Epic Lies (Epic Fail Book 2)

by Trudy Stiles

  Giselle

  Past

  Age 17

  “IT’S UNIMAGINABLE what we have to do today.” The priest’s voice booms throughout the church, jarring me from my trance. My mother’s sobs begin again, and my father places his hand over hers and grabs mine with his free one. His warm grip soothes me but causes my mother to cry even louder. “Shhh,” he whispers.

  For the past few weeks, we’ve been on a death watch since my aunt and uncle told us that they agreed to allow all treatments to stop. My mother argued with them. How could they allow their daughter to just give up? Why would they support this? My aunt Joyce is my mother’s older sister by fifteen months. They’ve always been close, and I’ve honestly never seen them argue about anything, until recently. Until Lara decided she couldn’t fight any longer.

  I look up and see Father Ken bow his head. Intermittent sniffles fill the room. My cheeks are soaked from my own tears.

  Lara’s casket sits alone in front of the altar, adorned with flowers and a giant cross made from woven light yellow roses. Her favorite flower and color. Light blonde, like her beautiful hair.

  “Lara Grace Tierney was a young girl full of life, her soul filled with love. She gave so much of herself in her short time here on Earth.” He pauses and looks up toward the pews, his eyes scanning the crowd. He nods and makes eye contact with a group of teenagers in the congregation. They look to be about my age, so I assume they were in Lara’s class. A mix of boys and girls, all sniffling and wiping tears from their eyes. “She was active in our parish, her voice filling this very room every Sunday morning during our services.” I remember coming here for Lara’s confirmation, and she sang several hymns during the service. Her voice was haunting, yet beautiful. My mother said that she had the voice of an angel. I think it was something more beautiful than what I would imagine an angel’s voice to be, light and airy. Hers was more wistful and brooding. Her soul spoke to me through her melody and tone. I can practically hear it again.

  I see her bright eyes, always smiling. Although we lived over an hour from each other, we spent a lot of time together. Our families shared a beach house every summer until I was fourteen, except when Lara was eight and spent most of that summer at Children’s Hospital, fighting leukemia for the first time. It was a long, two-year battle. I used to hear my parents talking about this dreadful disease back then. I also remember them swabbing my mouth and drawing my blood, taking samples to see if I was a compatible donor to help save her life. I wasn’t. They were never able to find a matching donor, and they eventually transplanted her own bone marrow, heavily radiated, back into her body. She was eventually declared to be in remission, but cautioned that they had to follow her closely for many more years. She remained cancer free for a while, but then it came back with a vengeance. Five months ago, she was feeling unusually tired, and her legs began to ache, her arms were covered in bruises she didn’t know how she received. She confided in me that she thought something was wrong, but she didn’t tell her parents right away. They found tumors throughout her body, all inoperable. Aggressive chemotherapy would only prolong her life, not cure her.

  She had more important things to do, she said. She was in love and planned to show her boyfriend, Daxton, just how much she loved him. I quickly look around. I wonder if he’s here? I wouldn’t even know what he looked like, since we never met.

  She didn’t want to be sick, and she ignored many of the signs early on. Somehow, she knew what was happening. She swore to me when she finished chemotherapy when she was ten, that she never wanted to go through that again. Ever. It took its toll on her, physically and emotionally. It nearly destroyed her, and it broke my heart.

  Her parents got her involved in church. This church. They helped her find strength in religion, hoping it would give her a purpose for her future. Something to always fight for. She really tried, but she just knew. Somehow, she knew she wasn’t going to make it this time, and she wanted to go out on her own terms. She argued with her parents constantly, threatening to kill herself if they didn’t allow her to just die peacefully. After two months of fighting, she won the battle. Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jimmy prayed with her one night and promised her that they would respect her wishes to stop all treatment. We couldn’t believe it. Everyone was angry and devastated. We all tried to convince her to change her mind. She couldn’t be swayed, and she begged me to help her make everyone understand. I couldn’t. My parents, especially my mother, wouldn’t listen to me. She said that Lara was too young to give up. She needed to fight for herself and her family. As much as I wanted to agree with my mother, I know that Lara would have fought if she could. She just knew it was the end.

