Willa elevates her brows. “Prettier words?”
Mrs. Marlow bobs her head up and down. “Yeah, you know like lovely and wonderful and amazing and beautiful—words that will make others feel great.”
Willa stares blankly at her mom before turning to me with an exaggerated smile on her face. “Gaige, where would you like me to put your lovely, wonderful, amazingly beautiful stuff?” She glances at her mom. “Is that better?”
I wonder how Mrs. Marlow is going to react. If I smarted off to my aunt like that, I’d be chewed out and sent up to my room where she, in her words “wouldn’t have to look at me.”
But Mrs. Marlow smiles and pats Willa’s shoulder. “Yep, it sure was. Thanks, hon.” She turns toward me and smiles. “So what would you like for dinner?”
I shrug. “Anything’s fine.”
“Just tell me what your favorite thing to eat is,” she says. “And I’ll cook it.”
“You really don’t have to do that,” I insist. Jeez. This woman is relentless. “I promise whatever you cook, I’ll eat.”
“I know I don’t need to do that,” she replies. “But I want to.”
“I really don’t care,” I try again. “Anything sounds good at the moment.”
“You have to have a favorite food, though. Everyone does… If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?” She stares at me expectantly.
“Just tell her something,” Willa mutters under her breath. “Or else we’ll be here until breakfast.”
“Um…” I scratch the back of my neck. “Burgers sound good.”
“Burgers it is then.” Mrs. Marlow claps her hands together. “I’ll go get some hamburger meat out of the freezer.”
When Mrs. Marlow exits the room, Willa mumbles, “She’s so crazy sometimes.”
I think of my own mom and how I used to think she was crazy sometimes, but in a good way. “But a nice crazy.”
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. “So, where do you want me to put your stuff?” Her cold tone makes my smile fade.
I shrug. “Wherever.”
She sets the box down on the floor near the doorway then turns to walk out of the room, but then pauses. “Hey Gaige?” she says without turning around. “Back at your aunt’s house, right before we left… Did you… You know what. Never mind.” She walks away without saying another word.
I try to remember if I did anything right before we left, but honestly, I’d been stuck in my own head, remembering the day my aunt first brought me home, right after my parents died. It was a fucking miserable day. It really was. Just like every day since then.
Sighing, I leave the room and go out to get the rest of my stuff.
We spend the next thirty minutes bringing in my boxes. I don’t have a lot of stuff, but Mrs. Marlow tells me I can put some of my things in the garage if I need to.
After the boxes are all taken care of, we eat grilled hamburgers and then Mrs. Marlow gives me a tour of the house. It isn’t very big and has a lot of clutter, but definitely feels more like a home than my Aunt’s house ever did.
When she shows me Willa’s room—against Willa’s protest—I can’t help but smile. Her room is one of the most badass rooms I’ve ever seen.
Three of the walls are purple while the fourth is decorated with a black and white spiral pattern. Cut out stars and a red crystal chandelier hang from the ceiling, old records and books cover the mismatched shelves, and a large, oval, gothic-like mirror is propped up against the doorjamb of the closet.
“It’s pretty neat, isn’t it?” Mrs. Marlow says as I eye the mirror.
I nod, glancing at Willa, lingering in the doorway. “It’s pretty fu… freakin’ awesome. Your whole room is.”
Willa’s lips quirk as I almost drop the f-bomb in front of her mom. Thankfully, Mrs. Marlow doesn’t seem to notice. Or feels sorry for me and gives me a free pass.
“Willa and Brecken spent weeks decorating and painting everything. They did such a good job,” Mrs. Marlow tells me. “Did you know Brecken? He used to go to your school until…” She casts a worried glance in Willa's direction.
My chest tightens as Willa’s eyes begin to water and I find myself wanting to give her a hug, something no one did for me after I lost my parents.
She hastily sucks the tears back, and her face drains of all emotion. “I have a ton of homework to do, Mom, so if this whole tour guide shindig is over,” she points over her shoulder at the doorway, signaling for us to get our asses out.
