UNEDITED
Gemma Alder is used to being the unlucky one in the Alder family: from a nasty rumour about her back in high school to inexplicable mishaps, she seems to be the comical target for unfortunate situations. But if there's one thing she's good...
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Gemma
When I wake up in the morning, streaks of sunlight warming my face, Jake is still passed out next to me. If there's one thing I've learned after sharing the bed with him, it's he's a total cover hog. Seriously – he's pulled them so far over to his side that I'm only partially covered by the large pile-up of blankets atop us. He's lucky this camping trip didn't happen in the winter or else I'd probably have to chop his balls off. If there's one pet peeve I have, it's people pulling the covers off of me when it's cold.
Shifting into a sitting position, I rub the sleep from my eyes. I will never admit this aloud, but I was kind of worried about Jake last night. It was almost one-in-the-morning by the time he made it back to the cabin, drenched in sweat and walking as if he'd just done three shots of tequila. I was worried my calculations had been off with the laxatives and I'd accidentally caused him to overdose. It's rare, according to my research, that an overdose on laxatives can cause someone to die, but that doesn't give making someone suffer from dehydration or an imbalance of electrolytes any justice. I was relieved to hear the door creak open and see him standing in the dim candlelight. Just like I'm thankful when I glance down at him, the covers pulled up to his chin and his arm strewn carelessly above his head, and see his chest rising and falling in harmony.
And, as much as I hate to admit it, I can't stop myself from marvelling over how pleasing Jake is to look at. It's been years since I woke up next to him, and although he's lost the baby fat in his cheeks, he looks like Teenage Jake (minus the eyebrow piercing and spiky hair, of course). The hard lines of his jaw and cheekbones have a particular softness to them and the contrast of his dark lashes against his skin is mesmerizing. Deep, somewhere deep, deep down, I have this sudden urge to reach out and trace his lashes with my fingertips. A man like Jake shouldn't be allowed to have lashes like that. It's a crime.
My obsession with his lashes aside, a striking pang of hurt reverberates through my heart, causing my breath to catch. Sometimes, I forget how hard it is to be around Jake. When I'm not playing his girlfriend, when I'm not focused on manipulating the crowd around me, I'm overwhelmed by a heavy onset of emotions. Once upon a time, I loved Jake. I cared about his well-being and his opinion as much as I cared about my own. He was the cliché popular quarterback during our high school years, but it never infected his heart and mind; it never changed who he was. He was kind to everyone and everyone loved him in return. Which is part of the reason why the rumour affected me so much. It felt worse than betrayal – if that even exists. It felt as if I had handed him a gun, trusting him to not shoot me in the heart, and then he did the exact opposite and shot me multiple times. To this day, I still can't wrap my mind around why he made the decision to throw me under the bus. To shoot me.
But even then, there are worse forms of betrayal. Take my own heart for example. Despite everything Jake has done to me, I can still feel this small space, this splinter that's solely dedicated to him. To caring about him, to being attracted to him – name anything that could potentially be related to the one and only Jake Swift, and it's there, embedded in that splinter. My heart is an incompetent traitor.