  I close my eyes, warm, fresh tears streaming down my face and listen to Father Ken continue his eulogy.

  “Lara will be missed, the void already felt within our church, among all of you, her family, and friends. But her soul is now eternal, her voice filling heaven with its luster and beauty. Her birthday was this week and now we celebrate the birth of her soul in Heaven. August twenty-fourth, a day when she blessed her parents with life sixteen years ago. And now she’s blessed with eternal life. Please bow your heads and pray with me.” Father Ken pauses, and I lower my head. Through my tears, I see my hand in my father’s and realize my Uncle Jimmy will never hold Lara’s again. I squeeze my dad’s hand tightly, and he returns the gesture, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Maybe he’s thinking the same, holding onto me for dear life, never wanting to let me go.

  Father Ken’s prayer concludes, and he asks us all to stand. He walks over to her casket and places his hands on it, saying a final prayer. Music fills the church as he makes his way down the aisle with the altar servers behind him. He stops briefly in front of my aunt and uncle and bows his head, closing his eyes in silent prayer. Aunt Joyce sobs loudly while Uncle Jimmy holds onto her tightly.

  She’s at peace. This is what she wanted.

  As much as I repeat this mantra in my head, it doesn’t sink in. I still can’t believe it. My best friend, my cousin twin, is gone. She’s gone forever. The weight of her decision rests heavily on my chest, in my own conscience. I helped her. I gave her validation in her conviction to give up. Jesus, I practically told her to give up if that’s what she really wanted. What the fuck was I thinking?

  Panic fills my chest, and I rip my hand from my father’s, running from the pew. I cut off the priest, who’s only halfway down the aisle, and run through the vestibule out into the hot summer air. I’m gasping for breath and unable to fill my lungs as quickly as they need. My sobs turn into heaving, and I gag, suddenly puking all over the beautiful rose bushes under a stained glass window. Shit. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand as I look up to see the Virgin Mother Mary, looking down on me from the stained glass, arms spread wide, eyes sad. I just puked on her flowers, her shrine. Shit.

  The doors open, and several boys walk out. I shrink against the wall, hiding, and hold my breath, thorns from the rose bushes digging into my shins and calves. Warm blood trickles down my bare legs.

  “Dude, are you okay?” one of the boys asks another, placing his hand on his shoulder while two others run toward a waiting car at the curb.

  “No, I’m not fucking okay,” he says and shrugs off his friend. “Give me a minute, will you?” His friend reluctantly walks down the steps toward the car without saying another word.

  Pain grabs me in my gut again, and I bend over, giving in to the nausea. I lose control and puke the entire contents of my breakfast and last night’s dinner on top of what I did before. Tears and vomit spew from me, and I can’t stop any of it. My head is pounding, and I attempt to drop to my knees but get caught in more thorns that tear at my skin.

  Once this round of vomiting subsides, I hear a voice next to me. “Whoa.”

  I look up and see the boy who was standing on the stairs a few seconds before. All I want to be is invisible, and I close my eyes. My mouth is dry and pasty, so I wipe it again, hoping there aren’t a
ny visible chunks. He looks around quickly and then takes off his t-shirt. What the hell is he doing? He’s dressed in layers, so a long sleeved henley shirt remains behind. Man, he must be sweating wearing all of those clothes.

  He reaches out toward me and begins to wipe puke, spit, and tears from my face with his clean t-shirt. I’m beyond embarrassed at this point, but thankful. He’s intent on cleaning my face and arms as his eyes move lower. “Holy shit, you’re bleeding.” Concern sweeps over his face, and I look down. My skirt is torn in multiple places, and blood is streaming down my legs from the vicious scratches I have from the beautiful yellow and red roses beneath the Virgin Mary window. What the hell is happening?

  “I–I’m o-okay,” I stammer.

  “I don’t think you are,” he says and drops his dirty shirt. Before I know it, he scoops me from the thorny prison and places me gingerly on the patch of grass next to the church stairs. “Can I get you anything?” His concern is evident, and my chest warms with embarrassment.

