Trust Me, Trust Me Not (Gavert City Book 3) Page 2

  A crumpled paper sticks onto the flowers, attached with a string. Probably Lila writing I love you to our mother. She draws for her and leaves notes in a little box. Part of her grieving process. I’m still trying to figure out what mine is. The pain of losing her still randomly grabs me, tightening its fist of guilt and memories around my throat. She wasn’t a good mother. But I want to believe she tried to save us. I want to believe that’s why she died.

  I open it. You’re the one who killed her.

  I hold my breath and my gaze darts behind my shoulder, then to the other side. But there’s no one nearby. My hand shakes and the paper whirls in the air before landing by my feet. I grab it quickly before it flies away and shove it into my back jeans pocket. No one else needs to see it.

  I’ve only been wearing jeans again for the past few months but the still strange sensation of the denim against my skin isn’t the reason it crawls. Former cult members have broken her tombstone before. Others have come to venerate her. To some, she’s a cold-blooded killer in the same vein as Abram. To others, she’s a misunderstood martyr, who sacrificed herself to save Abram.

  Never mind that I’m sure he’s the one who shot her.

  And in my heart and in my mind, he shot her because she had realized what was happening. She had snapped out of her Abram-induced daze and she tried to save us.

  I’ll never know.

  Abram is in jail and he hasn’t admitted to murdering her.

  I crouched down so that I’m eye-level with her tombstone, the one Luke chose while I was at the hospital. “Mama,” I start, unsure on what to say. To me, she’s still my mother. Despite everything. She’s still the one who taught me how to ride a bike and almost took me fishing one day.

  Despite the cemetery being almost empty so early in the morning, I still lower my voice to almost a whisper. “I’m moving onto campus tomorrow, Ma. I got in. I’m going to be a teacher like I said I would.”

  What I don’t tell her is how I’m not sure I’m ever going to be able to let go of the past. I don’t tell her that I’m so scared about having another dream crushed. I want to be as hopeful as I was when I woke up for that fishing trip, but the years spent on the compound keep me up at night.

  And when I manage to fall asleep, my nightmares often seem too real.

  The shots. The fire. The cries for help.

  The sound of my own scream as I jumped out of the burning house.

  I’m twenty and should be excited to live on campus, start fresh, and go after my goals after working so hard on my GED and taking those summer community college classes. And even though my time in the spotlight gave me more anxiety than anything else, it did get me a scholarship.

  And Hunter will be on campus. Hunter who visited me at the hospital every single day. Hunter who saved me from that burning house. Hunter who sometimes helps to keep the nightmares away.

  The wind picks up slightly. And my skin prickles. I slowly turn around. There’s a man who wasn’t there earlier leaning against a tree. He seems tall but he’s pretty far away and I can’t even see his hair color because he’s wearing a cap. My heart pounds and I stand up, checking my bag, but my phone isn’t there. I left it in the car. Of course. Both my uncle and brother would be telling me again that I need to take it with me. That it’s the purpose of having a cell phone. Adrenaline rushes through my body and I’m ready to sprint in the opposite direction.

  Maybe it’s Charlotte’s dad. But I have a restraining order against him.

  I squint. He appears to be watching me, but then he turns around and kneels by a grave, pulling weeds.

  My heart still beats way too fast, but it’s no longer thumping. I shake my head. Am I ever not going to freak out every time I catch a glimpse of someone I don’t know?

  “You’re going to be a wonderful teacher.” My mom’s voice resonates in my mind. She told me that before Abram, when I used to pretend the glasses we had were students, after she sold the two dolls I had and my stuffed animals—even Thunder, my favorite one. “You’re going to teach them the world.” I glance at her grave one more time, forcing myself to not stare at the man.

  I want to believe she’d be happy for me. I need to believe I can do this.

  The sky turns gray and I pick up the pace. Once at the parking lot, I spot my car and breathe easier. I slide in. My phone is on the console where I had left it. A Welcome to Campus, Bison package peeks out from my computer bag. I pluck it out and stare at it. My lips stretch into a tentative smile.

