If I Break THE COMPLETE SERIES Bundle (138 page)

When I was younger, I imagined Gia in two scenarios: married to someone important and intellectual, like a professor or scientist, or the first woman president. Opposite sides of the coin but both easily conceivable for her. She was like that, able to be submissive or completely in control. Better said, she could appear to be submissive while always in control.

Her house is large and immaculate. White columns in the front, perfectly manicured lawn, and two luxury vehicles parked in the garage. Space in Madison doesn’t mean much, but in this Chicagoland suburb of Burr Ridge, space equals status. The bigger the house, the more money spent, and Gia’s house represents a lot of money well spent.

My fingers tingle after I ring her doorbell. She should be home because Gia surprised everyone by not becoming a governor or marrying a CEO but by becoming a bestselling novelist. She’s sold enough books that she wouldn’t have to write a sentence again in her life unless she wanted to and could still live well. It’s the novelist part that surprised me, not the bestselling part, because whatever Gia does, she does to absolute perfection. Even her editor thought so, swept off his feet by the brilliant mind of Gia Dwyer. Her editor, now her beloved husband.

“Gwen!” Her green eyes widen as they land on me, a small smile on her face. She’s surprised, but at least she’s happy to see me.

She looks great, her thick dark hair falling in waves down her back. She’s fully dressed, wearing a cream-colored blazer covering a black shirt and jeans. That doesn’t mean that she’s headed out. Gia wouldn’t be caught dead with a hair out of place at any time of day. I think she sleeps looking perfect.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she says, pulling me into a tight hug.

I let out a sigh of relief as I hug her back. She steps back and takes in my appearance, frowning. Today isn’t a day when I particularly take pride in my appearance. My eyes have bags under them that could carry ten pounds of luggage. My hair hasn’t been washed in two days, and my oversized Packers sweatshirt isn’t doing anything for my figure. It’s funny I only think about things like that around my sister.

“What are you doing here? Not that I’m not glad to have you,” she says, flashing a wide pageant-girl smile.

On the drive here, I’d practiced managing my emotions, or at least containing them so as not to fall apart on her doorstep. I run my hand through my hair.

“Can I come in?” I say jokingly, and she laughs.

“Of course. I’m sorry. I’m just so shocked. When was the last time you landed on my doorstep unannounced?” She giggles, taking me by the hand and pulling me into the house. In less than a moment, we’re seated at her large kitchen table, and she’s making coffee. “So are you going to fill me in on what brings my little sister all the way from Podunk, Michigan?”

I can’t help but laugh. Gia has only been to my house three times in her whole life, for many reasons, but one is that she hates the country. Since I’m pretty much smack dab in the middle of Small Town Country, USA, my house isn’t very alluring to her.

“I missed you. I needed to see my sister,” I admit with a tight smile.

When she turns around, her eyes run over me. Her wide smile disappears into a concerned frown. She pulls up a chair next to me and angles her body toward mine. “What’s the matter?” Her tone is more serious, more concerned, and she focuses on me.

This change in her demeanor makes my tightly wound emotions want to unravel and reveal themselves. I take a deep breath and try to think of exactly what I want to say because once said, there’s no going back. Once I reveal what’s happened to my marriage, it will be a wound that will never close, a loose thread that can be pulled on to unravel my existence. Sometimes it’s a lot easier for you to move forward and possibly forgive the one who has done you wrong than it is for your family and friends. They can’t forgive and they never let you forget, and secrets like that can be ammunition used to destroy you when they see fit. She notices my hesitancy, which is ridiculous since I drove almost four hours to get here. I’m sitting in front of her as a ball of energy that’s so hard to contain I just want to release it all.

“Gwen, you can tell me anything. I’m your sister.”

The thing is I can’t tell her anything, because some things, no matter how badly you want to say them, can open doors that should remain locked, can create cracks in things that took years and years to rebuild. I feel my eyes well up, and I try to smile away my tears.

“Gwen, are you sick again?” Her eyes tighten as she grabs my hand and squeezes it.

“No. No, it’s nothing like that,” I tell her, and her arms wrap around me.

“Thank God,” she says, squeezing me tightly. “Then what is it? Is Christopher okay?” She pulls away, surveying my face.

“Not really,” I answer honestly.

“Is he having episodes again?” she asks urgently.

“No, it’s nothing like that,” I say, stifling my broken voice. “Not yet at least.” I shrug and laugh to cover my cry, but it’s unsuccessful.

Gia takes my hand again and lifts my chin. “You’re scaring me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

I stand up from the table and turn away from her. “You know. We don’t really talk about what happened.”

I don’t want to face her, but after a long stretch of silence, I do. Her face has gone dead, her eyes wide like she’s seen a ghost, and that tells me she knows exactly what I’m talking about. She looks away from me.

“Some things are better not discussed,” she says quietly, but there’s an edge to her voice.

