Chapter 4
P ulling my helmet off, I drag my arm across my forehead to wipe away the sweat as I skate off the ice.
“Your sister and her hot friend took off pretty fast last night,” Ryder says from behind, both of us heading toward the locker room. “Who were they in a hurry to see?”
At the word hot , I have to force myself not to turn around and give him a warning glare. Instead, I shrug it off—at least as best I can.
“Who knows?” I say, heading into the locker room. “With my sister, I wouldn’t dare to guess.”
“You’re not kidding,” he murmurs under his breath. “That girl, Gemma—do you really think those cuts and bruises were from a car wreck?” He lets out a quiet sigh. “She seemed nervous the entire time she was at Kolt’s.”
“Not really our business, Ry,” I grumble because what he just said is all I’ve thought about since the other night when I saw Gemma for the first time after so long.
Sleep has been hard to find. Hell, it’s been hard to focus on anything.
Someone hurt my girl, and I’m going to fucking kill them when I find out who.
“I mean, judging by the way you stared at her, it is your business, Smitty.” He grins when my gaze snaps to his as we both sit down on the bench and begin pulling off our gear. “Yeah, I noticed you staring the fuck out of her the entire hour she was there. What’s the story?”
“No story,” I say and finish undressing down to my briefs.
“Oh good. So, you’re saying there’s a chance for me,” he taunts. “Good to know.”
“Fuck off,” I utter before standing up .
Just then, Tripp marches over to me, holding up a bottle of Viagra pills that I had delivered to the front office in his name.
“I know this was you.” His eyes are dark.
Tripp is basically Kolt, but less scary-looking. He’s intense, and he’s grumpy.
Which is why I love to fuck with him.
I squint my eyes. “Viagra?” I rear my head back. “Trippy, you’re too young to be working with a limp noodle, my friend.”
“Fuck off,” he gripes. “Between Logan’s dad jokes and your stupid fucking pranks, I’m fixing to switch teams.”
“My dad jokes are harmless though,” Logan says, eyes wide. “That motherfucker put itching powder all over my hoodie last week, and I was pretty sure I had scabies. I even googled that shit and freaked Maci out.”
I never own up to the pranks, yet they always know it’s me.
Ignoring them all, I start toward the shower, stopping to look over my shoulder. “Hey, Ryder?”
“What?”
“Stay the fuck away from Gemma Jones. And don’t make me repeat that either.”
I don’t wait around for a response. He’s one of my best friends, but even he knows better than to fuck with me after he’s been warned.
I sit on the couch, staring blankly at the open Netflix app displayed on the television.
Since I got here a whopping five days ago, Saylor and I have watched far too many episodes of a series. One night when she didn’t have to work the next day, we stayed up the entire night and watched all of Nobody Wants This , and then we moved on to Bridgerton , which, admittingly, I hadn’t thought I’d even like, but then—bam—I became low-key obsessed.
But now, I want to watch more. Only I feel guilty because if Saylor were home and I was busting my ass, working a twelve-hour shift, and she watched it without me, I’d be pissed. So, here I sit, waiting for her to finish her shift in a little over an hour so that we can eat food that is bad for us and stare mindlessly at the TV screen.
My phone vibrates, and even though Saylor and my parents are the only ones who have my new number, a chill instantly runs down my spine, and my bones are filled with sheer panic.
Looking down, I exhale when I see it’s my mom. After dodging her phone calls for five days straight and holding her over by sending back short text messages, I know I need to answer the phone and talk to her. It was hard—admitting to myself that Richie wasn’t who I’d thought he was. But telling my parents that same thing? I fear it will be impossible.
The thought of sitting them down and telling them what I’ve been through makes me feel sick to my stomach. It’s going to kill them, and the truth is … I don’t want to kill them.
“Hey, Mom,” I say as pleasantly as I can muster up.
For a while now, it’s been hard to find any sort of joy. To be honest, most days, it seems like if happiness were a battery inside my soul, mine would be depleted. And as pathetic as it sounds, I’m not sure I’d be able to find a charger anywhere.
