by Anne Eliot
ALMOST
By
Anne Eliot
www.anneeliot.com
ALMOST, Published by Butterfly Books, LLC - Copyright © Anne MacFarlane 2012, writing as Anne Eliot.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons living or dead, is a coincidence.
Original Cover Art— by Kika MacFarlane and Anne MacFarlane
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations within critical articles and reviews. For information contact Butterfly Books, LLC. Colorado Springs, CO. Contact info found at www.butterflybooksllc.com.
ISBN: 978-1-937815-00-4 (Amazon Kindle Version)
1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Butterfly Books, LLC. First Ed. 2012, Cataloging Information:
Eliot, Anne
Almost / Anne Eliot
Summary: Three years after an attempted rape, Jess wants to trick her parents into believing she's better, so she hires a fake boyfriend who helps her come to terms with the night that changed her forever.
1. Young Adult Romance—Juvenile fiction. 2. High schools—Fiction. 3. Rape—Fiction. 4. PTSD Post Traumatic Stress Disorder—Fiction.
Please visit Anne's website: www.anneeliot.com.
Dedication
For B: You spent many years hiding behind your beautiful smile and trying to forget. We should have told. We should have talked about it more. I'm sorry. I wrote this for you.
--
For Ali: You got away with broken ribs and everyone saying that you were “a very lucky girl” when you felt the opposite. Your strength and your reassurance that others might need this story inspired me to keep going. Thanks for teaching me what courage looks like. I published this and found some courage of my own, all because of you.
Cover Summary
At a freshman party she doesn't remember… Jess Jordan was almost raped.
Almost. Very nearly. Not quite.
Three years later, Jess has fooled everyone into believing she's better. Because she is.
Almost. Very nearly. Not quite.
But until Jess proves she's back to normal teen activities, her parents won't discuss college. So, she lands a summer internship and strikes a deal with hockey jock, Gray Porter: He gets $8,000. She gets a fake boyfriend, a social life and a friend to keep her secrets.
Jess has no idea Gray signed on for reasons other than money. She also never expects to fall in love. But Gray's amazingly hot, holds her hand all the time, and makes her forget that he's simply doing his job. It's almost like having a real boyfriend.
Almost. Very nearly. Not quite.
Gray Porter hides his own secrets. About Jess Jordan. About why he's driven to protect her, why he won't cash her checks, or deny her anything she asks.
...
“Almost is a beautiful book about healing, redemption, and love. It gave me butterflies, made me laugh, and made me cry. A total must read.” -- Cindi Madsen, YA Author, All The Broken Pieces, Entangled Publishing
Table of Contents
Title
Cover Summary
Copyright Info
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Resources
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Jess
The third Red Bull was a mistake. I should've munched some actual food before parking at the interview. But I didn't. Too nervous.
So now, my stomach is liquid snakes and spinning nails. My bad.
I raise the volume on my iPhone and pull one leg past the steering wheel so I can half-curl up next to the door. Not easy in the driver's seat of a Jeep. But very do-able if you're short. It's also surprisingly comfortable if you have the right blanket.
I have the right blanket. Brown, double plush and fleecy. It's a gift from my little sister.
She's the only one that knows how often I nap in here. Last February, she thought I'd freeze during my school lunch naps so she bought it for me with her babysitting money. She's always trying to help me catch up on my lost sleep.
Unfortunately, thanks to my breakfast of stupid, no one can help me today. I won't be catching up on any lost sleep either. Worse, I think I might puke in the parking lot of Geekstuff.com before the interview starts. Maybe during. Wouldn't that be epic?
Excuse me, Mr. CEO-Guy-I-Want-To-Impress. Could you hold that question while I BARF BARF BARF?
They'd probably assume I was hung over. Or a drug addict! Which…I suppose, I am. Everyone knows caffeine is a drug, after all. And I'm definitely addicted to it.
My stomach clenches and twists again so hard I want to cry. Instead, I close my eyes and breathe slowly, willing the energy drinks—more importantly that amazing caffeine—to stick. The cool glass against my forehead seems to help and the cramps fade away.
Thank you, God.
I snuggle deeper into the blanket and try to focus on my interview plan. The iPhone is playing classical. Classical works best when I want to visualize end results. Tactics.
Olympic athletes run their moves before they compete too.
I know landing the summer internship at Geekstuff.com is no Olympics. But to me, this interview is the most important competition of my life. Without this job, my future is doomed.
I see myself enter the same room where I beat thirty applicants yesterday.
The CEO asks to see my mock product samples. He's impressed! I imagine myself smiling and being all social. I mention that I own most of the ‘geek-toys’ department. How I can't wait to see the inner workings of an online store.
The social part is hardest. All bluff and faking it. But me, owning the products, is complete truth. I love every geek-gadget, toy and t-shirt they sell here—even the Star Wars stuff. There's no cooler company in the world.
