Page 47 of Belong With Me

“Shit!”

She can’t have gotten far; I wasn’t gone too long.

I rush back downstairs and into the garage, lunging for my purse that I’ve abandoned on the driveway. Back inside, I turn it over to dump everything out until I find my phone. It’s completely dead and won’t turn on.

Cursing out loud again, I take the stairs two at a time, running into my room and jabbing the charging cord into my phone, willing it to hurry up and turn on.

She wouldn’t have taken a whole suitcase or her laptop if she was just going to Brianna’s. I grab my own laptop from my desk, because I have a hunch about where she’s going, when I see the sticky note stuck to the wall in front of my desk. My heart stops as I read the note in Gia’s sloppy scrawl.

I screwed up, Siena. By now you’ll have seen the car. I couldn’t wait around for Zia Stella to decide what to do, so I was going to borrow Dario’s car. I panicked, the stick shift behind the steering wheel is up and down, and I didn’t know which was reverse, and now I really can’t stay here anymore—he’ll kill me. I’m okay. The car clearly isn’t, though. A bus from the terminal leaves at 9:00 for LA. I’ll tell Mom everything, and she’ll know what to do, I know she will. Don’t be mad.

I am mad. But more than that, I’m worried for a whole slew of reasons.

Not only did she essentially run away with about fifteen dollars to her name to go to a place she’s never been before and has no idea how to find, but my little sister, so tiny she could easily pass for twelve without makeup on, is sitting alone at a probably deserted outdoor bus station in a sketchy part of town. And on top of that, she’s going to tell our mother—who asked me to do a tell-all documentary about Stan to help her get more famous—what happened and hope she’ll protect her. If Florence knows the truth, she’s not going to help keep it a secret like Gia’s hoping she will. Florence won’t care about what’sbestfor her daughter, only how she can exploit it for her own benefit.

If Florence was giddy about me having a story about Stan, I can’t even imagine the stars and dollar signs she’ll see when she learns it was a cover-up, and the real story is much more convoluted and sellable from a dramatic standpoint than she originally thought. She’s going to drag Gia through the mud, then throw her out the second she stops being useful.

It’s only a matter of time before I spiral into a full panic, and I only notice belatedly that I’m gnawing on my fingernails. The room spins, and my breathing sounds harsh in my ears. I need to fix this, but I don’t know how.

I don’t even know if Gia is safe at that fucking bus station all by herself, looking innocent and vulnerable and scared.

I need to get to her before she sets foot on the bus, need to stop her before she does something she’ll regret forever.

I frantically tap my phone screen, and thankfully it’s charged enough to turn on.

I call Gia, but it goes straight to voicemail. Her phone must be off. I check her location on theFind My Friendsapp, and it was last updated an hour ago and shows she’s still at home. An hour ago? What time is it?

It’s nine thirty.

All the tumultuous emotions warring inside me drain away as I slump against the desk. Everything, even the pulsing in my face, seems numb.

I’m too late. She’s on the bus. I’ve missed my chance, and now Gia’s going to get hurt.

Sinking onto my bed, I stare at my phone, not really seeing it, as I do what I always do when I’m in a shit situation and have no one to turn to; I do the only thing that seems right.

I call Jason.

Sixteen

I stand on the driveway, chewing my thumbnail as the twin brothers assess the wreck.

“Well,” Jackson starts, toeing a chunk of what I think is paneling from the garage door, “I don’t think we can hide this with just a fresh coat of paint.”

As if on reflex, Jason smacks Jackson’s arm, and the latter pouts and rubs the spot. “What? It’s true!”

“Thank you for the astute observation, Jackson,”

Jason says, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he moves to the front end of the car and pushes at the garage door. “So glad I brought you here for your expertise.”

“I’m also incredibly charming and good-looking,”

Jackson adds, helping Jason move the remains of the garage door. “Can’t forget that.”

The garage door is carefully set on the floor beside the car. “How can I when you’re so quick to remind me all the time?” Jason quips, not taking his eyes off the car.

“How bad is it?” I ask, not moving from my spot on the driveway. I’ve now gone through all the nails on my right hand, and they feel sore. But compared to my face—which thankfully isn’t broken—and the anxiety sitting tight in my chest, my nails are a distant discomfort.

“Well, the good news is she didn’t do any damage to the wall or the house itself,” Jason says, and that helps me feel just a minuscule amount better.

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