  I’m going to prove my stepdad wrong.

  I’m going to fix it.

  I’m going to move on.

  CHAPTER 2 – LACEY

  “Miss Simon? Miss Simon?”

  I open my eyes and groan. And it’s not one of those cute tiny groans no one hears except maybe the person next to you. Nope, it’s a loud one. My face feels like a heatwave has taken residence in my cheeks. I just groaned loudly in front of at least eighty other students in my Introduction to Child Psychology class. I may have snored too. Maybe they didn’t hear me.

  But the shushed laughter in the row behind me probably means they did.

  And I force myself not to slump in my seat.

  They can’t see my chest clenching and the thoughts swirling in my mind. If I manage to square my shoulders and not look down, I can still pretend I’m not failing at this entire college thing.

  When I first stepped on campus, I thought everything was going to work out. No more nightmares. No more doubts. I was going to make friends. I was going to get As and be on the Dean’s List. I was going to run into Hunter and I’d ask him out and everything would be perfect.

  After all, I did manage my community college classes. Granted I did take half of them online and the classes were much smaller, and I hadn’t yet uncovered all those forums about cults, but still...

  I was going to prove my stepdad wrong. He told me over and over that it was safer for me on the compound with them, that I shouldn’t chase my dreams outside of our group because I’d never succeed.

  He also told me I’d never fit in.

  “Miss Simon. We’re on page five.” My professor, Mr. Brashed, crosses his arms on his chest in that universal you’re in trouble move and I jolt back up.

  I thought if I sat in the front of the room I wouldn’t fall asleep again, but clearly I was wrong. Maybe it’s the smell of the whiteboard cleaner or the buzzing sound of the projector or the fact the AC must not be working well, because it feels too warm in this lecture hall. Whatever it is, I can’t keep my eyes open.

  “Do you care to answer the question?” he asks. And while he doesn’t sound smug, he does sound a bit upset. I’m tempted to tell him that he knows full well I was sleeping; hence, no, I do not really care to answer the question. But I’m already in enough trouble. Shit. Shit. Shit. I almost scream the word. That attitude and cursing would have earned me a week of cleaning the latrines on the compound. I squint, but there’s nothing written on the white board.

  “I’m not sure,” I reply and even my voice sounds sleepy. This isn’t good. It’s already the third time I fell asleep in his class. He shakes his head and steps away from me. The girl sitting next to me scribbles on her notebook and slides it between us. “Piaget—Primarily internal.”

  I remember reading the material last night, before spending hours in the I survived a cult forum, reading others’ experiences, obsessing over the fact that members are re-building my stepdad’s bone-chilling dream with him continuing to influence them from jail, but mostly searching for any information possible on my friend Noah. Searching for any information while being terrified about actually finding anything. It’s a thin line, this burning desire to know where he is and this unsettling need to focus on everything but him.

  When he got kicked out of the compound, I knew deep in my heart that it was my fault. Abram said he wouldn’t survive out in the real world without his protection, but he had to be wrong.

  “Miss Simon?” Mr. Brashed asks a
gain, and the girl next to me gives me a slight nudge.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, but Mr. Brashed is back in front of us. His gaze zeroes in on the notebook. My coffee is now cold but I gulp what’s left of it.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Thank you Miss Garcia.” He slides the notebook back to her, frowning so hard his eyebrows almost touch. “Indeed, for Piaget the development is primarily internal.” He continues the lecture and moves on to a different slide, talking for a few more minutes about the different theories before dismissing the class.

  I gather my papers quickly, but not quickly enough. “Miss Simon, wait a second.”

  I stop in my tracks. The room empties while he slowly gives instructions to a grad student, who was in class with us today, on how to prepare for the next lecture. Maybe I should be paying more attention so I can finally get ahead or actually catch up but all I can hear is the clock ticking. I can’t be late to my next class. After what seems like forever but is really only three minutes, he turns back to me. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but my class isn’t an extension of your dorm.” He taps the table next to him three times. “You’re here to learn.”