  “No, you’ve done enough.” That came out all wrong.

  His face drops, and he turns toward the pavement. “You can keep the shirt,” he says as he walks toward the waiting car.

  “Thank you,” I say, nearly inaudibly.

  I pull my knees up to my chest and place my head on them, not caring that I’m wearing a skirt. I’m nauseous again and inhale deeply, trying to stop the next wave of vomit from spewing all over these holy grounds. Guilt continues to rip through me as I think of Lara and that I told her that all of this was okay. What was I thinking?

  “Giselle?” My mother’s voice is above me. “Oh my God, honey, what happened?” My father is on his knees in front of me with the puke-covered t-shirt, wiping the blood from my legs. I look up, and my mother gasps. “There’s blood everywhere!” she screams at my father as he begins to wipe my face. Blood stains the shirt, and I realize I put my forehead on my torn-up knees. I must look like death.

  “I’m okay.” I attempt to swipe my father’s hand from my face because I can smell my vomit on the shirt he’s trying to use to clean me.

  “The hell you are!” my mother yells and falls to the ground next to me, opening her purse. Fresh tissues fly out that she uses to clean my face and dab my knees and shins. “Giselle, what in God’s name happened to you?” Worry is evident, and I quickly try to explain.

  “I felt sick. I ran out here to get some fresh air and got caught in the rose bushes while I puked,” I state simply, calmly.

  My father laughs and shakes his head.

  “It’s not funny, Bob,” my mother chastises him, and soon she’s fighting back laughter and tears. I have tissues stuck to my legs where all of the blood was pooling. The warm sunlight engulfs me as I lean back and lie down on the grass as my parents’ awkward laughing subsides. Soon, their shoulders are on either side of mine, and they each grab a hand as they lie next to me.

  My mother squeezes my left hand tightly and says into the warm breeze, “I love you more than life, Giselle. Always remember that. Even if I don’t tell you every day. Please always remember.” She chokes on a sob.

  “I love you too, Mom,” I say and fresh tears coat my blood and puke-stained cheeks. I turn and look at my dad, grass tickling my cheek. “And you too, Dad.”

  He purses his lips and continues to look toward the sky. “Giselle, you’re our life. You’re everything to us.” His voice breaks, and I know he’s said it all. And I feel it.

  We lie here on the sloped hill in front of the church where my cousin’s life is being celebrated. The thorny stems mock me from behind us, pieces of my skin still attached to the beautiful rose bushes. The Virgin Mary watches over us with her sad and forgiving eyes.

  I take a deep breath, allowing calmness to sweep over my body. My parents’ hands loosen in my grip. The last time I was lying in grass, I was on a golf course after Troy took away my trust. My virtue. After he lied to me. Today, my parents are on either side of me, protecting me, telling me only truths. And I believe them.

  In this very moment, I’ve never felt so loved.

  Thank you, Lara.

  Dax

  Present

  GISELLE SITS ACROSS from me, blinking rapidly. When I got here a few minutes ago, the hostess pointed to the table the guys took over–right next to her. My life saver. I can’t believe she’s here. The coincidence floors me, I’m completely shocked.

  My question still hangs in the air between us, so I ask it again, “How do I know you?”

  I can see in her eyes that she knows what I’m talking about. There’s something so familiar about her, she must feel the same way. She’s studying my face and shaking her head slowly.

  “I don’t know,” she says softly.

  I sit back in the booth and stare, making her visibly uncomfortable. She’s shifting in her seat and tapping her fingers on the table. “I’m sorry, but ever since last week, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that I know you. That we’ve met before.” Maybe she’s been to one of our shows? “Have you ever seen us play live?” I ask.

  “Nice pick up line,” her friend says, returning to the table.

  “Giselle saved my life, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out how I know her,” I say to Mia but hold Giselle’s gaze.

  Mia grabs her purse from next to me. “I’ll be over there,” she says, pointing to the bar. The bartender she was speaking to earlier waves back at her, and she giggles.

