Page 25 of Fool Me Once

Reluctantly, I drag my feet to the door. “You too,” I call out. “See you this afternoon. My number is written on a sticky note on the counter. Let me know if you need anything or want me to pick anything up on the way home.”

“Will do.”

As I pull the door open and head to my truck, my stomach feels sick. Because I’m supposed to keep her safe, and I don’t know how to do that when I’m expected to play hockey every day of my life.

One thing is for sure though: if it comes down to choosing between Gemma or hockey … I’ll choose her.

I won’t make the same mistake twice.

After researching a few nearby colleges to possibly apply to so I can finish my degree, washing the very few articles of clothing I had, and walking Storm up and down the driveway a bunch of times, I decided that all that was left to do was to contact my parents and tell them it was time to call the wedding off. At this point, I would think that Richie and his parents already had, but do psychopaths ever do what you expect them to? Probably not. I want my friends and family to have the chance to get their money back, if still possible.

At first, I try to sit cross-legged on my bed as I dial my mom’s number. But as soon as it starts ringing, I scurry off the bed and begin to pace the room. Two rings later, she answers.

“Gemma, I really hope you won’t hang up on me today,” she says as a plea, and my heart breaks a little for being so selfish lately. “Your father and I have been worried sick.” She sniffles. “I can’t sleep.”

I inhale deeply, gathering every bit of determination inside me to get this off my chest and set my people-pleasing self free.

“The wedding is off,” rushes from my mouth in a brisk squeak. “I … I’m sorry, Mom, for telling you so last minute. But I can’t marry him.” My voice breaks, and my throat burns, as if I swallowed a bunch of tacks. “I just can’t.”

“His mother called last night and said it was canceled because you had run off, but I need to know, why can’t you marry him, baby?” She speaks evenly. “I just want to make sure you are really, really sure about this. Because once you call this wedding off, that’s it, sweetie. You won’t get another chance.”

Tears well in my eyes, but while my eyes are sad, the rest of my body doesn’t seem to get the memo. I begin to shake, filled with red-hot anger.

“Mom, Richie is a piece of shit!” I growl through gritted teeth. “His parents are pieces of shit! They are all pieces offuckingshit!”

“Gemma Marie!” she half screams, half hisses directly into the phone. “What has gotten into you?”

“Listen to me, Mom!” I feel the anger slowly lifting from my body, leaving behind nothing but pain, to the point of hysterics. “Don’t you think”—I suck in a shaky breath—“if I’m telling you he’s bad, you should just listen to me? And talk to me?”

It feels like, once again, this is going nowhere. But somewhere, out of the blue … it hits me.

This isn’t a conversation I should have over the phone. This is one I need to have in person to make her finally see my pain and hear my cries.

“I’m coming home to see you,” I croak out in my raspy voice. “I’ll be there in a few hours.”

“I think that’d be wise,” she says sharply, making me end the call even faster.

The only trouble is, now, I have to find a ride.

I stand behind the gate, waiting for the Uber to arrive. My heart beats fast inside my chest, and I can’t deny the panic I feel because I’m about to ride with a stranger, potentially putting myself in harm’s way.

Again.

I keep Storm on a leash at my side. After finding a pet-friendly Uber, I decided to leave Smith a note and steal his dog for the remainder of the day. Something about having him with me makes me feel a little safer.

When a small car comes into view, I feel like I might actually puke. And the craziest part is, I just keep thinking about how, if I get kidnapped, what if Storm gets hurt? He’s already been through so much. I should have just left him in the comfort of his home. But, no, I was selfish and brought him along.

When the car pulls into the mouth of the driveway, I type in the code for the gate, and once it opens, I let my feet lead me to the Uber. Nerves grow in my stomach, and I seriously debate on yelling to the driver that his service is no longer needed and then running back up the driveway as fast as my and Storm’s legs will carry us.

My legs feel shaky, but before I have to make the decision on what to do, a black truck pulls into the driveway, right behind the small car.

Smith doesn’t waste time looking at the situation before rushing out of his truck and toward us.

“What the fuck is going on?” he barks out, but more at the driver than to me. “Who the fuck is this person?” He walks up to the window of the car, which is now down. “What the fuck are you doing in my driveway?”

The man, who appears to be in his thirties, instantly looks panicked. “I got a request for a pickup!” He points toward me and Storm.

Smith’s chest heaves, and his wild eyes look from the driver to me before moving back to the car.

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