  “I’m sorry.” I look up and while his voice is strict, he narrows his eyes, like he’s trying to figure out how to best approach me. I’ve heard that students like him even though his grading is tough, because he’s usually fair. I’m crossing my fingers they’re right.

  “If you need help, you know we have people on campus who can help you. You can talk to your advisor, your RA, the Counseling Center.” He opens his mouth as if to add something but I cut him off.

  “Yes, thank you.” I swing my oversized bag on my shoulder. “I won’t let it happen again.”

  “Good, good.” He tilts his head to the side and I can tell he doesn’t believe me. I’m not sure I believe me either. But I don’t have time to dwell on that. I only have a few minutes to make it to English.

  I’ve been on campus for less than a month and I’m already failing.

  Maybe my stepfather was right. I don’t fit in.

  I jog up the stairs of the lecture hall, make my way through the sea of students gathering and chatting and laughing in the hallway, and storm out of the Psych building toward the English building. I pause, catching my breath. I turn to the path I usually take. It’s much longer. It can take me up to ten minutes to walk from one building to another, but it’s by one of the libraries and a coffee cart. And there are always people standing around or catching up or going to study. I turn the other way. The narrow alleyway. A shortcut. Almost always empty. Like today. There’s only a few students around. My muscles tense. If I don’t take the shortcut, I’ll be late. Again. I ignore the creepy feeling tingling down my spine. I can do this. I’m twenty-years-old. I’m not afraid. The bogeyman may have been real but he’s in jail.

  I count to three in my head and dash, ignoring the shadows reflecting on the walls, ignoring the stares of the two students who step out of my way, ignoring the thumping of my heart.

  No one is following me.

  It takes me less than five minutes to get to the open space. I put my hands on my knees and exhale before straightening back up with a smile on my face. I almost do a happy dance. It feels like a small victory. And I’ll take all the victories I can. And I might still make it on time to my Intro to Shakespeare class if I sprint. I swerve right and slam into a tree.

  “Woah!” The tree has a voice. A voice I’d recognize anywhere. A voice that stars in my dreams and saves me in my nightmares.

  “Hunter,” I whisper as I flail and stumble backwards. That victorious feeling was short-lived. I’m going to smack the floor and everyone will stare again. I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t. I brace myself for the impact, but his strong arm wraps around my waist. Saving me once more. And for a second I’m pressed flushed against him. He’s warm and comfortable and familiar...despite the fact I haven’t talked to him face-to-face since the day I left the hospital months ago. We exchanged thousands of text messages. And we did try to meet up during the summer, but then it never seemed to work; either he had to work or visit his mom and grandparents or I had a list of reasons why we couldn’t meet up. My sister had a soccer game, I had to cram for an exam, or I was simply too busy. I was busy with my GED, with my community college classes...with being afraid of getting hurt. But that I didn’t tell him. Instead, I gave him excuse after excuse, always pushing to see each other when class started and we were on the same campus.

  When classes started though, he wasn’t around.

  The campus isn’t all that big so I thought I’d see him everywhere. I may have looked for him everywhere. That dream of running into him and asking him out was pretty recurring, but I didn’t think it would happen literally. And I’m not asking him out. Why am I even thinking about this? My cheeks burn. How do you even ask someone out? Why isn’t it like in the movies or the books?

  Our gazes lock and the heatwave on my cheeks turns into burning lava. His brown eyes look at me like he’s been looking for me everywhere too. I glance down and then my stare gets stuck on his jaw. His strong jaw. “College isn’t like in the movies,” I mutter and then continue, because of course I do. “It really isn’t. I watched them and I dreamed how it would be. And I was wrong. I have class. I have to go.” I don’t take a breath. Words tumble out of my mouth. “People say you might get kicked out because of cheating on an exam last year.” And there we go. When I found out, I almost called him asking him why he didn’t tell me. I lick my lips and wring my hands, wanting to take back the words. “Shoot. I didn’t mean. I didn’t hear a lot. You know when I’m nervous, I babble. And I didn’t expect to see you here now. I did expect to see you on campus. And yes, I got your last text about meeting up, but then I didn’t see you. And then I wanted to reply. I didn’t know what to reply. Coffee does sound great. I really like coffee. I have to go. Shakespeare is waiting. I mean, not him. Because he’s long dead. But I have class. Thanks for not letting me fall on my ass. Bye.” But I don’t move. He lets go of me, but I still don’t move. My feet have grown roots and I’m never going to move again.

