Page 13 of Fool Me Once

“I want answers, Gemma. Do you have someone else? The wedding is in three weeks. Are you not going through with it?” The words come out quickly, and I know it’s because she’s stressed. “If you don’t plan on going through with it, now would be the time to say that, you know. I mean … don’t you understand how many people were invited to it?” She pauses. “So many family members are traveling from here, inMaine,all the way to the West Coast. And they’ve already paid for their airfare and have their lodging reserved.”

My mind begins to spiral, my body tenses up, and my breathing becomes labored.

I can’t do this. I can’t talk about this.

I can’t deal with this.

“I have to go,” I choke out, feeling tears spring to my eyes.

“Don’t hang up on me. I just want to talk to you.” Her tone is softer now, but I doubt it’s sincere.

I love my mom, but she helped plan this wedding, and she loves Richie. Or who she thinks Richie is.

“Baby, if you’re getting cold feet, it’s okay,” she whispers. “That’s normal. I promise you, every woman—and man—gets cold feet.”

I swallow back my emotions, pulling myself together just enough to get one message across to my mother.

“There will be no wedding. My feet aren’t cold. They are warm andfucking toasty,” I say through my teeth. “I have to go, and I am going to hang up now because I. Can’t. Do. This.”

When I pull the phone back to end the call, she’s still going off about everything. I owe it to her and my dad to tell them the truth. But right now, she only wants to hear what she believes. And even if I told her everything that’s gone on, I don’t know if she’d believe me.

Once the call is disconnected, I power my phone down and toss it onto the other side of Saylor’s couch. And then … I eye over her liquor stash.

Because after a phone call like that, I don’t want to think anymore.

I’m drunk and all alone in my best friend’s apartment, blaring country music from the television. Megan Moroney’s beautifully raspy voice sings “Indifferent,” and I sing right along with her, too tipsy to care how off-key I am.

The words are flowing from my mouth as I close my eyes, swaying around like a moron, and to be honest, I don’t even think it’s my piece-of-shit ex-fiancé I’m singing them to, but instead, it’s Smith Sawyer’s face I’m imagining.

But I’m totally not still hung up over him after all these years. Not at all. Pffft. No chance.

When the song slowly ends, my eyes flutter open. And when I take in the sight of Smith staring at me from the open doorway, my heart leaps into my throat because, one … I thought I was alone, but now, I’m realizing I’m not. And two—the more surface-level reason—I don’t know how much of my little performance he just watched.

Grabbing the remote, I mute the sound and shoot him a glare. “What the fuck are you doing?” I growl, waving my hand toward him. “Who fucking sneaks into an apartment and watches someone without them knowing? You’re a creep.”

I’m pissed because, once again, I feel like my privacy and personal space have just been violated. And for a long time now, that’s been the case. But I’m also embarrassed that, out of everyone to see me make a fool of myself, it had to bethisasshole.

My words seem to awaken him, and his eyes widen.

“Oh fuck. I—Christ, Gem. I didn’t mean to frighten you. My sister locked her keys in the car at the hospital and needed me to grab her spare set.” He holds his hands out in a truce. “I knocked and pounded on the door, but your music was too loud, so I finally had to come in.”

“The door was locked!” I yell, pointing to it. “Ilocked it.”

Holding out a set of keys, he cringes. “I have a set.” His eyes thin. “Are you drunk?”

“Of course you do,” I utter, shaking my head. “And not like it’s any of your business, but yes. Yes, I am.”

“By yourself?” he asks, looking at me like I’m a loser.

“Just get the keys and go, would you? She’s waiting for you.”

The Smith I know would have teased me about my singing and laughed about this whole thing. Instead, he just looks worried.

“I’m sorry, Firefly. I didn’t—I shouldn’t have just come in. I’m sure I startled you,” he says regretfully. “I fucked up.”

His reaction only pisses me off more because I can see right through him. He knows damn well my cuts and bruises aren’t from a car accident. And now, he’s looking at me like a beaten puppy dog and feels sorry for me.

Iloathethat, and I really hate that he’s pretending like he actually gives a shit.

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