Far From Normal

by Becky Wallace

I can’t get enough air in my lungs. Black spots blot across my vision.

  Gabe must see my panic because his face softens. He pushes back his hood. “Oddio. It was an accident?”

  I take a deep breath in through my nose and blow it out through my mouth, trying to find some sort of center. “Em, remember how I rode your bike home on Friday? Well, I was a little out of practice, and I had Watford, and when he saw the sand soccer tournament and the ball bounced toward us—you know how he gets around soccer balls, so—”

  Gabe flinches like he just took a hard kick to the shins.

  “So Watford dove down the steps and pulled the bike with him and I crashed and …” I pause to pull up the hem of my skirt to show the bandage on my knee as if the evidence will save me. “And Gabe—or Gabriel, is it Gabriel?—stopped in the middle of his game—”

  “Wait.” Scott’s voice stops the flow of my verbal diarrhea. He points at Gabriel. “You were playing in the sand soccer tournament?”

  “I wasn’t alone. It was just for fun.” Suddenly, Gabe is defending himself in his native language, and shockingly, his agent is responding in Italian, although it’s slathered with a biscuits and gravy drawl. At least for the moment, I’m out of the hot seat.

  Emma catches my eye across the room and mouths, “Run while you can.”

  And I do.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  ONE OF THE INTERNS THAT I MET BRIEFLY ON FRIDAY, MARA, IS sitting at the front desk. She looks up as I rush past her, but I pretend not to see her raised eyebrows and half-open mouth as I swing open the secret door.

  I whip past William’s office and collapse into my cubicle chair. Elbows on desk. Head in hands. Questions ping around my brain like pinballs in the old arcade pizza place our family used to go to on Saturdays. What just happened? Ping. Gabriel Fortunato?!? Beep-boop. How could I possibly be so stupid? Pong. Also, what did he do to get into so much trouble since Friday? Brrrp. Game. Over.

  Aunt Emma told me to run, but my gut—and the last growly words from his agent—says that Gabe has dug himself a ditch too deep to climb out without help.

  My fingers fly over my keyboard as I log into Velocity’s creepy, stalkerish news-combing program and search his name. The nastiest gossip sites play a video of a glassy-eyed Gabe stumbling out of a club late Saturday night with his arm around the shoulders of a girl in a short, sparkly dress that shows off her killer legs.

  The words drunken brawl and contract violation scroll across my screen. I plug my earbuds into the laptop to hear the voice-over.

  “The Italian stallion’s management has been hush-hush about what actually happened in Mexico, but according to witnesses, MLS pretty boy Gabriel Fortunato escalated an argument to a shoving match, taking a punch to the chin. Ouch! Important side note for those not in the know: American laws prohibit nineteen-year-olds from hitting the clubs and boozing it up, so it looks like he spent some of his millions to charter a flight to a country where the laws are a little more lax. Not that silly things like laws have stopped this soccer hotshot in the past.”

  The footage cuts to a still photo of a bright red sports car—or at least what’s left of it. A telephone pole rests against what would have been the passenger seat. The roof is partially caved in, and the windshield is opaque with fractures. I stifle a gasp. How in the world did he survive that? How could anyone survive that?

  The gossip reporter continues:

  “The boozy brawl comes on the heels of last summer’s—yikes—car wreck after Italy’s failed attempt at taking the World Cup title. While Fortunato wasn’t charged with driving under the influence, he was slapped on the wrist with a ticket for excessive speed and reckless driving.”

  The next shot is of Gabe, shirt off, sunglasses on, smiling smugly at the camera while two women in bikinis drape themselves across him. Gag. What makes it worse is that it’s so posed and airbrushed and perfect that it looks like an advertisement. The voice-over fades to a buzz in the background as I lean a little closer to the screen, eyes squinted to see where Photoshop has done its magic.

  “Trust me. The real thing is better,” a voice behind me says.

  I bolt to my feet, forgetting the earbuds still attached to the laptop, which jerks off the edge of the desk. I manage to catch it before it plummets to a fiery death. My desk chair rolls backward into the open doorway. There Gabe stands in his hoodie-clad glory, gripping the chair’s high back and wearing an expression I can’t quite name. Confused amusement, maybe?

