I haul a deep breath into my lungs, telling myself there’s no reason to freak out. I’ll just throw open the door and make a run for it, before the few remaining hold-outs have a chance to stop me or get any good pictures.
Easy as pie.
Actually, come to think of it, not easy as pie.
Easy as something else. Like ramen noodles. Or microwave popcorn.
Because, what exactly about pie is easy?
The one and only time I tried to bake one, it bubbled over and I ended up with a sticky, noxious layer of blueberry goop charred onto the bottom of my oven that no amount of scraping will ever remove, and set off every smoke detector in the building. The fire department actually came and evacuated everyone, it was so bad.
But I digress.
I’m nearly to the back hallway when a voice echoes through the empty passage, stopping me in my tracks.
“Going to stay at your new boyfriend’s place?”
I freeze as the sheer venom in those words hits my back and washes over me.
Ralph.
Damn.
I knew it was inevitable that we’d bump into one another — we’re neighbors, after all — but somehow, I’ve managed to avoid seeing him since the moment I ran out of the stadium the other night. I should’ve known my good luck couldn’t hold forever. Though I can’t help but think, if given the choice, I’d pick a stampede of relentless reporters over a conversation with Ralph any day of the week.
“Or did he dump you already?” he spits, his voice coming closer.
I tense, every muscle in my body poised for action as I turn to look at him. The scowl on his face intensifies as soon as our eyes catch, and I see anger flash like lightning across his features when I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response.
“What, too good to talk to me now, Gemma?” He laughs bitterly. “Think you’re better than me, because you’re letting Croft bone you?”
My hands curl into fists around the straps of my duffle. Through clenched teeth, I bite out a few angry words. “Let’s be honest, Ralph. I was always better than you. Who I’m boning has very little to do with it.”
“Bitch,” he snarls, stepping closer. “You’ll pay for what you did to me.”
An incredulous laugh pops from my mouth. “For what I did to you? Are you delusional? You’re the one who cheated on me, ignored me, pushed me around, and subjected me to quite possibly the most boring sex in the history of sex.” My voice gets louder as my words run away with me. “Quick tip for whatever girl you decide to subject to your considerable lack of charms next: there are positions other than missionary, Ralph! Many of them. And here’s another pointer, free of charge: treating sex like it’s a race to see who can orgasm fastest isn’t fun for anyone but you!”
His scowl darkens to a look of pure hatred and I take a step back, belatedly realizing that maybe it’s not the best idea to pick a fight with a man in a deserted hallway at nearly 10 p.m. when most of my elderly neighbors are long asleep, even if it is only Ralph — pudgy, short, lazy Ralph. I’ve never seen him as remotely threatening before, but as he advances on me now, his face contorted with so much rage he’s nearly unrecognizable, I think maybe that was a mistake.
A big one.
“You’ve got a big mouth, Gemma. Never liked that about you, except under very specific circumstances.” His eyes glint vindictively as his thinly veiled sexual innuendo hits me like a slap in the face.
Never one for subtlety, Ralph.
He takes another step forward as I retreat from him, the amount of space between us dwindling almost as rapidly as the distance between my back and the shadowy corner of the hallway — somewhere I don’t ever want to be with Ralph, but especially not now, when he looks like his hands are itching to wrap around my windpipe and squeeze until there’s no breath left in my lungs.
“That fucking video is everywhere,” he sneers. “Everyone’s seen it. My friends. The guys at work. My fucking mother.”
I fight the urge to snap so what? at him, figuring now isn’t the best time for another taunt.
“You humiliated me on national television, Gemma. The YouTube video has millions of hits. I’m a laughing stock. They’re calling me Cellphone Guy on the radio, on TV. The internet shit is even worse. I’m a fucking meme. And it’ll never end. It’s out there forever.” His breaths are ragged and there’s a look in his eyes I don’t like — an off-the-rails, out-of-control, downright scary look. “You’re gonna fucking pay, Gemma. You have to fucking pay.”
