Forgotten Rules (Rules 4)

To whoever is afraid to try that new thing and fall…

What if you fly?

Will

Oxygen.

A necessity we take for granted.

Humans can be ungrateful sometimes, so focused on one wrong, we forget the million rights. I used to think I was the exception. Grew up cursing the lucky bastards who don’t appreciate what they have.

Because the little things aren’t little.

And their oceans of problems?

They’re puddles.

But as I lie on the ground, lungs full of smoke, head spinning out of control, I know I’m one of them. The ungrateful bastards.

Turns out I never realized how much I liked breathing. And I’d kill for a breath of fresh air right now.

Get up, Will. Get the hell up!

I can’t move, slipping away, choking on her name. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

I wonder what they’ll say when they find my body. Probably “What kind of moron runs into a raging fire?” And if I make it out, I should tell them:

The kind that lit the fire in the first place…

Kassidy

I once read that airports have seen more sincere kisses than wedding halls. I don’t know when—much less where—but it stuck with me, and from that day forward, I always wondered about the strangers saying goodbye to their loved ones.

My gaze drifts to the woman battling tears as she pecks her partner on the mouth. The man pulls back, gasps at his watch, and rushes off. Dabbing her eyes with her sleeve, she watches him dissolve into the crowd.

Maybe her husband’s just been deployed. Maybe he’s leaving for a business trip, but she knows his “business” is blonde, twenty-four, and a yoga instructor. Or… maybe she just realized she missed the finale of The Bachelor.

Yeah, I like that option better.

So many stories that will never be told.

So many words that will never be written.

I’m sure, in a way, that’s a good thing. Real stories can be a little too real for readers sometimes. No happy endings, no fairy tales, no promises of everlasting love. And life’s hard enough as it is, right? We don’t want your depressing reality. Give us our happily ever after and babies.

But what if… the words we’ll never get to read are the words we need the most?

In an attempt to glimpse above the never-ending stream of people, I hop from one foot to the other. I still don’t see anything—well, except for the bald spot on the man in front of me. My brother, Kendrick, mocks my fiddling, eyes glued to his phone.

Today is the day.

The day Winter, my cousin from Canada—yeah, the irony isn’t lost on me either—is moving in with us. Aunt Lauren shipped her over to my mom while she’s away on a work trip with Uncle Harry.

Winter will be staying with us until graduation in a few months. To her greatest misery, might I add. Last I heard, she would’ve preferred ripping out her own hair one by one than completing her senior year in Florida.

When told the news, my brother gave my mom a shrug with a careless “Okay.” But me? I was over the moon. Winter’s the fun cousin you can’t wait to see at family gatherings, the relative you’d go as far as to call a friend. She and Aunt Lauren visit from Toronto every summer—or at least, they used to. They couldn’t make it last year.

I missed my snarky cousin, and it sure won’t hurt having another girl around until I go away for college. Me and Mom can’t possibly compensate for all the testosterone my dickhead of a brother and his two-brain-cells friends drag back home every week.

I’m hoping Winter’s presence will buffer this burning need I have to move to a deserted island away from the male species. And by “male species” I mean the herd of baboons Kendrick spends all his time with—Blake Nichols, Alexander Holmes, and William Martins, also known as the banes of my existence. Still working on that petition to get them transferred to the local zoo.

Maybe with Winter here, I’ll even have someone to confide in about how out of control Kendrick’s gotten since Dad left. What I mean by out of control, you ask?

Oh, boy, where do I start?

I recently found out my big bro decided to trade his video games violent fights for illegal, high-paying, very real street fights. I overheard him and his dumbass friends talking about it in the kitchen one night. They thought the house was empty—not that I can blame them. Mom was working a night shift at the hospital again, and I was supposed to be sleeping at a friend’s place.

They were laughing, bragging about how much cash they’d made in the ring, throwing back the beers Dad left in the garage before he skipped town—special mention to Daddy dearest for taking off with his kids’ bleeding hearts but leaving the booze.

Kendrick told the guys the fights helped him control his anger. I confronted him the next day. “How on earth does destroying people’s faces help you control your anger?” I asked. “Drop it, Kass. You wouldn’t understand,” he answered.

In Kendrick’s defense, I don’t think there are many great ways to react to your father walking out on you without a goodbye, but news flash: I got abandoned, too, and I don’t go around breaking noses for fun.

Kendrick made me promise not to tell our mom. And I didn’t. But not because I wanted to protect him—not by a freaking long shot. Because I wanted to protect her. She’s been through hell and back these past few months, juggling the divorce and becoming a single mother overnight. No way was I adding on to her plate.