  “Getting caught looking at naughty pictures is a little embarrassing,” he says, head canting to the side with all sorts of arrogant condemnation.

  “It’s more embarrassing to pose for them,” I shoot back. Fold arms across chest, lean hip against desk, cross ankles. Assume self-congratulatory expression.

  His eyes widen in momentary surprise, but then that cocky grin spreads across his face like he knows I’m acting.

  Be cool. I’m so cool. I got this.

  “Look, what happened on Friday was totally an accident.” My throat burns with humiliation, but I manage to choke out the rest of the words. “Sorry I crashed into your game. I had no idea who you were, and I honestly don’t care.”

  Okay, that didn’t come out quite the way I meant it.

  “I know it was an accident. Even my most desperate fans haven’t gone that far yet.” A little laugh flavors his words. “And Emma—she’s your aunt, yes?—said that Watford is a very difficult animal sometimes.”

  “Great. Thanks for clearing that up.” Literally no gratitude in my voice. Now what? Why is he here? How did he find me?

  Wednesday panties, my brain so helpfully supplies. He remembered they said Wednesday.

  “Wait.” I look over my right shoulder toward the hidden door. “How did you find my cubicle?”

  Gabe leans back a little and gives a chin tilt to someone at the end of the row. And I realize that we have an audience. Because this day just keeps getting better. Mara gives him a timid wave, while the other two repeat interns—Javi and Arman—watch with undisguised glee. Katie looks like she’s going to burst because a tabloid-worthy scene is happening in our office. Where are the actual paparazzi when all the best stuff is going down?

  Mortification battles anger, and both emotions push me into action. I grab a random stack of paper off my desk. “Could you please move? I need to make some copies.”

  Confusion wrinkles the space between Gabe’s eyebrows. He doesn’t budge. “Okay …” He stuffs his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. His focus drops to the patterned carpet between his feet. “I actually came to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  He looks up at me through his eyelashes—an expression I’m sure he’s cultivated because he looks deceptively innocent. “I know what it’s like to be accused of something you didn’t do. And I’m sorry I called you a stalker.”

  “You didn’t.”

  He gives a full-bodied shrug and sheepish grin. “I thought it.”

  How am I supposed to respond to that? “Gee, thanks”? He must see the lack of acceptance on my face because the little dimples that bracket his mouth disappear. “I’m sorry if I caused you any embarrassment. That’s all.”

  “Oh.” I square the papers in my hand, ignoring the way my sweaty palms stick to them. “Well, thank you.”

  He signals for me to exit in front of him, and I do because, even though I don’t actually have anywhere to go, I’m not going to admit that now. The other interns have disappeared back into their cubicles, and William’s still shut in his office. Thank heavens.

  When I open the hidden door, Gabe catches and holds it like he’s some sort of gentleman in an old movie. It also means he’s right behind me. I murmur a quiet thanks over my shoulder and my eyes snag on his for a second. I almost trip as I step into the lobby.

  Then, I realize who’s standing at the front desk and stop so fast that Gabe steps on the back of my shoe. His hand is at my waist. Steadying me or him? I’
m not sure with his chest against my shoulder blades.

  Emma is leaning one forearm against the high front desk, face a thunderstorm as she listens to whatever Scott is hissing. The agent stops midsentence, and both heads swing our way.

  Scott takes a breath, then he lets it out without saying whatever thought was on his tongue. “I didn’t think you would still be here.” His words are soft, and his lips are pressed thin.

  “I’m on my way out.” Gabe’s hand drops from my side, or maybe it was already gone and I just now noticed.

  “With Maddie?” Emma manages to ask without any condemnation or concern in her tone, but there’s something brewing behind her eyes. She and my mom might have completely different personalities, but they share the same expressions, and this one is dangerous.

