Chapter Four
Two
It’s her.
Numero Uno.
Prime choice for a prime couple.
The golden child.
Of all the luck.
Gemma, perfection personified, continues to gape at me like a goldfish gasping for air. Her long, dark hair is sleek and silky, not a strand out of place. The lips that remain parted are glossed in a pinky hue that reminds me of strawberry Starburst. Freakishly long and thick eyelashes continue to blink at me.
I think I broke Homewrecker Barbie.
Turning my gaze away from her, I spear my hand into the air to get Mr. Pederson’s attention. He frowns before ambling our way.
“What’s up?”
I jut my thumb in her direction. “Can’t.”
Gemma scoffs. “Unbelievable.”
“Can’t what, Mr. Sheridan?”
“I can’t do this with her.”
The older man tugs at his scraggly beard, eyes narrowed as he studies me. “Too bad.”
Too bad?
Is he for real?
“Unless you can give me a perfectly logical reason for not partnering with this nice young lady, I don’t want to hear another word on the subject.”
Oh, yeah. He’s fucking serious.
It’s not like I can tell him the real reason I don’t like her besides her brattiness over our parking lot debacle that was clearly her fault. I can’t tell anyone. Not Dr. Wynn, not Dad or Pops, hell, not even Dax.
I’m alone in my misery.
Fucking wonderful.
“Whatever,” I grunt, waving off our professor. “I’ll deal.”
“Please do.” Mr. Pederson walks off, shaking his head in frustration.
Makes two of us, man.
Gemma pushes her syllabus across the desk until the paper is in my line of sight. Her fingernails are long, pointy, and matte black with shimmery rhinestones on the middle nails. How can anyone function with nails that long? How does she wipe her ass?
She probably has people for that.
Gemma looks rich as fuck.
“This,” Gemma says icily, tapping on the semester project, “is a huge part of our grade. I don’t exactly understand what your problem is with me, but I wish you could squash it for five seconds and focus on this.”
I snatch her paper up and glower at the ink. Seventy-five percent is a lot.
“Fine,” I grunt. “I’ll do the project. You can sign your name at the top. We can avoid each other until then. Problem solved.”
She scoffs again. “Problem solved? You’re an arrogant piece of work, Two.”
My shoulders tense at her addressing me by name. It’s like a lash of a whip with thousands of micro whips all attached to blades. Cut after cut digs into my flesh, making me shudder.
Two.
Second best.
“Tristan,” I grit out, “is my name.”
“Then why do they call you Two?”
“None of your business, Golden.”
“Stop calling me that. It’s Gemma.”
Someone sniggers nearby. Charlie makes a crude motion of sucking dick. Does he think this is some fucked-up version of foreplay?
I flip him the bird before tossing her paper back at her. It flutters to the ground. Her face grows redder and redder with each passing second. If she gets any more pissed, her head is going to burst like an overfed tick and her eyelashes are going to shoot out like darts, sticking to everyone in this room.
“Chill, Golden.”
“I said.” She lets out a slow, measured breath. “You’re messing with me, right? To get a rise out of me? Unfortunately for you, I have four brothers and I’m the baby sister. Believe me, I know all about getting razzed for the sake of someone else’s enjoyment.”
And to think, she was almost an only child like me.
Would she be even more spoiled than she is now?
“Trust me,” I spit out. “Nothing about this interaction brings me joy.”
She flinches at my words and grows eerily quiet. I glance over to find her chewing on her bottom, heavily glossed lip. Her eyes are slightly glassy. Is she going to cry?
It’s satisfying to know that she might. I’ve cried hundreds of times over this shit. Maybe even thousands. I’m all cried out lately, though. I feel empty and bitter. It’s someone else’s turn to be fucking gutted for a change.
And who not better than enemy number one?
Gemma clears her throat and then turns to face the front. She lifts her chin, staring at the board in front of her. I’m guessing she’s moving on to ignoring me. Good. That’s definitely for the best. Otherwise, I’m going to continue to say mean things because they don’t seem to want to stay trapped deep inside where they’ve been living since I was nine years old.
My phone buzzes, distracting me for a moment.
Dax: I’m going to get that chick’s number. She’s hot AF.
What chick? My chick?
Me: The crybaby from this morning? That girl?
Dax: Yeah, dumbass. The only hot girl we encountered this morning.
Me: No.
Dax: What do you mean no?
Dax: Wait… You like her?
Dax: Dude, this is awesome. I don’t think you’ve ever been interested in a girl like ever.
Me: Hazel. I was interested in her.
Dax: She used you to lose her virginity the summer after we turned sixteen. I’m surprised you even remember her name.
Me: I said no, Dax.
Dax: You DO like her! Fucking hell! Get her number, 2!
Me: No.
Dax: We’re not done discussing this. Either you get her number or I will.
I continue to text him no, but he stops responding. Irritation sours my gut. Of all the women who could interest my playboy best friend, why is he putting his sights on my enemy?
You could tell him.
Dax is loyal. If he knew why you hated her, he’d back off and be supportive.
That’s not happening.
“Okay, everyone,” Mr. Pederson says after the longest five minutes of my entire goddamn life. “Now that you’re acquainted with your partner, I’ll get into the specifics of the project. Then I’ll lecture a bit before you all are free to get going for the day. Don’t get used to it, though.”