“I know.” Tears are streaming down my cheeks. I walk back to the table and sit across from her so she can see my face. “But I have to know now. Do you really... have you really forgiven me? Or have you just chosen to act like it didn’t happen?”

Her gaze doesn’t leave the table. “What does this have to do with anything?” Her frustration is evident in her voice.

“It has to do with everything for me. I need to know. Because right now, I have this hatred, this rage, this desire for vengeance coursing through me, and I have to know that it goes away, that I can let it go,” I beg.

Her eyes cut through me, and there’s a look on her face I haven’t seen in a long time. “You’re my sister. I
had
to let it go… and what does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything.”

She looks at me closely, as if she’s trying to read my mind. She folds her hands in front of her and stares at them as if she’s frozen in place. “It still hurts sometimes.”

I feel a stab of pain. “Even after all of these years?”

“That type of pain doesn’t go away. It only dulls.” Then she shakes her head and smiles, returning to the woman she was earlier. “You were young. You always only thought about yourself. What does
that
have to do with why you’re here now? What’s going on?” She pours me a cup of coffee, and something in me makes me stand up from the table.

“Coming here was mistake,” I say, feeling my nerves colliding against one another.

She looks at me with confusion evident on her face.

“I’m sorry. I love you, but I shouldn’t have come,” I say, grabbing my purse and heading toward the living room door.

“Look, this is why we don’t talk about what happened. It doesn’t matter. Everything that happened in the past isn’t important. What’s important is that we made it past that. We didn’t let it destroy us. It could have, but it didn’t.” I have to get away from her before I burst into tears.

“And whatever happened, it doesn’t have to destroy you!” she yells, and I stop in my tracks. “I know how it feels to hurt more than you ever thought possible. To feel betrayed, duped. I understand what’s that’s like. I know something’s happened. That look on your face, you can’t hide it with a smile. I know that you came here for a reason, so just let me in.”

Before today, there had never been a single thing I did that I wanted to take back, to rewind time and make a different choice. Never once had I thought it. But looking at my sister now, after what’s happened over these past few days, I almost wish I could. If I could go back and change one thing, if I could tell the girl I was then, and even the woman I was up until yesterday, that every choice you make has a price, I would. But then again, the girl I was wouldn’t listen. The girl I was then was just a girl who fell in love with a boy.

The wrong boy.

…Seventeen

I
don’t understand what the big deal is. There’re so many worse things I could be doing. They’re mad. Well, a little beyond mad—they’re furious—and for what? I smoked a little pot and got caught making out with Zach behind the bleachers. I mean, it wasn’t like I was having sex and doing blow, but as red as Martin’s face is right now and as tight as my mom’s wringing her hands together, you’d think I’d just assassinated the freakin’ President.

“Do you understand what we’re saying to you, young lady? If I can even call you that,” Martin bellows at me as he paces the dining room.

“Mom, you’re going to let him say that to me? He’s acting like I’m some type of tramp.” I laugh, still a little buzzed from the joint that caused all of this ridiculous hysteria.

“Well, Gwendolyn, you aren’t acting like a lady. I can’t believe you,” my mother adds predictably.

“Your actions reflect on this entire family. These ridiculous antics you pull not only make you look bad but make all of us look bad,” he continues.

I focus on the ceiling fan turning above us. It’s a lot more interesting than anything he has to say. I know how this is going to end—me being grounded, him and mom talking about how much of a mess I am when, in fact, I’m fine.

“Look, you guys are blowing a gasket over nothing. I was just having a little fun. This whole campaign thing may be fun for you guys, but it’s stressing me the hell out,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.

“Watch your language, young lady!” my mom says, her eyes squaring in on me.

“I’m sorry—it’s stressing me the fuck out.” I giggle, and their eyes widen. Okay, maybe that
wasn’t
as funny as it seemed in my head. I wish they’d just waited until my buzz was done to have this conversation. It would have gone a lot better for all of us.

Martin’s plump face is beet-red, and he runs his hand over his thick orange hair. When Dad first introduced him to us, I’d figured he was what Opie Taylor would look like if he was a late-fifty-something car salesman with a chronic case of cornball. I start to imagine cheese balls, and I burst out laughing.

“Oh, this is funny? You think it’s a joke, huh? Well, you wouldn’t think it was so funny if we took away the car you don’t deserve to drive and those records you listen to that are probably killing the brain cells you have anyway,” he says, folding his arms in his polyester suit.

“You can’t take my car, Martin. It was a gift from my
actual
dad,” I remind him, starting to find this conversation more annoying than entertaining.

“I can take the car,” my mother asserts. “I can take the car and your clothes and everything else that belongs to you because we provide it. You are a child, and you are proving it more and more as each day passes. You are being selfish and completely self-centered, but you are not stupid. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you were doing this on purpose, but I have to banish that thought because I’d hate to think the daughter I birthed could be so callous and immature.”

I feel a burning in my chest. “It’s not that big a deal! I wasn’t trying to sabotage anything! I just wanted to have a little fun. You knew what that was when Dad was alive!”