  Giselle shakes her head and takes a long sip from her martini. “So,” she says, uncomfortably.

  “Want to join us? Since your friend left you all alone?” I gesture toward our table that’s only a few feet from hers. The guys are all settling in, and drinks are being delivered. Her eyes widen. “Or maybe I can just stay here, with you?” What am I doing?

  She takes another sip and swallows hard, her throat moving up and down. “Sure.”

  “Dax!” Garrett calls for me. He’s already annoyed.

  “Can’t you see I’m enjoying an appetizer with my friend?” The pretzels are gone, an empty plate between us. Giselle turns and flashes a tentative smile toward the band.

  He shakes his head, and Tristan pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, G. Dax has the set list memorized. We got this.” He smiles, and I chuckle.

  “If you need to go, I totally understand,” she says to me.

  “Nah, it’s okay. We’ve been rehearsing all week. Besides, nobody even knows we’re here.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “We’re kind of doing a surprise show. Our manager booked us under a different name because we didn’t want this place to turn into a zoo. This will be the first time we’re playing any songs from our upcoming album, you know, rehearsing for our tour.” She nods and takes another sip from her now almost empty martini. The waitress arrives at the exact moment she places her glass gingerly back on the table.

  “Another lemon drop?” she asks Giselle.

  “Sure.”

  “Your dinner should be out shortly.” She looks over at Mia who’s made herself completely comfortable at the bar. “I’ll bring her salad to her over there.”

  “Would you like anything?” she asks me.

  “I’ll have whatever she’s having,” I say and nod toward Giselle.

  “So, a lemon drop martini and a buffalo chicken sandwich for you, as well?” she asks, scribbling on the pad in front of her.

  “Exactly,” I say. I don’t drink martinis, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.

  Garrett approaches us, dragging a chair with him. He turns it around, straddling it, and leans on the table. “Hey, I’m Garrett,” he says, extending a hand to Giselle. What’s he up to?

  She shakes his hand tentatively.

  “Sorry about that before. We’re just a little unprepared for tonight, I think. We aren’t the jerks that we seem.” I raise my eyebrow and cough.

  “Nobody thinks we’re jerks, G. You on the other hand…” I laugh.

  �
�So, Tristan tells me you saved our boy last week?”

  “I don’t think I saved his life. I mean, I just let him sit in my car during the storm.”

  “And then his bike got plowed over by a speeding fire truck. So, that’s saving his life, in my book.” He smiles, and it seems like his nerves are finally under control.

  Giselle looks embarrassed.

  “So, what brings you here tonight? How did you know we were going to be here?” he asks.

  She glances toward the bar, “We didn’t know. At least, I don’t think we did.”

  Garrett looks at her curiously.

  “It’s nice to meet you. Anyone who saves a buddy of mine is all right by me. Are you staying for the show?” he asks.

  “I’m not sure what our plans are. I think Mia had a few places in mind for tonight, but it looks like she isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.” Mia’s giggles drift through the bar.

  “Well, you should stay. But fair warning, we might be a little messy and disorganized.” Garrett slaps the table and pushes himself away, dragging the chair back to sit with the guys.

  Our new drinks are placed in front of us, and I realize how much I don’t want a martini. “Can you bring me a pint of the Stone IPA?”

  “Sure,” the waitress says, leaving both drinks in front of Giselle.

  “Lemon drops aren’t your thing?” She laughs.

  “Not exactly.”

  She brings the glass to her mouth, her tongue darting out, licking the sugar from the rim. God. I could watch her do that all day.

  The waitress is back with my beer, and I gulp half of it down in one sip.

  “Nervous?” Giselle asks.

  “No, thirsty,” I lie.

  Yes, I’m nervous. Sitting across from her, mesmerized by her, I’m way out of my comfort zone.

  Our sandwiches are placed under our noses, and my stomach growls loudly. “And apparently, I’m hungry, too.”

  She laughs and quickly bites a French fry in half. “Oh, this is so good,” she says and squeezes a heap of ketchup onto her plate.