I run through the sales history and the $34.00 price of my favorite product: The Mood Jelly Fish Lamp. I imagine saying: I can't live without this awesome lamp. Another truth. I love the lamp. It's my nightlight.
I'm smiling, accepting the internship—handshake and all—when something slams into my Jeep.
Hard.
Not with another car—but with a fist or a body! I don't know what—because my eyes were closed! The Jeep rocks. I whack my knees into the steering wheel while my head hits the window with a dull thunk. When I look up I'm almost nose-to nose with a guy. A guy who's peering into the windshield like he wanted to see my reaction to his lame prank!
I recognize him from my school: Gray Porter. Junior—soon to be Senior. Same as me.
And not one of my usual tormentors.
My carefully const
ructed interview-bun slips. Wisps of blond frizz fall around my shoulders. Perfect.
Feeling overexposed like some caged circus act, I manage to paste on one of my defensive sneers. I shout so he can hear me. “What was that about—jerk?”
The guy doesn't move. He's just staring. It's all I can do not to blush like a dork. I haven't been this close to a guy—heck—anyone besides my family, in years. That's when I notice Gray Porter might own the most stunning, crystal-green eyes on the entire planet.
Holy wow…
It takes all my strength to hold the pissed-off expression in place and repeat myself: “I said, what was that about? JERK.”
I try to read his expression. I'm really good at that. He seems…alarmed. Or does he look …apologetic?
Weird. And double-WTF?
I take stock of myself. My heart's pounding jacked-up-stereo loud, but he can't hear it through the glass. I check my hands gripped on the steering wheel. Thankfully, they've got no signs of visible trembling.
After three years of practice, I'm a master at keeping all body shakes hidden. Even so, he's got me so rattled I have to work to decide my next move. Why is he still staring? I must need a more scathing expression on my face. I choose fearless scorn—one of my best. Took months to perfect this one. I sneer, and twist my lip.
Ba-Bam.
That got his attention, because he just turned all red. He's opened his mouth like he's going to say something.
As if there's anything to say.
I fire out my dismiss-the-dumbass blinks as fast as I can.
And bam-ba bam, bam, bam!
He winces and steps back.
Then, like it never happened—or like he's wised up and is finally afraid of me—the guy executes a 180 to dash across the parking lot. He's making a beeline for the Geekstuff.com's massive front door.
I let out a tight breath, uncurl my aching fingers from the steering wheel and jump out with my bag in tow. I can't gain any ground. He's easily over six-feet-huge and that includes some long legs. I'm only five-four. No way I'll catch him unless I order him to stop. Or run him down like a dog.
Not my style.
I'm all about control, fast smack-downs and keeping people at a distance with my ever-expanding repertoire of rock-solid, back-off expressions. (Expressions laced with eye-snapping sarcasm and disdain, of course.) It's been a lot of staring-in-the-mirror hard work. But my skills are perfected.
I've recently convinced the best therapist in town that I'm well enough to move on to college. I didn't even have to lie. I simply deleted info, kept the expressions in check, hid my messed up sleep schedule, and POOF: Everyone thinks I'm cured.
What I think is that I'm tired of talking about the things that will never be fixed.
As in me. How I'm almost better. Almost back to normal.
After trying things their way for so long, I got tired of waiting. I've made a ton of progress with faking it, that's for sure. And so far, so good. No, I'm not ‘better’. I'm the same; but none of my pretending seems to make me worse. So it's kind of working. And there's been one huge change that works for all of us. My parents and little sister have never been happier.
Them, being happy, is about as close to me being happy as I'll ever get. It's enough.
If I can make more progress (Mom's favorite word) I get to apply to colleges next year. They promised. This means I'll get my life back, head to the dorms and move out from under the parent microscope. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
I'm going to be what they want this whole year: Just fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.
I stop to catch my breath, trying to decipher why Gray Porter chose today to join the ranks of people who mess with me. He's never talked to me once—I'd remember. Because I'm sure I'd never forget those amazing green eyes. Who could forget those things?
As I look around the Geekstuff.com parking lot it takes only seconds to realize the visitor side is completely empty—besides my car and his.
It must be me against him for the final interview. I suppose he's trying to start the battle early. The guy's taking the front steps two at a time, and I swear he was talking to himself. I wonder if he might be more of a freak than me. Just in case he decides to look back, I hold my position and stare holes into his obviously new, package-creased, button-down interview shirt as he disappears inside the building.
Good luck you poser—you bully. That's the only point you're going to get.
I glance at the time on my iPhone. Five minutes to spare. He's probably watching me from inside the lobby—or maybe he's setting up some sort of trip line.