Her mom sighs and then gives Willa a hug. “I have to run to the shelter really quick and make sure everything’s ready for tomorrow. But I’ll stop and pick up some ice cream on my way back. How does that sound?”
Willa pats her mom’s back while staring off into space. “Sounds good, Mom.”
“I’ll pick up some cookie dough and Oreo cookie.”
“Okay.”
Mrs. Marlow frowns at Willa's emotionless response as if she hoped her offer of sugar would cheer Willa up from the mention of her dead best friend. I remember right after my parents died, a lot of people brought over homemade dinners and desserts to my aunt's house. They offered their plates and platters full of food and promised that things would get better. Within days, I ate most of the food, but years later, I'm still waiting for things to get better.
But they never will.
When Mrs. Marlow and I leave her room, Willa immediately shuts the door.
"She's been having a hard time since her friend died," Mrs. Marlow explains as we wander into the living room. "They were so close. Practically joined at the hip. I'm really worried about her. She's never been good at making friends. Her father was that way too. I sometimes wonder what she's like at school. If she ever talked to anyone besides Brecken." She looks at me as if expecting me to tell her.
"I'm not really sure," I lie. "We don't have a lot of classes together, and I don't really see her around school much."
“Oh.” She frowns. “Willa made it seem like you guys knew each other.”
I don’t know how to respond. What exactly did Willa tell her about me? I doubt anything bad, or else I probably wouldn’t be standing here. But why would she lie for me?
“I’m sorry. This is probably making you uncomfortable,” Mrs. Marlow says. “What’s your favorite ice cream? I’ll pick some up for you. How does that sound?”
I consider telling her that she doesn’t need to buy me ice cream, but after what happened with the whole what-do-you-want-with dinner thing, I decide not to argue. I tell her I like cookie dough, mostly because I know she’s already picking up that flavor for Willa and she won’t have to get an extra carton.
After she leaves the house, I go to the guestroom and begin unpacking while trying not to think about Willa. But it’s all I think about. She consumes my thoughts and I know I’m getting in over my head because seriously, how am I supposed to win a girl over that hates me and who has me feeling so… Confused?
I continue to toss my clothes into the dresser, getting more and more unsettled, until “A Simple Man” by Lynyrd Skynyrd floats through the wall separating the guestroom with Willa’s bedroom. And just like that, I find myself calmer than I have in a long time as a memory of my parents overwhelms me.
My parents used to crank up the tune when we were taking a road trip, and they'd reminisce about the good old days where cell phones and computers didn't rule the world. "Simpler times," my dad used to call them.
Listening to them talk about their life as kids made me wish I'd grown up in a different era. I mentioned to my friends once that I dreamt of living in a different era where the world was slower, calmer, less busy where everyone wasn't—couldn't—be in each other's business so much.
My friends looked at me like I’d just announced I wanted to live in a sewer.
“Gross, Gaige. Living in the 70s would be so awful,” Lucy, a girl I was dating at the time, said. “No cellphones. No computers. No Internet. So boring.”
A couple of people la
ughed.
“Gaige is a pretty boring guy, Luce. You should know that by now,” my friend Gabe joked. Then he winked at Lucy. “When you’re ready to have some fun sweetheart, ditch this loser and come find me. I promise I’ll be way, way better.”
Lucy giggled and Gabe grinned.
Humiliation burned underneath my skin.
Yeah, I knew he was only joking. My friends said that kind of crap all the time to each other, but my aunt had spent the entire morning calling me a loser. Loser, loser, loser, was all I ever heard.
But I bit my tongue, laughed it off, and called him a loser back.
I never mentioned my secret wishes of simpler times to anyone after that and convinced myself that life was easier that way. Because if people don’t know the real me, then they can’t really hurt me.