When I glance back over at Gemma, she’s sitting ramrod straight with her notebook opened in front of her and a purple pen in her raven-claw grip. With swooping, graceful strokes, she begins to take notes. I watch her make sense of Mr. Pederson’s words and convert them to girly art in her notebook.
Everything Mr. Pederson yaps about is common knowledge in my opinion. Considering I grew up exposed to the subject of Historical Preservation and Urban Design, it’s not necessary for me to pay attention.
Right now, I’m more focused on learning about her.
Gemma Golden Park.
Her last name was always irrelevant to me until now because I had no desire to ever track her down. There’s a reason why I never went out looking for the mysterious Gemma—the little girl who claimed my bedroom before I did, before she was even born. Hating a name is easier than hating a person. Seeing her in the flesh and experiencing her utter perfection firsthand is a sucker punch to my gut. I’d wanted to avoid this feeling at all cost. I’m dizzied and nauseous. Painful memories assault me from every direction.
I hated who I became after I found that picture and read that letter.
I became exactly as my nickname suggested. Second best. An afterthought. Leftovers.
I’ve been struggling ever since to shed that cloak of shame and hurt, but no matter how hard I try—no matter how much medication and therapy I’m on—I’m never able to shake it off.
It clings to me like a second skin.
The only time I’m not obsessing over it is when I’m lost in my projects—my only real time to be happy.
I’m a grown-ass adult now. Maybe I should move out. Living in the same room I discovered belonged to someone else for over a decade can’t be good for my mind. It’s a constant reminder.
But where would I live?
Alone?
The thought of being by myself, away from my dads, makes my gut clench. Despite being their second, they were always my first. I loved—still love them—with my entire soul.
Who knew I’d be eating depression with a side of despair for breakfast this morning?
My mind reels as Mr. Pederson drones on. Maybe talking to a new therapist will be good for me. Maybe this new guy can teach me how to shove all the pain back into that wretched trunk in Dad’s closet.
How freeing would that be?
Time flies by and the next thing I know, everyone around me is getting up to leave. Gemma doesn’t move. I jerk my head her way to find her staring at me, a slight frown on her pink lips.
“What?”
“You didn’t take one single note. I don’t think you were paying attention at all.” She sighs, resignation in her voice. “What’s your number? I’ll text you a picture of my notes. We’re going to need to be able to contact each other for this project anyway.”
She wants my number?
Would Dax leave her alone if he knew we exchanged numbers?
That certainly would help me avoid telling him why I despise her.
I pluck her sleek phone from her grip and find the contacts. I enter in “Tristan” because giving her the satisfaction of seeing Two on there boils my blood. Once I shoot a test text, I drop her phone onto her desk with a loud clank.
“You’re welcome,” she grumbles, snatching her phone from the desk. “I’ll send it later.”
She gathers the rest of her things and then bolts from the classroom. As other students begin entering for the next class, I open my phone and look at the text I sent from her phone. Once I save her as “Golden,” I shove my phone into my pocket and grab my bag.
“Your syllabus is on the floor, Mr. Sheridan,” Mr. Pederson remarks with a heavy sigh. “We’re barely one day in and you’re already scattered. Looks like I paired you up with someone who might keep you in line.”
I curl my lip up in disgust as I bend to grab the paper that now has someone’s dirty shoe print on it and cram it into my bag. “It’s a mistake, Mr. P.”
“You say mistake. I say serendipity.”
Giving him a curt wave, I stalk out of his room and out of the building. As I near the parking lot, I receive another text.
Dad: Can you do 11 since you have a break between classes? I’ll send you a pin of the location.
Dad’s questions aren’t suggestions, they’re law. So much for going home and spending a couple of hours with Cedarwood Mansion.
Me: K.
It’s the response he always gets from me when I’m angry. I don’t know why it pisses him off so much, but it always has. He responds with an emoji that’s cursing, which makes me bark out a laugh.
I’m nearly at the parking lot when I see a couple standing near a badass sports car. It’s one of the newer muscle cars—a remake of the classics—but still looks pretty damn cool. The owner of the sweet ride has a girl pulled against his chest and he hugs her tight. It’s then I recognize the shiny brown hair.
Gemma has a boyfriend?
The dude in question has tats on his neck, arms, and hands. His dark hair is a chaotic mess. Our eyes meet and he narrows his at me.
Don’t want your girlfriend, bro.
In fact, I want nothing to do with your girlfriend.
His eyes follow me as I make it to my car. I fling my bag into the passenger seat, inhale the natural musty age of the vehicle, and then fire it up.
Well, not on the first time.
My car never fires up on the first time.
Third time’s a charm, though, and within seconds, I’m peeling out of my spot. Golden’s imperfect boyfriend glowers at me and then flips me off.
Fucking prick.
I use both hands to flip him off for extra impact, but then my steering wheel starts veering toward a row of cars, and I’m forced to grab back on to straighten it. Normally, I don’t mind dealing with wonky steering, but today it’s just a reminder of what I am.
Two.
Broken little boy driving a broken old car.
What a great day for therapy.