Trust No One: The Marriage Lie ; The Last Breath ; The Ones We Trust by Kimberly Belle

Author:Kimberly Belle
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MIRA Books
Published: 2021-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 18

THE NEXT FEW days progress something like this: Bo blocks my number and Lexi tells me she liked me better when I lived in Africa; Jake and I explore the challenging world of bar-stool sex. Dad wakes up moaning and Fannie ups his morphine to nearly fatal proportions; Jake and I are almost arrested for public indecency while parking at Burem Lake Dam. My YouTube fame peaks at a hundred thousand views; Jake and I duck into a roadside Arby’s bathroom for a particularly rough go that ends in bruises and scratch marks and love bites. It’s like the worse things get at home, the more I can’t get enough of Jake.

For me, Jake is like a minivacation from the stress of Rogersville. When floodwaters rise or locusts attack or volcanoes threaten to spew lava and ash, he is a welcome distraction from the impending doom. He makes me forget the end is near. He gives me a bubble of happiness in my chest that I think will never burst, until it does, when I walk through my front door.

I will admit that the dichotomy of my life here feels a little schizophrenic, like there are two distinctly different Gias. Dad Gia feels trapped and claustrophobic, like she’s hiding in a place she doesn’t want to be, being hunted by people who hate her for something she didn’t do. Jake Gia is the polar opposite—the puppy hanging her head out the car window, ears flapping, tail wagging, not caring where she’s going, as long as it’s away from here.

The only question now is, which Gia is me?

* * *

On Thursday night, I awake to a swishing sound.

The house is dark and quiet. The kind of dark and quiet it can only be in the middle of a winter night in the middle-of-nowhere, Tennessee. Somewhere in the distance, a train rattles and rumbles through the frozen hillside, but otherwise the silence is piercing.

Except for the gentle swish, swish, swishing.

I crawl across the bed to the window and peer onto the front yard. The protesters are gone, but there, under the streetlight at the very end of the driveway, is Jake’s truck. Empty and dark. I stuff my feet into my fake Ugg boots, wrap the down comforter around my shoulders and sneak into the hallway.

Even after all these years, creeping down the stairs without waking my sleeping father feels like second nature. Hug the wall at the top. Avoid the squeaky spot halfway down. Take a giant stride over the Persian at the bottom. I glance into the living room, where my father softly snores, and slip out the front door into the night.

Jake’s face glows under a supermoon and a zillion stars. He looks surprised to see me, but no more surprised than I am at the paintbrush in his hand. He gives me a guilty smile, and then he shrugs.

I step back and check the house, still shiny and wet where he painted it pale, creamy yellow. The exact shade of the siding.

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