And I bottled it all up until the day Evelyn broke up with me. She unleashed everything I worked so hard to keep hidden when she broke my heart. After that, I couldn’t keep my emotions in check. I was a wreck until the accident happened. And then, after, I had nothing left to bottle up.
When I saw Evelyn again, dating Porter, the guy who helped her play me and then tear my heart out, I didn’t allow myself to react and built a thicker wall around myself, never truly letting anyone in. But maybe I’ll have to. If I want to get close to Willa, that might be the only way because she sure as hell isn’t falling for this fake Gaige.
I stare at the wall the music is flowing through. Could I do that? Open up to her?
As if overhearing the mental argument I’m having with myself, my phone buzzes. I sigh as TPRL flashes across my screen. And while I don’t want to respond to the message, I don’t have a choice.
TPRL: Your time’s ticking. Find out if Willa knows anything about
Oct 31, 2015, no matter what it takes or the video of that night will go viral.
I toss my phone on my bed, frustrated and try not to panic. How does he expect me to be friends with her already?
I shake my head in frustration. Usually, girls are all over me. But Willa is different. She confuses me. On one hand she acts like she despises me and on the other hand, she does nice things for me.
Nice. Willa is a nice girl. Which makes me feel awful for what I’m about to do.
Chapter 7
Willa
I hide out in my room for a little while, blasting music at full volume until my mom has the three of us eat ice cream together. While we eat, Gaige barely makes a peep. Definitely not the Gaige I know at the school, but whatever.
After my stomach is full, I return to my room with the intention of locking myself in there. But before I can shut the door, Gaige steps into the doorway.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asks.
My walls instantly go up. “About what?”
He leans against the doorway, crossing his arms, looking way too casual. “I just wanted to say thank you for not telling your mom the truth back at my Aunt’s house. I really appreciate it.” He offers me a lopsided smile I’ve seen him use to win girls over.
Why the fuck is he looking at me like that. With his… flirty grin?
Something’s up.
“Like I said early, it’s not a big deal.” I move to shut the door, but he freakin’ steps into my room.
“Your room really is badass,” he says as he wanders around, looking at everything.
“Thanks… Again.” What’s with all the repeated compliments?
He turns to me, smiling. “And again, I’m sorry for what I said in class.” He takes a step toward me. “I want to make sure you understand that. Since we’re going to be living together… I don’t want any friction between us.”
I eye him over suspiciously. “Is that all this is about? This apologizing and being nice thing?”
“Of course. What else would it be about?” He turns away from me and toward the shelf where I keep my records, but for a brief instant, I swear I detect remorse in his eyes, which leaves me feeling even more lost.
“Holy shit, you have an awesome collection,” he says, crouching down to get a better look at my records. “Where did you get all of these?”
I shrug. “Some I bought. Some Brecken gave to me. Some came from my dad.” I have to stop talking as pain begins to choke me.
He must hear it, though, because he offers me a sympathetic look. “It’s crazy, right?”
“What is?” I ask distractedly.
He opens and flexes his hands. “How much it hurts to lose someone.”
Normally, I’d shut down the conversation, but knowing Gaige lost his parents… Well, it makes it easier to say, “Yeah, it really does.”
With a heavy amount of uncertainty, he asks, “How old were you when you lost your dad?”
“It happened a few years ago.” I sit down on the floor. “People kept telling me that it’d get better after time. But it didn’t. I mean, sure, I don’t cry every single day anymore, but it still hurts whenever I think about him.”
“Me too,” he agrees, sitting down on the floor. “It’s been years since I lost my parents, and I feel sick every time I think about what it would be like if they were still here.”
For the first time ever, I find myself feeling bad for Gaige. Sure, he’s an asshole, but he’s lost both of his parents. While I lost my father, I still have my mom. And from what I saw, his aunt probably wasn’t the most compassionate person in the world.
“Do you ever wonder if there will ever be a time where things get better?” I ask, feeling a bit vulnerable.