  “No. I was getting copies.” I look down at the papers in my hands—it’s a pamphlet for in-office pedicures with a picture of nasty, fungus-encrusted toenails on the front. Even better. “Unless you need something? Can I get you anything? Any of you? Emma? Mr… .” Oh my gosh I can’t remember his name. It’s totally floated out of my mind with the words spilling over my lips. “Scott?”

  “Actually …” Emma’s eyes are narrow, flitting from me to Gabe and back. “Why don’t you follow me back to the conference room. Both of you.”

  EMMA LEANS BACK IN HER CHAIR, ELBOWS RESTING ON THE WIDE armrests, stilettoed foot bouncing under the table. She’s wearing her poker face. It’s probably unreadable to other people, but I’ve spent the last five years playing Texas Hold’em with her after every holiday dinner. We had to relegate Max to dealer because he counts cards. My dad is a half-decent player and we’ve lost some big penny pots to him, but more often than not, I’ve ended up playing heads-up against Em. She’s not afraid to take a risk if the payoff is good enough, and I swear I can see her mentally tallying her chips.

  Scott has switched sides of the table, sitting directly across from Gabriel Fortunato. Something about the positioning makes me think that they’re presenting a united front. Team Emma/Scott is about to face off against Team Maddie/Gabe. I’m not sure how I’ve ended up on a team with Gabe, and I’m not certain that I like it. There’s no way he can be oblivious to the tension in the room—considering I can actually hear the seams in Scott’s suit straining against his frustration—but Gabe’s staring down into what must now be a lukewarm cup of coffee like he’ll find his future in its dregs.

  “Gabe, you’ve made it abundantly clear that you hate social media and don’t like to be coached, overseen, and …” Emma pauses, flipping closed the folder that’s in front of her with a snap. “What was it you said?”

  He looks up from his drink. “Minded.”

  “Right.” Emma pushes the folder across the table to me. “Would you be more amenable to participating in our efforts if say … Maddie … was your contact for this campaign?”

  “What?” Gabe asks, and Scott and I both echo.

  Emma holds up a manicured hand, stopping everyone before we can utter any complaints. “Give me a second to explain. The first phase of Reputation Recovery is to create a positive social media presence. I’ve laid out a plan.” She nods to the folder.

  I open the cover and look over the strategies my aunt has made to improve his public persona, which include a content calendar with video and photo ideas, suggested text for social media posts, and goodwill events he’ll be expected to attend. The first four weeks are laid out around his practice and game schedules, while the next few months are described in broader terms.

  Talk about building a brand. Emma’s got Gabe’s image pinned down like he’s one of the character sketches my mom does for her romance novels. In Emma’s version, he’s a regular guy doing a great job balancing talent, fame, and his personal life. She’s given him a very specific voice—pleasant and friendly—and a consistent feel, down to suggested filters to use on his Instagram feed.

  “This is amazing, Em.”

  She shrugs off my compliment. “It’s great in theory, but Gabe has to buy in to make it work.”

  He grumbles and slumps deeper into his chair. Scott’s face turns red, but he doesn’t call his client to heel.

  “I want it to feel more organic, more natural, and we really want to hit that eighteen to twenty-five demographic. If we let the two of you—who are representative of our target market—direct the content, then I think we may stand a better chance of achieving our goals.” She pats Scott on the arm reassuringly. “Nothing will post without my or William’s approval, but we’ll let you two handle some of the development.”

  I don’t mention that I’m not technically in the age bracket—I won’t be eighteen until November—because there’s a little bubble of excitement sitting at the back of my throat. Katie said that interns have to jump on opportunities to prove themselves, and I don’t think I’m going to get anything better than this.

  Em gives me a little smile. “I think you could be a good team. Maddie’s trying to get into a prestigious sports marketing program, so I know she’ll only bring her best work to the table. And Gabe doesn’t want to stay in MLS, so they both have reasons to deliver.”

  I can see Scott turning all of this over in his head, giant arms folded across his chest, chin stuck out. He doesn’t like it, but for some reason he’s considering it. Is it because he trusts Emma’s judgment or because he’s willing to try anything to get Gabe under control?

