Trust (3 page)

The
first time I ever met Gaia Moore, she was hateful and rude to me. So of course, I fell in love with her. That s just the way I am. Stupid. Call it love at first snarl. Certainly lust. My theory used to be that if you looked up the word
fine
in the dictionary, you'd see Gaia s picture. She's tall, close to five-nine is my guess, with long, blond hair to the middle of her back. Perfect skin, big eyes that change color from sky blue to the shade of ocean water during a storm . . .

Oops. Sorry. I'm forgetting myself. That happens sometimes.

The point is, I've had the hots for Gaia for about four months now. Actually, “hots” is an understatement. More like “infernos”. I used to think about her pretty much every single second while I was awake and most of the seconds while I was asleep, too. Now it's maybe every other second. But it's still a lot.

The only bad part of this whole scenario is that she doesn't feel the same way.

Incredibly, though, it isn't because I'm in a wheelchair. I get the feeling with Gaia that a little thing like paraplegism wouldn't stop her from being attracted to someone. She's way more sophisticated than that. No, what has stopped her is someone called Sam Moon. She loves him. Wants him. Wants to go to bed with him.

And how do I know all this? Because she told me.

Right. Pay attention here.

Where it gets sticky is that Sam is dating Heather Gannis. Who is Gaia's worst enemy. And my exgirlfriend. And now (possibly) my girlfriend again.

I know, I know that doesn't make any sense. I can't figure it out, either. All I know is that Heather and I made out in a storage room in the Plaza Hotel (it would take
way
too long to explain the circumstances here), and ever since then, I've felt like I could just jump out of my wheelchair and run a marathon. I've actually been
happy
.

There's only one little problem. Two, really. Heather still hasn't officially dumped Sam, and I'm still secretly in love with Gaia.

But I've come to accept the fact that Gaia is not about to fall in love with me. Actually, I don't even know if she likes me anymore, even as a friend. And if she ever found out about
everything
that went down between Heather and me, she'd probably never want to talk to me again.

So where does that leave me?

If I pursue this thing with Heather (I know
thing
is a lame word, but there's really no other word that can accurately describe the totally bizarre state of affairs), I'll have a chance at true happiness. She's perfect for me. I've always known that, even when she dumped me. She's one of the few people who truly
understands
me. And most important, we're friends — above everything else.

But if I
do
pursue this thing with Heather, odds are about ninety-nine to one that I'll lose Gaia Moore forever.

Life has a funny way of sucking, doesn't it?

There was something so surreal about the moment — as if he were acting out the choreography of a well-rehearsed, recurring dream.

MOST FRIDAY NIGHTS ED FARGO usually found himself following the same routine: (1) Pray that his parents would go out and leave him alone. (2) Watch TV and surf the web. (3) Call Gaia.

Yes, it was lame. It was pathetic, in fact — if you looked at it from the point of view of his former skate pals, who spent most Friday nights roaming the city and hopping from party to party. But Ed had lost his urge to explore the nightlife the day he'd lost the ability to use his legs. Unfortunately, nightlife and walking pretty much went hand in hand.

Still, he didn't mind being a hermit. The new Friday night routine was
comforting
, in a weird kind of way. It was comforting knowing that Gaia Moore was safe. When he was talking on the phone with her, he could be fairly certain that she wasn't out getting into trouble, or kicking people's asses . . . or worse. In fact, he used to spend
every
night on the phone with her for that exact reason. Well, also because he was in love with her. And also because it gave him something to do while he made milk shakes.

Ed leaned back in his wheelchair and stared at the phone on his desk. His eyes darted to the clock. It was almost eight. Usually by now he'd be chatting with Gaia, trading stupid one-liners and generally ragging on each others' lives.

Too bad he hadn't spoken to her since Monday.

The way things were looking, he could probably just toss that old Friday night routine right out the window. For all he knew, Gaia had left town. Or gotten thrown in jail. Or died. Ed wasn't prone to melodrama. No. Any of these scenarios was perfectly plausible. He hadn't even seen her in school for most of the week. And when he had, she'd made a very obvious and deliberate effort to avoid him.

He swallowed, debating whether or not to send her an e-mail. The little screen saver goldfish swam past him on his computer monitor. He reached for his mouse, but then his hand flopped down at his side. He couldn't do it. He couldn't bring himself to make the first move at reestablishing their friendship. Things were just too weird between them — and he had no idea why.

What the hell had
happened
, anyway?

He frowned, pushing himself away from his desk. Gaia had been pissed about the fact that he had been hanging out a lot with Heather . . . but still, she should have gotten over it. So what if Gaia hated Heather? For one thing, Gaia knew that Heather's sister was in the hospital, on the verge of death from a bout with anorexia. So she knew that Ed was
consoling
Heather. And for another thing, Gaia
didn't
know that Ed and Heather had shared a clandestine kiss on Sunday night. She never would, either. Unless she had somehow found out. He swallowed again. No, that was impossible —

Brrring!

Ed jerked. The phone was ringing. He held his breath. Maybe that was her right now. Maybe they could end this foolishness once and for all and start being friends again. He leaned forward and snatched up the phone before the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Whatcha doing?”

Ed sighed. It wasn't Gaia. It was Heather.

But miraculously, after a split second or so, his initial disappointment faded. Yeah . . . in fact, he was
relieved
that Heather was on the phone. Wasn't he? Sure. Screw Gaia. He had better things to do than obsess over her. Heather was the one he could talk to — without any awkwardness or expectation. He cradled the phone more firmly between his ear and shoulder and smiled.

“Hello? Ed? Are you there?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said quickly. “Sorry. I'm just a little spaced out.”

