winters in Toronto, I don’t remember a single one. Every visit back to Canada was spent lakeside in cottage country, basking on the dock in the blazing sun. Sure, I saw the occasional snowfall in Augusta, but I could probably count the times temperatures dipped below freezing on both hands.

And that’s strike number one for Vancouver. Google said the Canadian west coast was mild. Promised me, even. But the coat that religiously got me through those Georgia winters has done nothing but fail me this week as Vancouver’s been hit with snow, rain, and sleet, day after cold, wet day that leads to bone-chilling night.

When I finally sit up in bed, my nose runs and drips, because it, too, hates the cold. Strike number two.

No, wait. Strike one was that I forgot to wear my silk wrap to bed last night, and now I’m going to have to spend forever detangling my curls.

Strike three, nose.

Strike four . . . ugh, fuck, I don’t even want to talk about strike four.

Okay, fine, you twisted my arm. I’ll talk about strike four.

Strike four is this little red clit-sucking vibrator, the one currently giving me the stink eye from the floor, where I chucked it last night in a fit of rage.

Okay, it wasn’t a fit of rage, but I’ll tell you what else it definitely wasn’t: an orgasm. Because my little buddy died on me in the most crucial moment, when I was right there, on the cusp, ready to free fall into oblivion, with somebody’s name on my lips that definitely doesn’t start with J.

You know what? This is all Jaxon Riley’s fault. If he hadn’t made me so frustrated last night, which in turn made my body so damn hot, I wouldn’t have ripped off my coat a mere ten feet from my car. If I hadn’t ripped off my coat, I wouldn’t have a runny nose this morning. And if I hadn’t still been so hot by the time I got home, I wouldn’t have had to pull out that clit sucker, torn off my clothes, and spread my legs on my bed. And if that clit sucker hadn’t died, I would’ve had an amazing, incredible, wonderful orgasm. I would’ve happily skipped from bed to the bathroom, washed my face, and wrapped my curls in my silk scarf to protect them.

But I didn’t. And now it’s morning, it’s cold as balls, my nose is running like a faucet, and I’m still so horny I’m debating pulling out my dildo, but I don’t want to do any of the work, only reap all the benefits.

This is a horrible, terrible start to my day, but I suppose the bright side is there’s no way it can possibly get any worse. With that knowledge, I finally drag myself out of bed and to the kitchen, because coffee fixes 99 percent of problems. That’s a fact; look it up.

I stop when I see the offending Keurig machine on the counter, glossy white exterior stained with brown splatter. It reminds me of that time Ryne got food poisoning in Saint Lucia. He spent all three days of my birthday weekend getaway locked in the pristine white bathroom, and threw a hissy fit when I went to the beach without him.

God, I fucking hate him.

“Shit,” I mutter, arms crossed, foot tapping as I stare at my coffee machine. I don’t know that it’s even broken, so much as the entire debacle was, like . . . potentially a user error, but I do know this: I’m not using that machine again. My birthday is coming up; I’ll start dropping hints to Devin. And by dropping hints, I mean I’ll send him weekly links to the espresso machine Ryne and I had and follow it up with an oops, sorry, meant to send that to someone else! The espresso machine is no easier, but I can probably convince my brother to walk me through a latte on FaceTime every morning.

My phone pings as I’m contemplating my existence braving the snow for caffeine, and I scream, chucking it across the room when I see the name lighting it up.

“Okay, Len,” I mutter to myself, hand over my racing heart. “It’s okay. You’re probably seeing things.” I creep across the kitchen, into the living room—wow, what an arm on me—and nudge my phone with my toes. It doesn’t light up, and I kinda hope it’s broken. Sinking to my knees, I crawl closer, waiting to see what it’ll do. When it does nothing, I hesitantly pull it toward me, sighing when nothing happens as I press on the screen.

And then it pings again, and another scream leaves my mouth as PIECE OF MOTHERFUCKING SHIT scrolls across my phone.

That’s Ryne, my ex-fiancé, in case it wasn’t clear.

PIECE OF MOTHERFUCKING SHIT

I hate waking up without you, angel.

PIECE OF MOTHERFUCKING SHIT

Every morning, I’d open my eyes and look at you, so beautiful and peaceful next to me, and I knew I’d be able to get through even the hardest days with you by my side. It feels like I’m dying without you. I miss you, Lenny Bean. You belong here with me. Please come home.