I start forward at an ultra-slow pace. I'm scouring my brain for any school gossip I might be able to use against him. This kid and I run in completely different circles. His circle is popular and cool, and my circle takes me from school to the teacher's lounge. For excitement, I hit the nearest store with a Red Bull aisle. He goes to parties, and football games and all that other stuff. I never even see this guy in the halls. The only real memory I have of Gray goes back to the day he helped Jenna Shattuck when she broke her arm.
Major broke her arm.
It's one of those mythic school tales. Re-told every year to all incoming students. It happened freshman year, second semester. A few days after I'd come back to school from my ‘special months’ at home. Months spent munching bottle after bottle of anti-depressants and almost going off the deep end. Forever.
Everyone swears they saw Jenna fall. But, I really did.
Back then, I'd been hanging in the bleachers not participating thanks to a doctor's note. I hadn't worked out how hide my emotions yet. Not like I do now. I did a lot of looking down that year. Shoe staring. Counting tiles. Grossing myself out by analyzing dirt in corners. That kind of stuff.
I wouldn't talk to anyone, either. Opening my mouth used to make me cry for no reason. Something about feeling air hit the back of my throat set it off. It was humiliating for me and beyond awkward for anyone who came near me, so no one did. I prefer it that way, anyhow.
Jenna tripped and broke her arm during a volleyball game. She fell right in front of my feet. She was hard to miss. Her hand twisted under her, and there'd been lots of snapping. Like someone walking on sticks. When she sat up, her bones had come through the skin in two places near her wrist. Another jutted out higher—above her elbow.
Total freak show. She'd hit an artery.
Jenna never once made a sound. Just blinked and blinked. Blood spattered the gym floor—tons of it—like it was falling from the fire sprinklers, and the teacher screamed so loudly everyone thought she'd been hurt. No one else moved or made a single sound for the longest time, including me.
Especially me.
Jenna—probably all of us—had been in shock. I know shock. It's when you can't process or do anything properly during a messed up situation. Often—after—you might not recall one bit of what happened. Jenna still swears she doesn't remember falling.
Gray had been the only one to step up. He sort of saved her.
He took Jenna's face in his hands. Very gently…I do remember that. He tilted her chin toward his so she couldn't see her arm or any of the blood. He also blocked her view of the teacher who by that point, had quieted because she'd vomited under the basketball net.
“Look right here. Right at me,” Gray said, signaling someone to run to the office. He wrapped her arm around the sleeve of his hoodie and applied pressure like some sort of first-aid expert.
“Keep your eyes on me, Jenna,” he said. “The nurse is coming. She's going to get your parents. Just hold on. Stay with me. Eyes on mine. Right here. You're going to be fine, Jenna. Just fine.”
I shudder as I remember the sound of his voice. Kind. Confident. Worried. Afraid.
Today, after the close-up view of that dude's green, green eyes, I now understand why Jenna hadn't moved the whole time. He'd hypnotized her with those things.
I shake my head and sigh. Gray's not a bully. He's the opposite, which is much, much wo
rse. He's a hero. Hero guys tend to win stuff even if they aren't qualified.
He's probably here at this second interview because he pulled off something impressive and cool-headed yesterday, but what? Kitten rescue? Toddler running in front of a bus? The CEO choking on a mini-solar phone charger? Let's hope not.
I hadn't even considered the possibility of losing this internship to someone else.
But what if? What if Gray wins it? I can't let that happen. I can't. I won't.
I take in a few more long breaths and switch my expression to serene and confident as I hop up the curb leading to the front steps. Confidence beats any other emotion when trying to convince people you've got things handled. I need Geekstuff.com to believe I've got what it takes, and now I need Gray to believe it too.
How hard could it be to return his lame attempt at a shake down with one of my own? All I can do is what I know. Fake it, stay awake, smile and see what happens.
The Geekstuff.com people can find out after they hire me they've picked the lemon.
As for Gray Porter? He can suck it on the way out.
The stinging in my forehead intensifies to remind me the guy inside the lobby is already one point ahead. I reach up and find a huge, warm lump above my right eye. It's bad—like a mutant spider bite—and it hurts.
Of course it does. Fine. He's two points ahead. I'll give him two.
I pull more bangs loose so the lump is covered, and I add Gray Porter to my ‘hate list,’ right between seashells and parties. I feel instantly stronger. My hate list hasn't changed in years.
Total proof of progress! If only I could share this one with my mom. But she doesn't know I like to keep lists. Either way. I'm calling it.
One point for me.
Chapter Two
Gray
Does she remember? Does she remember me?
“I should've left her alone. I can't learn. I can't learn,” I say, not even trying to whisper as bile settles at the back of my throat—more with every step Jess Jordan takes in my direction. I couldn't be happier the lights in the lobby of Geekstuff.com are off. Because it's Sunday, it appears no one is waiting to greet me for the interview.
To greet us. Holy shit. Me and Jess Jordan.
