Devil Side

by Lacey Dailey

  I snort. “Don’t forgot humble, Max. You’re very humble.”

  “Have you seen me in this suit?” He winks playfully, and I shove his shoulder. “But real talk, I’ve never had a girlfriend before.”

  “Never? But the suit and the heavenly singing voice.” I sigh dramatically, placing my hand over my chest. “The girls must be weeping.”

  “I mean, I’ve had several...” He clears his throat and re-directs his gaze to the top of the table. “Bedroom friends. But it was never serious and never the same girl twice.”

  “Spoken like a true rockstar.”

  His eyes are on me again, and my cheeks feel hot. “You’re telling me you don’t scratch an itch every once in a while?”

  I don’t let my nerves show. “I scratch my itches all the time.”

  “See?”

  “Alone.” I elaborate. “But a girl never speaks about her itches. It’s completely unladylike.”

  He fumbles over his next words, and I watch his throat bob with a swallow. “You are something else, Gia Maria.”

  Well, wasn’t that a loaded statement.

  Gia Maria is something else. She’s someone else. Nobody has ever called me Gia because my mother was so adamant I be called Gigi.

  I can’t decide if it’s the name I like or the promise it holds. Gia is an escape from Gigi, and I find myself desperately wishing to meet Gia. Just to see what she’d be like without the influence of her parents.

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Very good.” He turns in the both, our chests merely inches apart, and a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I’m glad to see your sad face is long gone.”

  “That’s pretty much just my regular face, Max.”

  “That’s a shame. Can I ask why?”

  No.

  My first instinct is to tell him no. No, he can’t ask why because then I’d never be able to lock the fence again.

  “Can I trust you?” My voice comes out a whisper, even though there’s nobody around to hear me.

  He lifts his pinky finger. “I’d never break the trust a pinky finger holds.”

  I wrap my finger around his and then check the time on my phone. I’ve got another thirty minutes to be Gia before it’s all over.

  “I’m a political science major.” I tell him, and he raises his eyebrows like huh. “I hate politics. Like despise them with every tiny molecule floating inside my body.”

  “Then… why is it your major?”

  “Because that’s what my parents chose for me, Max.” My breath is hot, and it leaves my chest with an aggressive huff. “I’ve been killing myself trying to be the person they want me to be. I spend an hour every day curling my hair and applying makeup that makes my face itch because my parents think it’s important to dress for success. I was student council president in high school because my dad believed it would help with my future career in politics. I’ve been dying of boredom working at City Hall for the past three years because my dad pulled some strings to get me the job. I volunteer at the children’s hospital every weekend because duh what state wouldn’t vote for Gigi Moretti, future governor, and woman who hangs out with sick kids in her spare time? I busted my ass to graduate a year early so I could start the future I’m not excited about.”

  “Governor.” He repeats.

  “Future governor of North Carolina.”

  “That’s not what you want.” Our eyes meet, mine wild with reckless frustration and his soft with unfiltered hope. “What do you want, Gia?”

  I close my eyes, my jaw aching with the constant tension it’s under. I use the back of my hand to rub my face, as if the action will magically wash away all the irritation and sadness.

  “I want to stop wearing so much pink!” My eyes open, and I lift my chin. “I’m the only girl in the family, I get that, I do. But, for shit’s sake, it’s like nobody in my family has ever heard of purple. Or blue.”

  “No more pink. Noted.” He nods with conviction, rubbing my arm up and down. “What else, Gia? Let it out.”

  “The heels. My God. I hate them. They’re gorgeous but I don’t need to wear them every damn day for twelve hours straight. The work place would not burn down if a woman wore sneakers to the office.”

  “Do you even want to work in an office every day?”

  “I have no idea, Max. I’ve never given it much thought. Politics are what I was given. I’ve been working towards a career I’m not passionate about since the ninth grade. It’s why I’m in this diner instead of asleep in my bed.” I push my hair from my face. “It’s like every time I close my eyes, I can hear my dad’s voice in my head shouting at me to stop wasting time. So, I get out of bed and stop wasting time. I make research papers better, I study harder for a test, I search for more places to volunteer.”