“Jesus, Gemma. What is going on with you?” She sounds panicked. “First, you text me from this random number and tell me you have a new phone, and then you ghost everyone. I have been trying to reach you for days, and aside from a few half-assed text messages, you’ve barely responded.”
My mom doesn’t swear much. And if she does, it’s because she’s either really angry or really worried. In this situation, it’s definitely a mix of both.
“Yeah, I, um …” I utter, scrambling to find the right words. I can’t lie to my mom about my whereabouts. But there’s some strange feeling of shame or embarrassment that’s making it insufferable to even get the words out to tell her what happened.
Everything that’s been happening.
“It’s just been a rough few days—that’s all,” I say weakly. “I didn’t mean to ignore you. I’ve just been dealing with … a lot.”
She wastes no time firing back. “Richie answered my call. He said you took off and that he assumed you had another man because of this whole new number thing, but that he didn’t know where you were.” There’s no mistaking the disdain in her tone. “I don’t understand why you’d want to take off and leave your fiancé right before Thanksgiving and just weeks away from your wedding.”
My stomach drops. Even though I know he just told her what he thought would buy him time, I can’t quiet that voice inside my brain, telling me that he really does know where I am and is going to show up here.
That’s just my paranoia talking though—I hope anyway. Because Richie is a smart man, the first thing I did after leaving him was get a prepaid phone that couldn’t be tracked. And I texted my mom from it the first night I stayed at Saylor’s, saying I was safe but had left California for good.
“Gemma? Are you there?” she barks out. “Talk to me, would you?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here,” I whisper. “I …” I stall, not knowing what to say.
“I want answers, Gemma. Do you have someone else? The wedding is in three weeks. Are you not going through with it?” The words come out quickly, and I know it’s because she’s stressed. “If you don’t plan on going through with it, now would be the time to say that, you know. I mean … don’t you understand how many people were invited to it?” She pauses. “So many family members are traveling from here, in Maine , all the way to the West Coast. And they’ve already paid for their airfare and have their lodging reserved.”
My mind begins to spiral, my body tenses up, and my breathing becomes labored.
I can’t do this. I can’t talk about this.
I can’t deal with this.
“I have to go,” I choke out, feeling tears spring to my eyes.
“Don’t hang up on me. I just want to talk to you.” Her tone is softer now, but I doubt it’s sincere.
I love my mom, but she helped plan this wedding, and she loves Richie. Or who she thinks Richie is.
“Baby, if you’re getting cold feet, it’s okay,” she whispers. “That’s normal. I promise you, every woman—and man—gets cold feet.”
I swallow back my emotions, pulling myself together just enough to get one message across to my mother.
“There will be no wedding. My feet aren’t cold. They are warm and fucking toasty,” I say through my teeth. “I have to go, and I am going to hang up now because I. Can’t. Do. This.”
When I pull the phone back to end the call, she’s still going off about everything. I owe it to her and my dad to tell them the truth. But right now, she only wants to hear what she believes. And even if I told her everything that’s gone on, I don’t know if she’d believe me.
Once the call is disconnected, I power my phone down and toss it onto the other side of Saylor’s couch. And then … I eye over her liquor stash.
Because after a phone call like that, I don’t want to think anymore.
I’m drunk and all alone in my best friend’s apartment, blaring country music from the television. Megan Moroney’s beautifully raspy voice sings “Indifferent,” and I sing right along with her, too tipsy to care how off-key I am.
The words are flowing from my mouth as I close my eyes, swaying around like a moron, and to be honest, I don’t even think it’s my piece-of-shit ex-fiancé I’m singing them to, but instead, it’s Smith Sawyer’s face I’m imagining.
But I’m totally not still hung up over him after all these years. Not at all. Pffft. No chance.
When the song slowly ends, my eyes flutter open. And when I take in the sight of Smith staring at me from the open doorway, my heart leaps into my throat because, one … I thought I was alone, but now, I’m realizing I’m not. And two—the more surface-level reason—I don’t know how much of my little performance he just watched.
Grabbing the remote, I mute the sound and shoot him a glare. “What the fuck are you doing?” I growl, waving my hand toward him. “Who fucking sneaks into an apartment and watches someone without them knowing? You’re a creep.”