There’s a lot I want to say here, but it would probably take me years to unpack in therapy. The first is don’t call me Lenny Bean. I’ve hated that name with every fiber of my being from the moment he coined it. And the rest of it? Don’t even get me started.

Look, I get it. It sounds nice. Great, even. Everyone wants to be missed, to be needed. But this is the kind of shit that lived in the back of my brain for years, the things I reminded myself of every time I wondered if I was better off without him, if he even loved me at all. I’ve been through this. Told myself the sweet moments were worth the bitter ones, that the hard days would pass, and one day we’d be carefree and happy. I’ve let him convince me he loved me, trusted him when he apologized, promised he’d be better, an attentive husband.

And after every I love you, every apology date, every night spent with his hands and mouth on my body, I’ve watched him slip right back into the man I should’ve left long ago.

PIECE OF MOTHERFUCKING SHIT

How long are you going to pull this silent treatment bullshit on me, Lenny?

PIECE OF MOTHERFUCKING SHIT

Come on. It’s immature.

I gasp. “Immature? How fucking dare you? I’ll show you immature, you son of a . . .” My fingers fly furiously across the screen, typing out a giant FUCK YOU, among some other colorful insults, but then another text comes in.

PIECE OF MOTHERFUCKING SHIT

My grandmother says you moved to Canada. Is this true? Fucking Canada? How old are you? Grow up and come home. You have no one and nothing out there for you.

My jaw clenches, teeth clacking together. My hands shake and tears sting my eyes as I swallow against the burning in my throat. I’ve cried enough over Ryne, over a relationship that sucked me dry, even if I spent years denying it, years trying to convince myself the red flags were hiccups every relationship had, years telling myself that the good outweighed the bad. I don’t know if I have anything left to give, but if I find more, the last person I want to give it to is him. He doesn’t deserve it, and he certainly doesn’t deserve me.

Rolling onto my back, I collapse on the living room rug and delete his messages. With my phone pressed to my chest, I breathe slowly, in and out, until the rapid rise of my chest slows, the angry patter of my heart quieting, the urge to cry waning.

And then my phone pings again.

“Are you fucking—oh.” I sit up, blinking at the brand-new message thread, all the names I learned only yesterday staring up at me from my phone.

Cara added you to a group chat.

Cara changed the group chat name to Penis Cozies.

Olivia

Cara, we are not naming this group chat Penis Cozies. I have to draw the line somewhere.

Jennie

I support Penis Cozies.

Rosie

I’m with Ollie.

Cara changed the group chat name to Cock Suckers.

Olivia

If Penis Cozies was my line, what makes you think Cock Suckers is any better?

Jennie

I also support Cock Suckers.

Cara

Oh, c’mon, Ollie. You’re the biggest cock sucker I know.

Rosie

*surprised emoji*

But wait, do you mean “biggest” because she likes to suck cock, or “biggest” like . . . <=========8

Because, I mean . . . we all know Adam’s the biggest.

Jennie

This just in, Rosie’s the biggest cock sucker!!!!

Olivia changed the group chat name to Gouda Friends.

Jennie

. . .

Cara

OLIVIA?!?! WHERE HAVE I GONE WRONG WITH YOU???

Jennie

I’m calling Carter. He needs to sort you out. This is disgusting behavior.

Rosie

Surely we can find a happy medium between Cock Suckers and Gouda Friends.

Cara changed the group chat name to Coochie Gang.

Olivia

Hmm . . . I might be able to get on board with Coochie Gang.

Cara changed the group chat name to Coochie Gang: The Chamber of Secrets.

Olivia

Now I know you didn’t just call my coochie a chamber.

Cara

Everyone for Coochie Gang: The Chamber of Secrets, say “I suck cock.”

Jennie

I suck cock!!! *tongue emoji* *eggplant emoji*

Rosie

I suck the biggest cock *blushing emoji*

Snickering, I cross my legs, getting comfy on the floor as I type out my first message.

Me

I suck hockey player cock when I’ve been drinking.

Cara

YEAH YOU DO, BABY!!!

Jennie

My girl!!!

Rosie

It happens to the best of us, Lennon.

Olivia

Sigh . . . I suck the most cock.

Clicking out of the thread, I navigate to the only other group chat I use regularly: Mimi’s Favs.

Me

Guess what???

Devin

chicken butt

Serena

Guess how?