  “Christ, Gia. Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to give my dad a reason to keep pushing me!” My hands curl into fists. “His expectations are so high. I swear to you, Max, I could cure cancer and he’d still be all ‘Ah, Bambina, are you sure that’s all you can do? I raised you better than that. Where’s the cure for Alzheimer’s?’”

  Max stares at me, blinking a few times. “Does your dad really sound like that?”

  “That was an incredibly bad voice over but yes. He does.”

  “What’s a bambina?”

  “It means little girl in Italian. I’ll always be a little girl to him. Maybe that’s why he feels the need to make my life choices for me. Because he thinks I can’t do it on my own.”

  “Why don’t you just tell him to piss off?”

  I’m sorry… what?

  I snort. “You wanna tell Tito Moretti to piss off?”

  “So, what? That’s it? You're just gonna endure a boring life because you're afraid of your dad? Is that why you said you're chained to this town? Because your dad is forcing you to be?"

  “Pretty much.” I give him my well rehearsed shrug. The one I give everybody that says ‘it’s no big deal’.

  “And our friend family knows nothing about this?”

  “No. They have bigger things to worry about.”

  “Gia, that family is made up of the greatest people ever created. If you're struggling with something, you should tell them.”

  “I’m okay, really.” I turn away from him, picking my old napkin off the table. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

  “You are not a burden.” His hand is back on my shoulder, giving it a shake. “You are graduating next Saturday with a degree you don’t even want because you want to impress your father. How is that a burden?”

  “It isn’t one.” I agree, tearing up the napkin, watching the little pieces float to the table’s surface. “I worked hard not to be a burden. I won’t start now.”

  “What would happen if you ditched politics and did something you wanted to do?”

  “Max.” I sigh deeply, the pieces of used napkin lift with my breath and fan against the table. “Drop it, ok? It’s too late. I just spent a shit ton of my parent’s money getting this degree. I can’t go back to school.”

  “You don’t have to go back to school. You just have to go somewhere that feels free.”

  “Free, huh?” I turn in the booth, fighting an urge to hug him just for trying to give me something I’ll never have. “You have a certain something in mind?”

  “Ah, Gia Maria, I'm so glad you asked.” He flashes me a wink. “I graduate next week too. Did you know that?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did know that. You’re a year older than the rest of the group.”

  “Did you know I only went to college to please my moms?”

  “What the fuck?” I cuff the side of his head. When his smile grows, I do it again. Harder. “You just gave me a ten minute lecture for trying to please my dad when you did the same exact thing?”

  “Here’s the difference.” He lifts a finger. “I got a degree in astronomy because I think stars are majestic and shiny. You got a degree in politics because Tito the s
lave driver forced you into it. You are gonna be stuck in a career you hate for the rest of your life. Me? I’ll be traveling the world, singing songs, and spewing facts about constellations.” His hands fall to mine, squeezing. “Gia, you have to do something for you.”

  “I don’t even know what I would do, Max.”

  “Come with me.” He leans forward. The tips of our noses are a breath away. “I’m leaving right after I graduate next week. I’ve got a gig in Chicago. After that, I have no idea where I’m going. I’m just getting in my car and driving to places, hoping I can take the stage and blow people’s minds.”

  “You have no plan?” I whisper it like it’s a scandalous secret. No plan? My life is accustomed to structure and organization. What the hell would I do every day without a plan?

  “Nope. Just me, you, and the road.”

  “Not me.” I shake my head, the action causing my hair to fall into my eyes. “I can’t go with you.”

  He bats my hair away. “Come on. Break the damn chains and come with me. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “The worst that can happen? My parents shun me for life.”

  His face falls. I can tell he’s searching for a response good enough to convince me. He’s let off the hook when the alarm on my phone starts blaring. “I gotta go, Max.”