  The corner of his mouth lifts into that smile that was always the sign he was about to do his very best to find a way to make me laugh, and my heart flutters. Uninvited flutters but not unfamiliar flutters. Not around him. I inhale deeply to get a hold of my rambling. “I do have class. And I’m happy to see you.” Happy, ecstatic, confused. At least I would ace a vocabulary test.

  “I’m heading that way too. You have Mrs. Jackson, right?” He gently adjusts my bag back on my shoulder. His fingers barely touch me and yet it feels like my body is a volcano.

  “Yes.” We walk together toward the building as if we’d been hanging out every day since school started and that I had replied to his last text.

  “I have a meeting with the Assistant Dean. I can’t be late either. For Mrs. Jackson, she’s usually five minutes late starting the third or fourth week of classes. She rushes the first three weeks or so, but once there’s a rhythm, students always stay after class to ask her questions, and that means she usually runs a bit behind.” His chin juts towards the back of the hallway where room 103 is. “See? That’s your class, right?”

  I recognize a few faces. Some are talking to each other. Others are on their phones. I usually hide behind my screen. “That’s them.” I sigh. “I thought this was going to be easy. College was supposed to be like a dream or movie, but it’s really not.” I want to take the words back, but this time, it wasn’t my usual nervousness talking. When he was visiting me at the hospital, my nervousness was always quickly replaced with ease. And then our texts almost became like a diary. I’d share my thoughts and feelings with him. Almost all of my thoughts and feelings. But I guess he didn’t. That’s why he didn’t tell me about the plagiarism accusation. If that’s even true. I glance down.

  “You can do it. You got that GED. You took those online classes. You can do this.” He sounds so convinced and convincing. He’
s a few inches taller than me, and I look up, raising an eyebrow.

  “Whatever you’re seeing the Assistant Dean for, you got this too.” And then, because apparently today is the day I do things that make me blush, my lips brush his cheek. And instead of looking away, I’m staring at his grin, but then I step back. “No idea why I did this. I mean that’s always the way we said bye. At the hospital. A kiss on the cheek. Remember? You asked me the first time if it was okay? And then I said yes, and then we made it a habit. I think maybe it was because I cried. Or maybe because you talked about your dad. I don’t know. Anyways. Did I say anyways?” I take a small breath. “So maybe that’s why. Anyways, I have to go. I really do now. Because even though she seems to be late, she’s probably going to want to talk to me. I’m not doing great at school. Not great at all. Kind of suck, really. Anyways...bye.” I take a few steps.

  He chuckles. “Hey Lacey?”

  I turn around.

  “You got this,” he repeats and I smile, the pressure in my chest easing a little, even if I’m not entirely sure he’s right. One class at a time. I need to get back on track. I need to sleep.

  “Thanks,” I whisper. I’m not sure he hears me. I give him a little wave and rush to stand at the back of the line that formed in front of the classroom. Elena, my roommate, has this class too, but she comes from the Engineering building and isn’t here yet. I bet she’s not freaking out about being a few seconds late.

  I fish my cell out of my hoodie’s front pocket and reply to Hunter’s last text. The one he sent me four weeks ago asking if he could show me the best coffee spot on campus. I got scared. Scared that the connection we had built at the hospital was only based on him feeling like he needed to save me again. And maybe it is, but that can’t be the only reason, not with the way I feel around him, not with the way he always tries to make me laugh or always took the time to listen to me.