Page 11 of Free Fall

“Your parents wanted to talk to you,” she says quietly.

I blink up at her, the puzzle pieces coming together. Jules is here for the first time since Brady died. The guys are here. My parents, and God knows who else. “They talked you into this, didn’t they?”

“We all care about you, Briar.”

Holy fuck. I know what this is. I’m about to walk into a goddamn intervention.

Fuck me.

5

We’re all in my living room. Mom and Dad are sitting on the arm rests on either side of the couch. Between them are Lex and Jules. Cade and Reid are sitting in the armchairs while I’m seated in a chair from the dining room table surrounded by all of them.

I can’t keep from staring at Jules. She knows, too, because she hasn’t looked up once since my parents coaxed me into the house. My first thought was that there aren’t a lot of people here. Easier to deal with. Then again, are there really so little people who “care” about me? And I’m not even counting Brady’s friends in this. I stare at my mother. “Why are they here?”

“Who?”

“Them,” I say, pointing at Lex first then the other two. I don’t even want to think about how Lex’s tongue devoured me last night, and he must have known about this the entire time. That’s just something I can’t fathom right now. At least he can’t really meet my eyes either.

“Come on, Shortie,” Cade says.

I shake my head. “No, I’m not going to ‘come on’.” I stare at my mother to implore her with my eyes. This is embarrassing enough, but to have to go through it in front of them. They’re not even my friends, and they don’t care about me. According to Reid, they only care because my mother’s been calling to cry to them. If she needs them, fine, but I don’t.

“They’re here representing Brady,” my father says.

I grind my teeth together. For the love of all that is holy, they are not fucking substitutions for my brother. You can’t just replace one with the other three. My foot starts to bob up and down, but I keep my mouth screwed shut. If they like having my brother’s friends around to help remind them of Brady, fine, but it shouldn’t be shoved in my face. They certainly shouldn’t be here during this. But since they’re already here, I guess I just have to grin and bear it. That’s what everyone wants from me anyway. “Poor choice,” I say, leaning back in my chair with my arms crossed.

“We’re trying to reach you, Briar,” my mom says. She’s looking at me now like she’s been looking at me since Brady died. Like she doesn’t even know me, like everything out of my mouth surprises her now.

“By embarrassing me. Good call.”

“No,” my father intervenes. “By showing you the people who care about you.”

I stare at Reid then. Why ishedoing this? Why are they all doing this? Brady died. That should have been the surgical removal of them from our lives. “Don’t you have football or something?” I ask, staring straight into Reid’s green eyes.

“Yes. We do,” he says. His voice is curt, filled with the vitriol I’ve come to expect from him. Like he blames me for them being here.

“I didn’t ask you to be here,” I say flippantly.

A low growl starts to pour from his mouth, but Cade cuts him off. “Well, we’re here anyway. I would just like to start off by saying that the baggy look is not doing you any favors, Shortie. Also, the dark hair just makes you look that much paler than your already pale ass.”

“Thanks for the beauty tips,” I deadpan.

“Thank you for sharing that,” my father says, nodding at Cade like what he said was mind-blowingly revealing.

I glare at him. What, did he read some sort of manual on how to give an intervention? “Oh yes, thank you for sharing that, Cade. I’m glad you find me repulsive, but I’m even happier that I don’t give a fuck what you think about me.”

“Briar!” my mother snaps.

Cade just laughs it off though. Nothing gets to that guy. He’s too carefree. I give him a smug grin and he returns it.

“Who else wants to share something?” my father asks. His hair has gotten a lot grayer in the months since Brady died. Maybe it’s the loss of his only son. Maybe it’s because I’ve been losing my damn mind. Or a combination of both. I don’t know.

My mother places her hands in front of her mouth, teepee style, then brings them down to her lap. “Briar, I love you. You know that. I’ve tried to get you the help you needed to feel better. I feel like I’ve done all I can and all I know how to do. You can’t let your life go to waste because Brady’s dead. You can’t.”

If I knew how to get my shit together, I already would have. Why doesn’t anyone get that?

I don’t know how to answer her, so I don’t. “Anyone else?”

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