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... and wait some more.
Ten minutes go by.
Fifteen.
A half hour.
She’s not going to text me back. That bench-press burn crushes my chest with the weight of a double-cab truck.
My gaze catches on the two unopened bottles of Fireball on top of the high dresser that Vi dropped by as a gift for switching rooms. How she knew it was my current favorite, I don’t know, but a shot might hammer out my mood. Too bad it’s too much work to get up. And using Fireball as an escape hasn’t done me any favors.
Like the universe thinks I need one more hit,The Imperial Marchbreaks the silence.
I let my head hang forward and knead my neck, steeling myself for whatever David’s going to drop, then put him on speaker.
“Gabe.” He barks my name. “What the hell happened with the show?”
chapter 15
Jess
I’m going to homecoming with T!!!!!!!!!!!! The football team dared him to ask me in a song, and he did. In the middle of the cafeteria. He changed the words to “Oh Sherrie” and turned redder than I did. How awesome was that? Especially because he actually sounded like Steve Perry.
~ from the diary of Elizabeth Sara Thorne (age16)
It’s 4:45am. On the other side of the thin bathroom wall, Gabe’s rapping to old-school Eminem in the shower, his smooth voice addicting in a way I wish it wasn’t. Don’t know what he’s been doing all night but between the bipolar TV volume, the thudding noises, and an occasional NC-17 expletive, I know what he hasn’t been doing—sleeping.
I splash cold water on my face. Thanks to last night’s meltdown and my mortifying freak-out over the girl feeling up Gabe’s abs, I’m nursing a colossal cryfest hangover. My nose is raw, my eyes are gritty, and the space inside my head aches like I spent the night underwater.
Passing Vi’s empty bed, I crawl into mine in front of my open laptop, and stupidly do what I promised myself I wouldn’t—typeGabriel Wadeinto the search bar.
Our kiss pops up in a collage of Gabe with a gallery of girls. Tall. Short. Skinny. Curvy. The magazine lied. He doesn’t prefer blondes over brunettes. He prefers them all.
I follow the link devoted to him and his costar. Typical California cliché, Kimberly Kane is tall, tan, and hours-in the-gym toned. Some of their shots are stills from the set, others candids with various hashtags speculating their volatile dating history. She’s been his on-and-off girlfriend since the show’s first season. That’s what the reporter meant when she asked if they were finally done. I’m wondering how they can be. My bottom-of-the-escalator kiss with Gabe is tame compared to their lip-lock chemistry.
I close the tab and go back to Mom’s page. She’s making those braided bracelets we used to make together. Two wrap her wrist. Her last three posts have been pictures of her and Chloe, our golden retriever. She took the dog in the divorce. Dad got stuck with me.
Yesterday’s post has the house his alimony bought in the background. I’ve never been inside even though she lives in Frisco, twenty-four miles from me in Highland Park. I’ve mapped it out. Driven by. Never stopped. Dad’s restraining order says I can’t.
Mom’s avatar pops up to show she’s online, and like she can read my unsent explanations ofHauntedin the chat bar, I delete them and click out.
I need tea. Real tea. Not bathroom-water tea in the gross mini coffee pot. Room service isn’t open till six, but the lobby Starbucks opens at five.
Yanking my purple hoodie over my tank, I tug the hem over myHello KittyPJ pants and shove my feet into my flip-flops. I swing by the bathroom to brush my teeth, roll my wild hair into a twist, and cake my scar with concealer. The lobby’s probably empty, but still.
Only three other people areinsane enough to be up this early—the front desk lady, a college-boy barista, and someone in a black hoodie slumped over the farthest table from the coffee counter.
“What can I get you?” The barista flashes me a nine o’clock smile. Four hours too early.
“Venti peppermint tea.”
“Knew you’d be up early,” a woman says behind me.
I whip around. It’s the reporter from TheDallas Daily Dish. But she’s not talking to me, she’s talking to the person who was hugging the table, who’s pushed off his hood, who...
... is Gabe.
Slumped posture gone, public face in place, he’s reclining in his chair, arm thrown over the back, like he owns his space. And hers. He’s a player. Not just with girls, with people.