  Reluctantly, he shoves out of the booth and stands up. “You’ll think about coming with me?”

  “I can’t, Max.” I stand from the bench. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

  He doesn't push. “Yeah. Family dinner or something.”

  I gather my purse and after throwing some cash on the table, I head towards the door. Each click click of my heels leaves me wishing I lived in universe where I could take them off.

  Just as I reach the door, my brain kicks into overdrive and I spin around. “Hey, Maxwell! I just spilled all my beans. Where are all of yours?”

  He chuckles, shoving his hands in his front pockets. “Gia, my can of beans is massive. If I spilled them, this tiny diner would be flooded.”

  “I find that hard to believe. A guy as happy as you can't have that many beans.”

  “Gia, I’ve got two sides to me. The side standing in front of you right now. And my devil side.”

  “Your devil side, huh?” I smirk, my hand reaching for the door handle. “Your name doesn’t belong next to the devil. You’re too cheerful.”

  “It’s not my name.”

  My head tilts. “I’m confused.”

  “That’s probably for the best.” He relaxes back into the booth like he plans on staying a while. “Think about it, Gia.”

  I throw open the door. “Not going to happen.”

  “You’re breaking my heart, Gia Maria!”

  He’s joking. His heart isn’t taking any hits from me, but I like the thought of somebody actually wanting to spend time with me. Somebody who isn’t a piece of my dad’s plan. “You’ll be fine.”

  “No, I won’t.” He lifts my mug. “You’re leaving me heartbroken, depressed, and with no coffee. What’s up with that?”

  I flash him a quick wink. “Sorry, baby, I’ve got an itch to scratch.”

  I step into the early morning and back on the path paved specifically for me. I’ve never second guessed my dad’s choice before. To me, Dad knows best. He’s a judge on the Supreme Court of North Carolina. He’s well respected, successful, and he knows how to make a life out of a career. I went into politics because he said it was the best career move. I was fifteen at the time and trusted my dad with my life.

  Literally.

  Now, I’m twenty-one, bored out of my aching brain, wondering why anyone would want to make a life out of a career. Aren’t you supposed to make a life out of people? And love? And experiences? The only thing I’ve experienced is crappy coffee and late night talks with Willa.

  It’s not enough.

  It will never be enough.

  2

  Gigi

  I wonder how easy it would be to break someone else's hand. More specifically, I wonder how easy it would be for me to break someone else's hand.

  Can I do it in one snap? Like a ninja or Liam Neeson in every movie ever? Or would it take time? Would I have to twist it and put all my body weight into it? Perhaps, it would be an easier feat to accomplish if I used an object. A golf club, baseball bat, hammer, crowbar, frying pan...

  I’m not picky.

  Unfortunately, at this moment, my options are limited to a bread roll and the flimsy basket that holds it. When his fingers wrap around my thigh for the fifteenth time this afternoon, I eye my fork and decide maybe I don't have to break it. I simply need to render it immobile. Very subtly, I stretch my fingers across the cloth covered table and drag my fork to the edge.

  His unwanted hand twitches against my flesh. "Gigi, what are you doing with your silverware?"

  I plaster a fake smile on my face and smirk at the uncertainty in his dark eyes. His chin lifts, eyes squinting in trepidation when I flash him a glare strong enough to burn a hole into his designer shirt.

  I lower my voice so as not to attract attention to myself or this situation. "If you do not remove your limb from my thigh, I am going to use that piece of silverware to stab three holes into the top of it."

  His lips press together in annoyance. "Gigi, knock it off. Just relax for once, and then we can leave. It's your day. Enjoy it."

  As if I need the reminder that this morning my father dragged our entire family and then some to my three-hour graduation ceremony only to force us all to sit down for a celebratory lunch. He reserved a table at the most expensive restaurant in town to discuss my impending future over lobster bisque.