Devin

chicken cow!

Me

Can I say my thing now??? It’s exciting.

I MADE FRIENDS!!!

Devin

*clapping emoji* *dancing emoji* atta girl!

Serena

*happy tears emoji* Baby’s 1st friends in her new home

Don’t be replacing me though or I’ll be coming up there *sword fighting emoji*

Devin

u makin friends with hockey players?

Serena

Yeah, Len. You making friends with hockey players? *winking emoji*

Devin

whats she talkin about??

Faster than I’ve ever done anything—aside from call off my wedding—I exit the chat, pull up a separate message with Serena, and send her a single text.

Me

Don’t. Don’t you dare.

Serena

Don’t what???

My phone pings before I can spell it out for her, even though I know I don’t have to, and the text I see makes me giddy.

Cara

You free tomorrow night, Len? We can bring takeout, wine, and junk food, and by the end of the night your IKEA furniture may or may not be assembled.

Rosie

Adam’s already said he’ll finish/fix whatever needs to be finished/fixed when we’re through.

I look at the boxes stacked against my living room wall. There are . . . so many. A dresser that comes in three boxes, which, why? Is the goal to intimidate me into never building it? A bedside table to hide my dragon dildo plug my phone in. A coffee table, two bookshelves, and a TV stand. It’s so much, and the thought of doing any of it makes me want to curl up and cry.

I want my daddy. He’s so good at the furniture-building thingie.

Me

That’s really okay, guys. I appreciate the offer, but I don’t expect you to help me put my furniture together. Thank you though!

Cara

That’s cute.

Jennie

*laughing emoji*

Olivia

We’ll be there at 4.

Rosie

I only recently figured this out myself, Lennon, but nobody does things alone here. It’s everyone or nothing.

Sorry, to be clear, it’s everyone, period. There’s no other option, because it’s Cara’s world and we’re all just living in it.

Cara

*happy tears emoji* You know me so well, Rosie. Lennon, we’ll be there at 4.

Buzzing, I send along my address, mentally cataloguing a list of ingredients to make my mimi’s famous banana pudding. “I’ll need a big trifle dish,” I mumble, pulling myself off the floor when my bladder reminds me I haven’t peed yet this morning. “So it looks pretty. But what if they don’t like bananas? Should I make Mimi’s famous key lime pie too?”

I navigate back to the chat with my brother and cousin, groaning when I see the texts there.

Serena

lennonfuckedahockeyplayer

Devin

WHAT

LEN???

Serena

She’s still in denial, but it was the best sex she’s ever had.

Devin

i mean, get it i guess. don’t need to know how good it was though. oh but u know who u should tell, just for fun??? ryne. can i tell him???

Me

Gotta go, bye!!!

Racing to my room, I pull my clothes off, dumping them on my bed along with my phone. Rifling through the luggage I’ve yet to unpack, I find everything I need for wash day, because these curls are too damn gorgeous to let the frizz and tangles caused by last night win today.

This day may have started out shit, but it’s on the up and up now. I’m feeling positive. About today, about this new city, this new life. I’ve got new friends, I’m in a group chat with people who aren’t required to love me, I’ve got plans tomorrow night, and⁠—

“What the shit?” I stop at the edge of my bathroom, water pooled in center of the floor. The steady drip drip from somewhere inside makes my heart race, and the damp chill in the small, windowless room sends a shiver through me.

I look from the sink on the left, to the tub on the right, and back to the puddle of water in the center of the room. The floor around it is bone-dry, like the water simply appeared there, which makes no sense.

My eyes zero in on a drop as it hits the puddle, sending ripples through the water, followed by another drip, then another.

The blood in my face drains, leaving me lightheaded when I step fully into the room and the ceiling comes into view.

My jaw drops when I spy that giant bubble, right there in the plaster, making my bathroom ceiling hang a good two feet lower. Water beads on the surface, dropping quickly to the puddled floor, and when it feels like the entire building groans, I dive back into the hallway, landing on my ass.

Right in time to watch the bubble in my ceiling burst, flooding the bathroom in my brand-new apartment.

I sit there on the floor, water lapping around me, drenching my pajama shorts, and I soak up this absolute shit show of a day.

Don’t think it, don’t think it, don’t think it.

. . .

There is no way this day can possibly get any worse than this.

Damn it, I thought it. Fuck.

Well, can’t wait to see how this bitch will level up.