The falling, p.1
The Falling, page 1
CONTENTS
BOOKS BY ANNA TODD
DEDICATION
PLAYLIST
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
ALSO BY ANNA TODD
AFTER
AFTER WE COLLIDED
AFTER WE FELL
AFTER EVER HAPPY
IMAGINES
BEFORE
NOTHING MORE
NOTHING LESS
THE SPRING GIRLS
AFTER: THE GRAPHIC NOVEL (VOLUME 1)
DEDICATION
To you, the reader holding this book:
I hope you find comfort, solace, or distraction from any pain or loneliness you may be carrying—and at a minimum, I hope your heart feels a little lighter as you read these words.
You’re never alone. <3
PROLOGUE
The wind whips around the coffee shop each time the old wooden door creaks open. It’s unusually cold for September and I’m pretty sure it’s some kind of punishment from the universe for agreeing to meet up with him, today of all days. What was I thinking?
I barely had time to put makeup on the swollen pockets under my eyes. I held two freezing ice cubes to my face and moved around my kitchen while they dripped down my cheeks, melting quickly. It was humid in my house and the smell of cool Georgia rain filled the whole place, not that it took much. And this outfit I’m wearing? A simple fall ensemble that took me an hour of digging around my drawers and my closet—with a mini fashion show in front of my bedroom mirror—to decide on the same thing I usually wore to anything formal: an all-black outfit, pants with a crease that looked very grown-up and like I tried, even though I felt like wearing sweatpants. To go with them, I put on a thick black turtleneck and only discovered an annoying drop of toothpaste on it as I turned the speck into a big spot, rubbing it with water and a paper towel while driving. After so much effort, I look like shit. Complete shit.
Sitting here, my head aches but I’m not sure I have any ibuprofen in my purse. I’m thinking that it was smart of me to choose the table closest to the door of the coffee shop, in case I need to get away quickly. Or if he needs to. This little place in the middle of Edgewood? Another good choice—it’s neutral and not the least bit intimate. I’ve been here only a few times, but it’s my favorite coffeehouse in Atlanta. The seating is pretty limited—just about ten tables—so I guess they want to encourage a quick turnaround. There are a couple of Instagram-worthy features, like the succulent wall and the clean black-and-white tile behind the baristas, but overall, it’s quite austere. Harsh gray and concrete everywhere. The whistle of an espresso machine. Loud blenders mixing kale and whatever fruit is trendy.
There is a single door: one way in, one way out. I look down at my phone and wipe my palms on my black pants. Another stain. I need to get my shit together.
Will he hug me? Shake my hand? Is he preparing for our reunion obsessively, the way that I am? Did he toss and turn like I did, thinking about what to say and how to present himself? The new awkward. Mature and like I’ve gotten my shit together, that’s who I want him to think I am. A better version of the girl he knew so well.
I can’t imagine him shaking my hand and using such a formal gesture. Not with me. But maybe he’s just as anxious as I am, maybe his head is spinning with memories and regrets like mine? He isn’t even here yet and my heart is pounding in my chest. For about the fourth time today, I can feel the panic bubbling just below my rib cage, and it pisses me off that I can’t control the physical effect he has on me. It pisses me off even more that he will probably walk in completely calm and steady, his own version of masking. I have no idea which mood of his I’ll get today, controlled or turbulent? Will he bring up the one thing I don’t want him to? I haven’t seen him since last winter and I don’t even know who he is now. And really, did I ever?
There were little things I should have let go of, but there was one big thing that I still can’t accept. Even now the thought twists my insides and makes me want to change my mind about this whole Atlanta ordeal. I could go check out of my hotel, pack up my carry-on suitcase, and drive two hours back to my house, a place now off-limits to him. Did he remember that? I’ll be able to tell if he often thinks of me by the way he looks at me. He isn’t a mystery anymore, he is now a memory. Maybe I only ever knew a version of him—a bright and hollow form of the man I’m waiting on now. I have to keep reminding myself that this trip isn’t about him, it’s bigger than him, bigger than both of us. Kael would be hurting. He would hide it like a professional soldier, but I knew he would be hurting. I didn’t know how much contact he’d had with our friend over the last year, but I knew Kael couldn’t afford to lose anyone else around him.