  I straighten in my chair, tightening my grip on the fork. Beside me, Benny jerks in his chair and the grip he has on my thigh loosens. With his attention directed elsewhere, I use the opportunity to slide my hand over his thigh.

  His body goes rigid when I whisper the tips of my fingers over his zipper. Casting one last look at the rest of the table, I’m satisfied nobody is paying attention. With a broad grin, I curl my fingers into a fist and punch him in the balls as hard as I can muster.

  He gasps for air, his mouth opening and chest expanding. He lurches out of his chair, hunched over the table with both hands cupping his junk. A string of garbled gibberish escapes his mouth as he pants over the basket of bread.

  I give myself a mental high five.

  “Benito.” My father leans across the table, eyes flinty. A low growl escapes from between his bared teeth. “Sit. Down.”

  From the corner of his eye, Benny grants me with a look that has me absolutely satisfied with my myself.

  The wrinkles beside my father’s eye tighten. “Benito!”

  Tito Moretti oozes authority. He has the type of voice that commands attention, and has the demeanor to match it. We’ve managed to capture the attention of the restaurant and it’s entirety.

  Benny takes note of this and lowers himself back into his seat with the speed of an elderly man who’s just gotten a hip replacement.

  He’s a smart guy, so he keeps his hands to himself this time.

  Instinctively, I search for Renzo, wishing I wasn’t across the table. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, a vein in his neck pulsing as he stares at Benny. He runs his tongue over his teeth before we lock eyes. Folding his arms over his chest, he silently asks me the question he’s been asking since eighth grade.

  “Do I need to kick his ass?”

  I give my head a quick shake, promising myself that one day I am going to take him up on that offer.

  Benito Romano is my ex-boyfriend, a total nuisance, and the bane of my existence. His tragic role in my life began seven years ago when his family relocated to Fayetteville. His father is a defense lawyer, and I am certain Tito Moretti is convinced he shits gold.

  Aldo Romano and my father became fast friends, spending most of their time in the courthouse my father has made his second home and delightfully meshing our two Italian famil
ies together.

  When they chose to pair Benny and I together, they acted like it was the greatest idea since sliced bread. After all, wouldn’t it be perfect? To combine our equally successful families? Wouldn’t it just be wonderful if two full-blooded Italians could find happiness together? Wouldn’t it just be peachy if they got married and had gorgeous Italian children?

  Ones that came out of the womb with dark hair and dark eyes, perhaps?

  Ugh.

  Even years ago, Benny and I were nobody’s fool. With meek smiles and silent protests, we stood side by side and acted as though we believed in our father’s faulty pairing. We played the role compliantly and passively. With Tito and Aldo in the director’s seat, it was the only role we were allowed to have.

  In the early days, my heart went out to Benny. He was miserable, and it showed in every heavy step and synthetic smile he aimed in my direction. He was sixteen at the start of our relationship. I was barely fourteen.

  Yes.

  My father encouraged insisted his youngest daughter spent her weekends alongside a newly licensed sixteen year old with more money than he knew what to do with.

  I thought maybe he was certifiably insane.

  Renzo’s transition from twin to overprotective big brother was seamless. All the dates I went on with Benny, Renzo was there too, wedging himself between us when Benny got a little too close for comfort.

  As years passed, my sympathy for Benny faded and a deep desire to push him off a mountain took over. Without my knowledge or consent, Benny took our relationship from side hugs and venomous glares to nibbling on my earlobe and ass grabs in public.

  Renzo was livid.

  My big brother went toe to toe with my father every weekend, going as far as writing argumentative essays in favor of me and Benny’s break up. Renzo was the only one I projected my true feelings to. He was the only one who knew how uncomfortable I was and the way my skin crawled when Benny ran his gaze all over it.

  Relief came at the end of my sophomore year. Benny graduated high school, packed his bags, and jumped on an airplane that took him half way across the world. He’s spent the last few years on mission trips with his church. Tito thought it’d be best if we broke up—allowing me to make school the focal point of my life and Benny the opportunity to make the world a better place.