  “We’ve got about two weeks left in MLS’s break for the Gold Cup. We’ll use the first week to create content with a launch scheduled for next Monday,” Emma continues. “When the season starts back up, we’ll reevaluate or change direction as needed.”

  Two weeks doesn’t give me time to either make an impression or screw anything up too badly. Scott must be thinking the same thing because he relaxes his shoulders and his suit jacket sighs in relief.

  Gabe rests his elbows on the table, cup settled between his palms. The ring finger on his right hand taps against its side as he mulls it over. “All right.”

  His agreement obliterates my excitement, and the remnants sink to the bottom of my stomach. My brain runs through a hundred ways this could go wrong, but before I can voice any of my fears, Scott speaks.

  “This better work, Emma. If it doesn’t, I’m out and I’m taking all my clients with me.” He pushes back from the chair and stands. “You’re not getting any more chances, Gabe. Don’t screw this up.”

  And with that ultimatum he leaves.

  Em reacts as if Scott’s departure is no big deal. “Tomorrow we’ll get some footage of Gabe training with his team to start off our social media blast, then the two of you can get together later this week to hash out some ideas.” She passes a blank notepad across the table to Gabe. “Gabriel, we’ll need you to change your social media passwords to something we can access, and then I’ll walk you out.”

  He takes the pad and scribbles two quick lines before standing up to follow Emma to the lobby. “See you tomorrow, I guess.”

  Gabe gives me this sort of shy half-smile, and I’m reminded that he’s the kind of gorgeous that makes it hard to breathe.

  As they walk out, I pull the paper toward me. The first line is his phone number, and the second says, “All passwords will be changed to WEDNESDAY7.”

  Just kidding. Gabriel Fortunato is hideous.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  MARA’S STILL AT THE FRONT DESK WHEN I LEAVE THE CONFERence room, but now Katie has joined her. I can practically see questions brimming on their lips.

  “How come you guys are at the front desk?” I ask, hoping to change directions before they can drag me down the trail of what just happened. “Is Patty out sick or something?”

  “She’s on vacation for the week, so all of us interns will take turns filling in,” Katie says, handing me a calendar handwritten in bright pink. “Sorry, I probably should have mentioned that on Friday. We’ve got a schedule worked out, so that no one is stuck here all day.”

  Tw
o things stand out to me immediately: Katie and I are slotted for twice as many hours as the other three interns, which I guess makes sense, since we’re considered “general office interns” instead of being assigned to one of the senior executives. But I’m also scheduled to be on the desk for most of Tuesday.

  “Is there any way I can switch with someone? Something has come up for tomorrow.”

  Mara leans forward, eyes narrow. “Does that something have to do with Gabriel Fortunato?”

  “Girl, I’m so glad you asked.” Katie grabs Mara’s upper arm. “I have no idea who he is, but I’ve been dying—dying!—since he walked in. The accent. The cheekbones. Full swoon.”

  Besides a quick hello on Friday, I haven’t had any interaction with Mara. Everything I know about her came from one of Katie’s rumor-filled monologues. Apparently, Mara just finished her junior year at USC, really does have ridiculously shiny hair, spends her free time doing Brazilian jiujitsu, and she and William sort of had a thing last year. It fizzled out when he stayed at Velocity to start his career and she went back to school. Katie thinks there’s still some friction there and is waiting for something juicy to happen.

  Both girls watch me like vultures, expecting a delicious bit of gossip to be dropped in front of them.

  “I don’t really know him. I just … ran into him this one time on the beach.” Nicely understated, Mads. “We talked for a few minutes, but I had no idea who he was—still don’t, really—but we know of each other.”

  “And that was enough to prompt him to find your cubicle?” Mara asks, face disbelieving. “Because he seemed a little …”

  “Flirty,” Katie so helpfully supplies.

  “Oh no. Definitely not. He’s a client and it looks like I’ll be helping my aunt on his account a little bit just because we’ve already met and know of each other.” I literally could not sound more ridiculous. Just. Stop. Talking.

  Mara’s posture straightens, her hands dropping to the desktop. “You’re going to be working on the Fortunato account?”