I suppose I could have avoided him for the rest of my life, but the thought of never seeing Kael again seemed impossible and worse than sitting here now, driving myself insane with anxiety. At least I can admit that. Here I am warming my hands on a coffee cup, waiting for him to come through that raspy door after swearing to him, to myself, to anyone who would listen for the last few months, that I would never . . .
He’s not due for another five minutes. It feels like the longest five minutes of my existence, but if he’s anything like the man I knew, he’ll strut in exactly on time with a straight face, not showing one hint of emotion.
When the door tears open, it’s a woman who walks in. Her blond hair is a nest stuck to the top of her tiny head and she’s holding a cell phone against her red cheek.
“I don’t give a shit, Howie. Get it done,” she snaps, pulling the phone away with a string of curse words.
God, I hate this about Atlanta. Too many people here are like her, tetchy and forever in a hurry. Zero patience and not seeming to care that other people have shit to do, too. The city wasn’t always like this. Well, maybe it was? I wasn’t always like this, though. Or maybe I was? But things and people change. I have. He probably has. I look around the shop again and watch the door for a few seconds. If he doesn’t arrive soon, I’m going to end up talking myself out of this whole meetup. I used to love this city, especially downtown. The dining scene is full of small, privately owned restaurants, not just chains, with actual chefs who create dishes that I’ve never even heard of but love. There’s always something to do in Atlanta and everything is open later than it is around Fort Benning. The exception, of course, being the strip club—there’s always at least one outside every military base. But the biggest draw to Atlanta for me back then was that I wasn’t constantly reminded of military life. No camo everywhere you look. No ACUs on the men and women waiting in line for the movies, at the gas station, at Dunkin’ Donuts. People speak real words, not just acronyms. And there are plenty of non-military haircuts to admire.
I loved Atlanta, but he ruined that.
We ruined that.
We.
That was the closest I’d get to admitting any fault in what went down.
“What are you staring at?”
Just a few words, but they pour into and over me, shocking every one of my senses and all of my sense. And yet, there’s that cal
“How do you do that?” I ask him. “I didn’t see you come in.”
I worry that my voice sounds like I’m accusing him of something or that I’m nervous, and that’s the last thing I want. I need to be cool and make it clear that he doesn’t have the power to get to me, not anymore. But still, I wonder—how does he do that, really? He was always so good at silence, at moving around undetected. Another skill honed in the Army, I guess.
I gesture for him to sit down. He slides into the chair, and that’s when I realize he has a full beard. Sharp, precise lines graze his cheekbones, and his jawline is covered in dark hair. This is new. Of course it is: he always had to keep up with Army regulations. Hair must be short and well groomed. Moustaches are allowed, but only if they’re neatly trimmed and don’t grow over the upper lip. He told me once that he was thinking of growing a moustache, but I talked him out of it.
He grabs the coffee menu from the table. Cappuccino. Macchiato. Latte. Flat white. Long black. When did everything get so complicated?
“You like coffee now?” I don’t try to hide my surprise.
He shakes his head. “No. You like hot coffee now?” he questions.
I look down at the mug between my hands and shake my head. “No.”
I hate that he remembers small things about me. I wish I could erase them all from his memory. And from mine.
A half-smile crosses his stoic face, reminding me of one of the million reasons I fell in love with him. A moment ago, it was easy to look away. Now it’s impossible.
“Not coffee,” he assures me. “Tea.”
He isn’t wearing a jacket, of course, and the sleeves of his denim shirt are rolled up above his elbows. The tattoo on his forearm is fully visible and I know if I touch his skin right now, it will be burning up. I’m sure as hell not going to do that, so I look up and over his shoulder. Away from the tattoo. Away from the thought. It’s safer that way. For both of us. I try to focus on the noises in the coffee shop so I can settle into his silence. I forgot how unnerving his presence can be.
That’s a lie. I didn’t forget. I wanted to but couldn’t. Just like sometimes I wanted to forgive him, but I never could.
I can hear the server approaching, her sneakers squeaking on the concrete floor. She has a mousy little voice and when she tells him that he should “so totally” try the new peppermint mocha, I laugh to myself, knowing that he hates all minty things, even toothpaste. I think about the way he’d leave those red globs of cinnamon gunk in the sink at my house and how many times we bickered over it. If only I had ignored those petty grievances. If only I had paid more attention to what was really happening, everything might have been different.
Maybe. Maybe not.
I don’t want to know.
Another lie.