He’s threatening me — I register that plain as day. But there’s a small part of my brain still insisting that Ralph wouldn’t actually hurt me. Not with anything more than words, that is.
The other, more rational portion of my mind thinks otherwise, and my hand starts slowly unzipping my duffle as I pray my cellphone is somewhere near the top.
“Get away from me, Ralph, right now. Otherwise I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Call the police?” He laughs, stepping closer. “It’ll take them a while to get here, Gemma. Too long.”
My heartbeat picks up speed as I backpedal further away from him, my hand now hurriedly rooting around my bag for the phone. “You so much as touch me, I’ll press charges. You’ll go to prison, Ralph. Your life will be over, I’ll make sure of it.”
“You already did that, Gemma, when you kissed Croft and made me a fucking fool.”
My back hits the wall and I see victory flash in his eyes, now that he’s got me cornered. Ralph’s body blocks the path in front of me, there’s a wall to my back, a closed apartment door on my right, and the exit is twenty feet down the passage to my left. I could make a run for it, but I don’t much like the idea of putting my back to him, not when he’s looking at me like that. Plus, with the duffle weighing me down, he’s probably faster than me.
The small part of my brain that insists Ralph isn’t a threat has fallen noticeably silent — especially when he takes another step forward, revenge in his eyes and dark promise in his reaching hands.
I open my mouth to scream even as my feet prepare to move, but it’s not my own voice I hear ringing out in the silent hallway.
“Gemma, dear, is that you?”
The voice, surprisingly strong despite the frailness of its owner, is accompanied by the welcome sound of the door on my right swinging wide open. Ralph freezes, his hands suspended limply in the air between us, and my eyes leap to Mrs. Hendrickson, who’s just appeared in the doorway. Her feet are stuffed into bedroom slippers, her gray hair is in pink rollers, and every inch of her skin covered with a paisley-patterned nightgown that drapes her from her neck to her toes. There’s a large, orange tabby cat cradled in her arms, purring so loudly I can hear him from five feet away.
I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life.
“Mrs. Hendrickson,” I breathe, my voice audibly relieved as my eyes move back to Ralph. He’s still glaring at me, but he’s taken a few steps back, widening the space between us. I don’t look away from him as I speak to the old woman. “I’m so sorry, did we wake you?”
In truth, I’m not even a little bit sorry.
“Oh, no, me and Bigelow were just sitting at the window, doing a little peeping,” she informs me shamelessly, clearly not registering the tense atmosphere in the hallway. “Did you know, the man and his wife in the building next door are thinking about getting a cat? Bigelow would like that. He likes to sit at the window when the sun’s out, it would give him something to look at during the day.”
I nod, my eyes still locked on Ralph’s. “That would be very nice, Mrs. Hendrickson.” I swallow. “I have to be going, now, but will you do me a favor?”
“Of course, Gemma dear. What is it?”
“This hallway is a bit spooky at night. Would you mind watching to make sure I get to the door all right?”
The old woman is silent for a long moment, and when I glance back in her direction, I see she’s finally registered the friction humming in the air. Her gaze m
oves from me to Ralph in a measuring study and, after a few seconds, awareness seeps into her soft blue eyes. They narrow on Ralph in a menacing stare that’s pretty impressive, for an octogenarian. For anyone, really.
He takes another step back.
“Do you want to come in for a cup of tea, dear?” she asks me, her eyes locked on Ralph. “We’d be happy for the company, wouldn’t we, Bigelow?” Her hand strokes the cat’s fur, and he emits a purr so loud, I think the air around his body actually vibrates.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hendrickson, I can’t tonight.” I make sure to look at Ralph when I say the next part. “I have people expecting me. They’ll worry if I don’t show up.”
Sure, it’s a lie, but he doesn’t know that.
“Okay, but you’ll come see me soon, right, Gemma dear?” Mrs. Hendrickson smiles at me. “If you don’t, well, I’ll just have to track you down myself. Have you ever met my grandson, Bobby?”
I shake my head at her seemingly random question.