“I know what you mean,” she said wryly. “That Friday night television lineup has the same effect on me, too.”

Ed laughed. “I'll have you know, I was doing homework,” he lied. He didn't want to sound like he was just sitting around, staring at the phone, waiting for Gaia to call. Or maybe he just didn't want to admit it to himself. He
definitely
didn't want to admit it to Heather.

“Homework on a Friday?” Heather mused. “Gosh, you're more deprived than I thought. Or is it depraved? What word am I looking for?”

“Very funny,” Ed said with a smirk. “How about you? What are you up to? Besides heckling me, that is.”

“I'm bored,” said Heather easily, but didn't elaborate.

“Want to come over?” he found himself offering. The question popped out of his mouth before he even knew he wanted to extend the invitation. But he didn't regret it. He was lonely. “Watch a movie or something?”

“I'll be right there,” she said, very softly.

Click
.

Ed blinked. A strange warm tingle was moving from just above the base of his spine up to his neck. His heart started beating a fraction faster. She'd hung up . . . the way she used to hang up back when they were a couple, back before the accident — when he would call and she would rush over in an instant. He slowly replaced the phone in its cradle. For a moment he had a hard time catching his breath. Memories of Sunday rushed over him like a tidal wave, smothering him. Memories of that sweet pitch blackness, of the way Heather had reached out for him and smothered his lips with her own . . .

He smiled. Maybe his old Friday night routine had been flushed down the toilet. Whatever. If Heather's call was any indication of how a new routine might be shaping up, then he was all for a change.

THIS WAS IT. THE BIG MOMENT.

Gaia slammed the door to her bedroom, then stopped short at the top of the stairs. Maybe she should — check her appearance?

She hesitated, uncharacteristically unsure of herself. Usually when it was time to go out, she went out. But tonight was different. Tonight she would be sitting and sharing a meal with a blood relative — her uncle Oliver. Her father's brother. The man who had exploded into her life (once again) out of nowhere and at the time she needed somebody the most. It was a major event. So maybe she should . . . try to look nice? She didn't know if this was the kind of restaurant where people dressed up. She had a feeling it was. Her uncle seemed like a formal kind of guy.

Oh, well. At least her sweater didn't have any holes in it. And her pants were reasonably clean and pressed.

After glancing down at herself and smoothing a few wrinkles, she darted into the bathroom and peered into the mirror over the sink. Her lips immediately pursed in a frown. As usual, she looked like shit. Her blond hair stuck out in about a thousand different directions — and she also had a small bruise on one cheek, thanks to a lucky shot by Ella.

Gaia blinked at her sour reflection. No, she was fooling herself.
Lucky
wasn't the word. Hardly. Ella hadn't had any lucky shots. Skill was what had enabled her to land that punch. If anything, Gaia had been fortunate to escape so relatively unscathed.

Whatever. She wouldn't concern herself with Ella right now. No, her stepmonster was locked away with George in their bedroom, doing God knows what. The poor guy. If he had any idea who Ella really was . . .

Mechanically Gaia went through the motions of primping. Hair brushed. Big clump of hair pulled off face and secured with a lone barrette. Nothing to be done about bruise on face. Baby powder? Didn't really hide it. All it did was give her a splotch of white on her already pale skin. She wiped it off. Wait. What about something for her lips? She dug through the vanity drawer under the sink and managed to scrounge up a lip gloss that Mary had bought for her months ago. It was a deep red shade, and Gaia wasn't entirely sure how to use it, but she stroked and used a fingertip to rub it around until her lips were covered.

Amazing. She almost looked like a normal teenager. Almost.

Quietly, or as quietly as she could in her steel-toed construction worker boots, Gaia slunk downstairs. She yanked open the foyer closet, grabbed her coat, and fled into the January night.

Don't think about Ella
, she reminded herself as she headed toward her rendezvous.
Don't think about Sam. Don't think about anything
.

THERE WAS NOTHING LIKE A LITTLE early evening lovemaking to put a sham marriage back on track.

Ella smiled at her husband, lying peacefully beside her under the rumpled covers, his chest slowly rising and falling in the easy rhythm of sleep. The afternoon couldn't have gone more perfectly. At these moments she almost felt . . . well, not exactly
tender
toward George — but at the very least sympathetic. The guy deserved to be happy every now and then. Especially since he had no idea that his life would soon be over. It was only fair. He wasn't a bad man, George Niven. He just happened to pick the wrong profession. To make the wrong friends. To marry the wrong woman . . .

“Honey?” Ella whispered. “Honey, are you awake?”

There was no response.

“George, dear?”

He managed a tired grunt.

She slid one smooth leg over his and ran a finger through his thinning gray hair. “Good,” she whispered. “You need a rest. After all your hard work.”

George blinked and opened his eyes, then shifted onto his side. “I'm sorry,” he murmured drowsily. He tried to smile, but his eyelids closed again. “I don't know why I'm so tired.”

It's probably the Seconal I slipped in your wine
, Ella thought, grinning at him. But he probably assumed his exhaustion was a result of their recent . . . exertions. And that was what she wanted him to think.

“We should . . . we should talk to Gaia,” he mumbled, yawning. “Find out why she skipped . . .” His voice trailed off. His mouth still hung open.

Ella nodded, scrutinizing his face for any signs of life. His breathing was once more soft and regular. “We'll talk to her soon, dear,” she murmured. “I promise.”

George began to snore. It was almost cute. And he would snore and snore until tomorrow morning. But she would wait beside him for a few more minutes — just to be sure he was truly out cold. It was always good form to err on the side of caution.

Then she could get up, wash his scent off of her, and head out. She had places to go. A person to see.