Page 63 of The Villain Edit

We continue eating lunch and he takes control of the conversation, doing his best to make me laugh with stories about Kate Van Sandt on the set ofThe Last Best Man, which is out soon. She’s America’s Sweetheart, a cross between a young Julia Roberts and Taylor Swift, and apparently, her life is full of magical stories about growing up on a farm.

My phone, sitting on the table and turned on, rings. My mother’s name flashes across the screen. I’m about to send it to voice mail when Gabe grabs my hand. “Answer it.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Is she going to keep calling until she gets to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Answer and put it on speaker.”

Fine. I’m not embarrassed by my mother and maybe she’ll leave me alone if I give her a little sympathy.

Yeah right.

Well-practiced sobs fill the room when I accept the call and I try not to roll my eyes. She’s good at crying on demand. I can picture her, cocktail in hand, waiting for me to pick up before transforming herself into Sad Mom.

The sobs are artfully spaced around her list of grievances and for a long time, I don’t have to say a word—she can carry this part without any encouragement. I watch Gabe instead. He appears torn between fascination and anger.

“You never called me back,” she finally accuses, the sobs tapering off. Here we go, the part where I’ll be rewarded for playing dutiful daughter or punished if I ignore her. “Answering my messages is the least you could do after you took your father’s side at Christmas. Honestly, Ashley—”

I took his girlfriend, not his side, but history is what she says it is. We aren’t even to my cue yet, where I’m supposed to apologize and beg for her forgiveness and ask what I can do so she knows I love her, but Gabe clears his throat.

“Ashley is busy with her own life,” he says smoothly, firmly. “You’ll have to handle this personal problem yourself. If you keep bothering her, she’ll block you.”

My mother gasps. “She would never!”

“Then I will for her.” He ends the call and leans back in his chair, his eyes on me. “I will. If you want me to.”

For a long minute, I stare at the phone, waiting for her to call and demand to talk to me. For her to text me. For her rage and tears to come.

Nothing happens.

I laugh a little and finally look up at Gabe. “Thank you.” If I’d known it would be this easy, I’d have done this years ago. A little voice inside me points out that I’ll pay for this later because nothing is ever easy, but right now, I don’t care.

Gabe doesn’t laugh or even smile. His eyes are dark as a storm and when he speaks his voice cracks like thunder. “When she comes back, don’t let her in. Not if she’s going to use you. Okay? You deserve better, especially from someone who claims to love you.”

I don’t know what to say, so I stand and wrap my arms around his neck. He tugs me onto his lap and holds me tight. It would be amazing to be someone loved by Gabe. He’s protective and loyal. Unafraid to do the right thing, when the right thing is hard. Not that I need any of those things in my life, but…it would be nice.

In the afternoon, we go to an animal shelter for an adoption drive. This is something Gabe arranged for my benefit, I think. He probably figured out fake dating him hasn’t been enough to turn my reputation around yet.

Now, more than ever, I need this to work. As much as I hate my parents using me, the money I get from their bribes goes a long way toward supporting me. It’s an unpredictable but frequent source of income and I’m walking away from it.

We stop by my house so I can pick up a few things, then head back to Malibu. Gabe gets a call almost immediately and disappears into his office. I pour a glass of wine and step outside to enjoy the cool ocean breeze.

My phone dings.

It’ll be my mother. Or maybe my father. I don’t want to look, but if I don’t, it’s going to eat away at me.

It’s neither.

Hi Ashley! Thanks for coming to my wedding. And for texting me—I’d love to catch up. I’m in LA for a few days visiting Lauren—she’s living in Timbo’s old place. Why don’t you stop by?

Jessie

I sink onto the nearest chair, the sudden shock of shame and guilt too much.

Fuck.

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