Kael tells the girl he would like a plain black tea, and this time I try not to laugh. He’s so predictable.
“What’s so funny?” he asks when the waitress leaves.
“Nothing.” I change the subject. “So, how are you?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t act like we’re strangers.”
I tuck my lips together and look away before I reply. “Aren’t we, though?”
He sighs and his eyes roam around the room before they land back on me. “Should I go?” he asks directly.
“I don’t know, should you?”
He moves his chair out slightly and I reconsider. I don’t really want him to go, but there are so many reasons to be mad at him and I’m afraid that being around him will soften me. I can’t have that happen.
“Okay. Okay. Just sit. I’ll be nice,” I promise him, with a small smile that’s about as convincing as my attitude.
I don’t know what bullshit we’re going to fill this coffee date with, but since we’re going to see each other tomorrow, it seemed like a good idea to get the first awkward encounter out of the way without an audience. A funeral is no place for that. And I had to be in the city today anyway.
“So, Kael, how are you?” I retry this whole being-nice thing.
“Good. Given the circumstances.” He clears his throat.
“Yeah.” I sigh, trying not to think too much about tomorrow. I’ve always been good at pretending the world isn’t burning around me. Okay, I’ve been slipping these past few months, but for years denial was second nature, a permanent habit I mastered between my parents’ divorce and my high school graduation. Sometimes it feels like my family is disappearing. We keep getting smaller and smaller. Sometimes I feel like I’m disappearing, too.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his voice even lower than it was before.
It sounded the same as it did those damp nights when we fell asleep with the windows open—the whole room would be dewy the next morning, our bodies wet and sticky. I used to love the way his hot skin felt when my fingertips danced across the smooth contours of his jaw. Even his lips were warm, feverish at times. The southern Georgia air was so thick you could taste it, and Kael’s temperature always ran so hot. Another thing I pretended to forget.
He clears his throat and asks again if I’m okay. I snap out of it.
I know what he’s thinking. He can tell that I’ve left earth with my thoughts and he’s trying to bring me back. I can read his face as clearly as the neon But First, Coffee sign hanging on the wall behind him. I hate that those memories are the ones my brain associates with him. It doesn’t make this any easier.
“Kare.” His voice is soft as he reaches across the table to touch my hand. I jerk it away so fast you’d think it was on fire. It’s strange to remember the way we were, the way I never knew where he ended and I began. We were so in tune . . . so different than the way things are now. There was a time when he’d say my name, and just like that, I’d give him anything he wanted. I consider this for a moment. How I’d give that man anything he wanted.
I thought I was further along in my recovery from us, that whole getting over him thing. At least far enough along that I wouldn’t be thinking about the way his voice sounded when I had to wake him up early for physical training, or the way he used to scream in the night. My head is starting to spin and if I don’t shut my mind off now, the memories will split me apart, on this chair, in this little coffee shop, right in front of him.
I force myself to nod and pick up my latte to buy some time, just a moment so I can find my voice. “Yeah. I’m all right. I mean, funerals are kind of my thing.”
“Tell me about it.”
I don’t dare look at his face. I don’t want to see his grief or share my own, so I try to diffuse the intensity of what we’re both feeling with some dark humor.
“We’re running out of fingers to count the funerals we’ve been to in the last two years alone and—”
“There’s nothing you could have done, regardless. Don’t tell me you’re thinking you could’ve—” He pauses and I stare harder at the small chip in my mug. I run my finger over the cracked ceramic.
“Karina. Look at me.”
I shake my head, not even close to jumping down this rabbit hole with him. I don’t have it in me. “I’m fine. Seriously.” I pause and take in the expression on his face. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m okay.”
“You’re always fine.” He runs his hand over the hair on his face and sighs, his shoulders leaning onto the back of the plastic chair.
He’s not buying it. He can feel my anxiety.
He’s right. That whole fake-it-till-you-make-it thing? I own it.
What other choice do I have?
“How long are you in town?” he asks, scooting his chair a little bit closer.
Should I lie to him? Why don’t I want to?
“For two days. Maybe less. I booked a room at the W.”
“Oh, fancy.” He smiles.
“It’s so loud . . .”
He nods and thanks the server as she sets his tea in front of him. Her eyes take him in and she tucks her hair behind her ear with a big, beautiful smile that makes my stomach burn. I want to disappear.