I’m pissed because, once again, I feel like my privacy and personal space have just been violated. And for a long time now, that’s been the case. But I’m also embarrassed that, out of everyone to see me make a fool of myself, it had to be this asshole .
My words seem to awaken him, and his eyes widen.
“Oh fuck. I—Christ, Gem. I didn’t mean to frighten you. My sister locked her keys in the car at the hospital and needed me to grab her spare set.” He holds his hands out in a truce. “I knocked and pounded on the door, but your music was too loud, so I finally had to come in.”
“The door was locked!” I yell, pointing to it. “ I locked it.”
Holding out a set of keys, he cringes. “I have a set.” His eyes thin. “Are you drunk?”
“Of course you do,” I utter, shaking my head. “And not like it’s any of your business, but yes. Yes, I am.”
“By yourself?” he asks, looking at me like I’m a loser.
“Just get the keys and go, would you? She’s waiting for you.”
The Smith I know would have teased me about my singing and laughed about this whole thing. Instead, he just looks worried.
“I’m sorry, Firefly. I didn’t—I shouldn’t have just come in. I’m sure I startled you,” he says regretfully. “I fucked up.”
His reaction only pisses me off more because I can see right through him. He knows damn well my cuts and bruises aren’t from a car accident. And now, he’s looking at me like a beaten puppy dog and feels sorry for me.
I loathe that, and I really hate that he’s pretending like he actually gives a shit.
“You didn’t scare me,” I sass, attempting to put on some cool-girl persona. It’s clearly a bunch of horseshit, but I don’t have to fool myself; I just have to fool Smith. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, okay,” he utters, the corner of his mouth turning up in that crooked grin everyone has always fawned over. “Well then, for what it’s worth, Megan Moroney had better watch out. You’ll be coming for her title.”
“Piss off,” I grumble before tipping my head back slightly to pull my hair up. “Don’t you have keys to get?” I wiggle my hand toward the door. “Be gone.”
I look away, though I feel his stare still on me, and after a moment, I see him walking toward the kitchen out of the corner of my eye. Opening one of the cupboards, he grabs something before closing it.
“Ride with me to the hospital,” he says optimistically. “I can show you around Portland a bit. We could grab dinner.”
“Are you serious? You think I’d actually go to dinner with you, Smith?” I raise my eyebrows. “You are dumber than I thought you were. Oh, and we grew up three hours from here ! My mom brought me to Portland for school shopping every year. I don’t need to be shown around.”
I know I’m being a bitch, but I can’t help it. This man has some serious audacity to really think I’d go to dinner with him, and whatever this nice-guy act he’s putting on, he should stop.
“Trust me, Firefly, there’s a lot you haven’t seen,” he says distantly. “But, whatever. If you’re so set on hating me, go for it.”
Tilting my head to the side, I squint my eyes slightly before walking toward him. Stopping a few feet in front of where he stands, I smirk.
“Oh, Smithy, that’s where you’re wrong,” I say boldly. “You see … to hate you would require me giving a shit. And the truth is, I don’t.”
I no longer have the energy to be kind. And if he thinks I’m this pathetic, afraid little mouse, I need to prove to him that I’m not. I’m strong, and I don’t need his pity.
“I didn’t know you were doing acting in California,” he says coolly, taking one step closer to me and looking down. “But I have to say, you’re one hell of an actress, Gem.”
“It’s no act.” I keep any bitterness out of my tone. “I simply stopped giving a shit about you long, long ago.”
When he continues to stare down at me, with no anger in his eyes, only concern, the air becomes thicker. The room is so silent that I could hear a pin drop. I have no idea what he’s going to say next.
“You’re different,” he whispers, picking his hand up for a second, like he’s going to touch my side, before dropping it down. “And not in a good way.”
“Yeah, well, life will do that to you,” I say, trying to keep myself hardened and not crack. If there was anyone who could make me fall apart, it would be him.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go with me?” He swallows. “I don’t have a motive; I’m not going to force you to talk about … anything. I just want to spend time with you. It’s been a long time, and you’re drunk. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you, Smith,” I whisper. “Ever.”
