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“I’m…fuck. Yeah, of course whatever you need,” he coalesces far too easily.
“I want to do everything I can to ruin my parents’ fucking lives, and the best way to do that is to try and make sure they don’t get the money and power they so desperately want. Penelope helped me on Saturday night, but this money—the expectation and pressure the will is putting on her—it’s poisoning her. So, I’m going to try and ruin her and help her at the same time.”
24
GULLIVER
Ican hear Izzy talking to the guys, but I can’t focus on anything but the bruises on her face. Her parents hit her. Both of her parents physically struck her because of the stupid, childish lies I told. She told me this would cause her problems. She asked me, begged me, not to go through with this, not to mess with her life. But I ignored her pleas, and I did it anyway because I’m a selfish motherfucker, and because of that, she’s bruised and battered.
For two days she’s been hurt and alone in a tiny, fucking basic hotel room because her family forced her to be invisible, and yet I’m the asshole that pushed everyone over the edge and the reason she got beaten up. You see these girls on TV shows whose families abuse them, and it’s fucking awful, but you never think it might happen to someone you know.
We live in a world of excess, of privilege, and wealth. Abusive parents are supposed to be a poor people thing.
I want to go and hug her, to tell her I’m sorry and that I can fix this, but she’s not interested in my bullshit, and I don’t fucking blame her.
The girl sitting in the middle of the bed just straight up told me that I’m the reason she has two black eyes. I’m the reason why her beautiful, flawless face is bruised and swollen. I’m the motherfucking reason her lip is split and probably scarred.
All of this is my fucking fault, and she’s just calmly sitting on that stupid queen-size bed and explaining how she plans to piss her family off. Why isn’t she crying? Why isn’t she a fucking puddle on the floor that I can rescue?
“What can we do?” I ask, needing to find some way to start making this up to her. Nothing I do can ever compensate for this happening, but I’ll do whatever she needs me to do to try.
“I need you guys to help reintroduce me back into society again. I know everyone at school was talking about the engagement, but as soon as some new drama happens, they’ll forget about me unless I keep myself fresh in their minds. I need to be seen everywhere so everyone knows who I am and no one looks at me and assumes I’m my sister,” she says easily, still beautiful despite the state of her face.
“Easy,” Davis announces. “There are events and parties you can go to every night. Plus, you could ham up the engagement stuff; the future Mrs. Winslow is definitely worthy of the society pages.”
“You need to make a real entrance at school,” Thorn jumps in. “More than just Gulliver shouting your name. You need to become Elite.”
A small smile tips at the corner of her lips, but she winces slightly, and it falls from her face, making me feel like an even bigger asshole. “You need to move in with me,” I say, bringing the entire conversation crashing to a halt.
“What?” she cries. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. It’ll explain why you’re no longer living at your parents’ home, and it cements our engagement—we’re so in love that you’ve already moved in with me so we can plan the wedding,” I say confidently, flashing a pointed look at Kip, who quickly jumps onto the bandwagon.
“That actually makes sense. You guys can become the ‘it’ couple. You’ll arrive together, leave together, total hashtag couple goals,” he says, nodding.
“Hashtag couple goals?” Izzy says, cringing slightly.
“The fastest way to get you back on the social scene is with social media,” Thorn butts in.
“I’m not on social media,” Izzy says.
“What, not even Insta?” Davis says aghast.
“Not even Insta,” Izzy says with a small, amused laugh.
“Well, that needs to change. Where’s your cell?” Davis asks.
“I don’t actually know, but it doesn’t connect to the internet anyway,” she says, waving in the direction of her suitcase that’s open on the luggage stand.
All four of us turn to look at her. “What type of cell do you have?” Thorn asks slowly.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. The kind that makes calls; it’s vintage.”
“What, like an old iPhone?”
“No, like an old Nokia.”
Thorn darts to her case and starts rooting through it. “What the fuck?” he asks, waving a massive cell phone in the air. “How old is this thing? It has buttons, for fuck’s sake.”