“He’s a fine young man. A police officer.” Her smile widens, and her tone is lighter than air as she looks back at Ralph. “Isn’t that great? I’m sure he could track you down if I can’t, Gemma dear. In fact, I’m sure he can track down just about anyone.”
For the first time, I smile. The old lady has bigger cojones than Ralph, and better threats.
“He sounds great, Mrs. Hendrickson,” I say, reaching out to scratch Bigelow behind the ear. “Thanks.”
“Don’t forget to visit,” she reminds me, as I start to back down the hallway, toward the exit.
“I won’t.”
I glance back at Ralph and see the scowl hasn’t shifted off his face but his eyes are now resigned, rather than furious, and I know he’s given up. For now, at least.
I keep my eyes on him as I move away, forcing my face into a composed mask. I don’t let it slip, even when I reach the door and Ralph mouths something at me that makes every fine hair on my body stand on end.
This isn’t over.
With a final glare, he rounds the corner and disappears.
My eyes move to Mrs. Hendrickson, still standing guard in her doorway. She winks at me and, ignoring the shivers Ralph’s threat prompted, I manage a smile before pushing through the exit, my feet poised to run for the car.
Out of the frying pan, into the freaking fire.
***
“What do you mean you’re not in the city?” Chrissy screeches into the phone. “Where the hell are you?”
I wince, leaning forward to adjust the speakerphone volume without taking my eyes off the road. “I’m heading up to Rocky Neck, to visit my mom for a few days.”
“Why on god’s green earth would you do that?”
“I just… have to get away for a while. Get a fresh perspective.”
“You can get a fresh perspective here!”
“Chrissy, we live in the same city.”
“Boston and Cambridge are technically two separate cites,” she points out. “I mean, there’s a whole river between us!”
I snort.
“Please, don’t go away. This bed rest thing — it’s boring me to tears. Without your visits, I’ll go insane. I don’t have anyone else to keep me company.”
Way to lay on the guilt, Chrissy.
“It’s only for a few days,” I assure her. “And you aren’t alone — you have Mark and Winnie.”
“Mark is at work all day and Winston is eleven months old. Not exactly a stimulating conversation partner.” She sighs deeply. “And as much as I love them, they aren’t being kissed in elevators by handsome, extremely eligible bachelors.”
“I see you’ve been talking to Shelby.”
Her tinkling laugh drifts over the line. “She may’ve filled me in on certain details. But it’s not the same, secondhand! What am I going to do without you around to keep things interesting?”
“Rest. Read a book. Keep growing that baby.”
“You sound just like Mark.” She huffs. “Traitor.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll see you when I get back.”
“But—”
Before she can launch into a fresh string of protests, I reach out and power down my cell, cutting off the call and ensuring that Chrissy — predictably persistent — can’t call me ad nauseam until I change my mind about getting out of town. I wasn’t lying about needing a fresh perspective. I’d just failed to mention the fact that I was running away.
From the paparazzi camped outside my apartment.
From my rage-aholic ex-boyfriend intent on revenge.
From the crazy, Croft cousin who wants to use me as a pawn in his games.
But, mostly, from Chase.
And from the unexpected pain that splintered through my heart this afternoon when I heard the blonde’s voice on his answering machine.
As soon as Evan and Knox left earlier, the new cellphone they’d forced into my hands began to ring, the screen lighting up with a message that made my stomach flip.
CHASE CALLING
I’d pushed the ignore button, pretending not to hear the terrifying alert of a new voicemail that bleeped from the speakers twenty seconds later. I hadn’t listened to his message…
Or any of the others he’d left me, on two-hour intervals for the rest of the day.
But, when I zipped my duffle closed and crossed the apartment, ready to leave for the weekend, I’d stopped at the last minute, walked back to the coffee table, and grabbed the phone before I could talk myself out of it.
I wasn’t going to analyze why I’d brought it with me.
Because the idea that I was holding on to the only piece of Chase I’d ever be able to call my own… well, that was just too sad to even think about.