He nods, looking equally as vulnerable as I feel. “All the time. But honestly, I don’t think it’ll happen.”
“Maybe.” I pause, a wistful smile creeping up on my face. “My best friend Brecken used to tell me that it would. That one day I’d find my wonderful and be completely happy again.”
He chuckles confusedly. “Find your wonderful? What does that mean?”
I shrug. “Who knows. Although, I’m sure he did. He was the only one who could understand his metaphorical talk.”
“Really? You couldn’t?” he questions. “I thought you guys were best friends?”
“We were, but that doesn’t mean I knew everything about him.” I swallow hard as pressure clogs up my chest.
If he took his own life then I didn’t know him as well as I thought. Because the Brecken I knew was happy.
“I’m sorry,” Gaige says. “I shouldn’t have brought this up.”
I’m about to tell him I’m fine when his phone rings. He fishes it out of his pocket and answers, “What’s up?”
A pause and then he laughs. “Nah, I’m just hanging out and doing nothing. Why? What’s up?” Another pause and then his gaze slides to me. “No, like I said, I’m not doing anything important. So yeah, we can talk about the…” he glances at me. “Game.” Then he gets up and leaves. Just like that. In a middle of a conversation that almost made me cry.
So much for being understanding.
Then again, this is Gaige we’re talking about. Douchebag, player, Gaige.
As I get up to shut the door, I vow to myself not to let my wall down around him ever again.
Chapter 8
Gaige
I think I fucked up, is the first thing that crosses my mind as I back track to Willa’s room after talking to Phoenix about what TPRL wants me to do. I probably shouldn’t have walked out in the middle of our emotional conversation, but I needed to talk to someone about what was going on and had been trying to get a hold of Phoenix for over a day now.
“Fuck.” I rest my forehead against Willa’s shut door, feeling the music vibrating through the air.
I hate that I messed up. But what I hate even more is how much I was enjoying the conversation I was having with her. Well, not so much enjoy, but I definitely felt a connection. Enough so that I talked about my parents, something I’ve never done with anyone, not even my friends. But five minutes with Willa and I felt completely content and unsettlingly vulnerable. It makes me scared to get
closer to her. It makes me want to run. It makes me feel guilty. It makes me feel so much, I can barely think straight.
“I need to get out of here,” I mutter then hurry for the front door.
I don’t know where I’m going, but I definitely wish I didn’t have to come back. No, what I wish is that I could come back, but as myself. Not as this fake fucking person who does terrible things. But until I can find a way to get the video from TPRL, I’m shit out of luck. And it’s not like I haven’t tried to do it—my friends and I have tried many times. But since we have no clue who our blackmailer is, we haven’t gotten anywhere.
Climbing into my truck, I lock the doors, then open the copy of the video the blackmailer sent me on my phone, trying to look for any clues that might give away the blackmailer’s identity.
The video is hard to watch. It starts out harmless, of me and my friends standing on the side of the road, talking. At least that’s what it appears like. But if you pay attention to what we’re talking—or more like arguing—about, you soon realize how sinister the conversation is.
“We need to bury the body,” my friend Gabe says. “It’s the only way.”
I remember feeling sick when he said it, all the tequila shots I drank that night threatening to come up. I felt sick that we had hit someone. Sick that the person was dead. Sick because we were all drunk and going to get into trouble. Sick because I was so drunk I couldn’t remember who had been driving—which seemed to be a mutual confusion amongst my friends—and someone had speculated it might’ve been me. Sick because I knew I wasn’t strong enough to speak up. Sick because we had accidentally killed someone. Sick because I was afraid. Afraid of what was going to happen to me. And that fear made me make the dumbest decision ever.
And look at me now, exactly in the same place I was three years ago.
Afraid.
I glance at Willa’s house. “I’m sorry.”
Then I put the car into drive and pull out onto the street, knowing when I come back, I’m going to shut down and be Fake Gaige again.
Finding Wonderful (The Perfect Rebels Book 1) Page 5