He looks pained, but I don’t care. I’m sure it’s nothing compared to the pain I felt when he left for college without saying goodbye—oh, and after I told him I loved him a few days prior.
“It’s all going to be okay,” he says, taking a few steps back. “I promise.”
Caught between being mad and wanting to cry, I stand silent as he turns away from me and heads toward the door.
As he pulls it open, he pauses. “Lock the door when I leave, okay?”
I’m not sure why he tells me to lock the door. Maybe he knows that I’m nervous, or perhaps he thinks I’m still in harm’s way. Whatever it is, I try not to put much thought into it. But when he exits, I rush to the door.
Locking it behind him.
And I realize that maybe I didn’t get drunk to escape. Maybe I got drunk because Richie has made it so that I’m not comfortable being all alone.
“Bro, I’ve worked all day. And it wasn’t a great shift. I had to watch two people die, and one of the doctors was a complete ass to most of the nursing staff. There was a lot of poop and bodily fluids happening. Don’t test me,” my sister says from her driver’s seat as I keep the door open with my hand. “I appreciate you bringing my spare keys and all, but I’m tired and hungry, and I want to go home.”
I barely had to say anything for her to become defensive. I asked her one question— How long is Gemma staying? That was it.
“She’s fucking afraid to be alone, dipshit,” I snap. “She had the door locked—which is good and all—but you never fucking lock your door. And when she was dancing and singing, drunk off her ass, and opened her eyes and saw me standing there, it was like her soul left her body. She was terrified.” I stop, my throat growing scratchy. “And it was me, Saylor.” I smack my hand to my chest. “Me, and she was scared.”
“You went into my apartment without her knowing?” Her eyes widen, and she grinds her back teeth together. “What the hell were you thinking, dumbass?”
“Gee, I don’t know—that my sister was stuck at the hospital. I had pounded and knocked on the door with no answer. Oh, and the music was fucking blaring. How was I supposed to know someone hadn’t broken in and was hurting her?” I bark out the last words. “Since, you know, she clearly has someone fucking after her or some shit. Otherwise, why would she act the way she does?”
Concern and sadness cover her face. She pushes her head back on the headrest and sighs. “She’s been through a lot. And I just … I don’t need you—or anyone for that matter—making things harder on her.”
“Be honest with me,” I say sharply. “If someone was after her, would you tell me?”
She inhales sharply and closes her eyes for a moment before opening them and pushing her hands into her hair. “I don’t know,” she says, suddenly somber. “She’s told me the basics of everything that’s happened, but that’s it. And like I said before, that’s not my story to tell.” She swallows. “But I also love my friend more than anyone else in the world. And I can’t tell you for sure that she’s still not in trouble.”
My heart drops, and my fists ball up. “Jesus Christ, Saylor. Why didn’t you just say that from the beginning? The first day she got here, you should have fucking said that.”
“What would you have done?” she hisses. “She can’t stand even hearing your name, Smith. And as it is, I’m going to have to force her to either go home to live with her parents or move in with you.” She points her finger at me. “And, no, I haven’t told her yet. I’m going to tell her tomorrow.”
“She’s not going home,” I say low. “If there’s a chance in fucking hell that someone is after her, she’s not going back there.” My shoulders tense. “I know it’s her fuckface ex that did this to her. If I kill him, he won’t be able to try to find her. He’ll never be able to hurt her again.”
My sister’s eyes widen, and she scowls. “Now is not the time to pull out your psychotic side, Smith. Hurting him isn’t the answer to helping her.”
She might be right, but at this moment in time, it’s the only thing I can think of that would make everything better.
“I need to go. She’s probably waiting for me,” Saylor says, buckling her seat belt and gazing up at me. “Right now, she needs space. Give it to her. ”
“And how the fuck is that going to work when we’re living together?” I scoff. “You didn’t think this shit through, did you?”
“Good night, Smith. Thanks for my keys, and now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going the hell home to check on my best friend and stuff my face with whatever I find in my fridge.”
Quickly, she reaches for the door handle, forcing me to step back before she slams it shut.
Tomorrow, Gemma is going to find out she’s about to be my roommate, and that should go over really well.
Not.