Chapter Twenty
Color
The screen door swings open on screechy hinges and a woman in her late fifties steps onto the porch, her dress clay-streaked and rumpled under the dim patio light.
“Gemma! It’s so late. What are you doing here?”
“Happy to see you too, Mom.” I snort.
A soft hand bats my shoulder playfully. “Oh, hush, you know I’m happy to see you. It just would’ve been nice to have a little more warning before Hurricane Gemma made landfall. A little time to tidy up, board up the windows, batten down the hatches…”
I roll my eyes — she’s called me Hurricane Gemma for as long as I can remember. Not my favorite nickname, even if it is well deserved. I spent most of my teen years stirring up a storm of drama in the quiet, coastal community where I grew up. The tiny, harbor-side art colony of Rocky Neck an hour north of Boston didn’t have much room for trouble, but what little I could find, I whipped into a tempest.
“Very funny, mother.”
She smiles joyously and it transforms her face — still stunning, despite its many laugh lines — from merely beautiful to truly gorgeous. All my life, I’ve wanted to look like my mother, envying her fall of thick blonde hair — now more ash than honey, with streaks of gray running through it here and there — and her tall, willowy frame. I got my father’s genes, instead — which was pretty much his only contribution to my life.
“It’s been too long, baby girl.” Wrapping her arms around me, Mom squeezes tight for nearly a minute. I breathe her in — lemon and lavender and fresh-drying clay — and I’m five years old again, all skinned knees and crocodile tears, and there isn’t a problem that can't be fixed with a hug and a kiss.
When she finally pulls away, she keeps her hands at my shoulders and examines my face with a mother’s shrewd eye. “Man trouble?”
“What?” I exclaim, my heart racing. Mom doesn’t own a TV or a computer — there’s no way she could’ve seen the news footage about Chase and me. “Why would you think that?”
God, is my pain so apparent, even my mother can read it on my face?
“You look pale. You’re much too thin. And there are bags under your eyes.” Her gaze sweeps my features. “In my experience, that can’t-eat-can’t-sleep feeling is
usually caused by a man.”
My mouth nearly drops open.
In her younger years, Petra Annabella Summers had a face that launched a thousand proposals — none of which she accepted, even after I was born. When I was a kid, her sculptures sold well enough to support us, so there was no need for a man around, and even after I moved to the city at eighteen, she never expressed any desire to marry. As far as I know, she hasn’t been on so much as a date in at least twenty-six years.
And here she is, trying to fix my man troubles.
“Maybe I just wanted to see you,” I say defensively, unhappy at being so transparent.
“Maybe,” she agrees softly. “But I don’t think so.”
I fall silent.
“Gemma, love, what’s wrong?” she asks. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t need to work something out.”
I sigh. “It’s a long story, Mom.”
She wraps one arm around my shoulder, opens the screen door, and leads me inside. “How about I make you a cup of tea and you tell me all about it?”
I drop the duffle to the floor, unzip it, and pull out a bottle of pinot noir. “If by tea you mean wine, I’m totally in.”
She laughs. “Even better.”
I smile.
It’s good to be home.
***
By the time I finish telling her the whole story, it’s hours past midnight, the candles have burned low, and the wine bottle is nearly empty on the table between us. My mother is staring at me with wisdom in her eyes, but I have a feeling I might not like what she’s about to say.
“You need to hear him out,” she announces, confirming my predictions.
I sigh.
“Why can’t you take my side, for once, mother?” I ask, exasperated. “Didn’t you hear the part about the hidden fiancée?”
“Things aren’t always what they seem.”
“Well, it sure seems like he’s been lying to me since the minute we met.”
“Oh, Gemma, for goodness’ sake, you’ve only known the man a few days — doesn’t he get longer than that to reveal his deep dark secrets? Doesn’t he deserve a chance?” Her eyes narrow on mine when I don’t answer her question, but her voice is gentle when she continues. “You only heard one side of the story, and you bolted without waiting around to hear the whole thing. I taught you better than that, baby girl.”
Not You It's Me Page 17
