Devil Side

by Lacey Dailey

  “So you just left?” I put pressure on the gas pedal, getting us back up to speed so we don’t get run off the highway five minutes into our trip. “Your parents have no idea where you are?”

  “Not a clue. I’m going to call Renzo and let him know I’m safe. Otherwise, I blocked my parent’s numbers and turned off Find My iPhone so they can’t track me down.”

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the girl who sat next to me in a sticky booth, the one who was solemn yet accepting, isn’t the same girl sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat of my car.

  Gia’s wrapping strands of hair around her pointer finger, talking casually about the way she cut her family from her life as if it’s a regular ole’ Tuesday.

  If ambivalence and I weren’t intimate friends, I wouldn’t be able to see the appearance it’s making in her eyes and subtle gestures.

  She’s nervous. The only direction her life has taken was rerouted with a meat tenderizer. Now she’s riding shotgun in a ten-year-old sports car with a wannabe musician and a guitar.

  “I’m proud of you, Gia.” The pink that dots her cheeks confirms those words were exactly what she needed to hear.

  “Thank you, Max.” She frees her hair, flicking her hand in my direction. “Enough about me. I’ve got all summer to figure out a new plan. Let’s talk about you.”

  Let’s not.

  “We can talk about you. I don’t mind.”

  “Do not think I have forgotten about all the beans I spilled in that diner and the beans you still have in your can. It’s your turn.”

  “Trust me, Gia. It’s better if my beans stayed in the can.” The thought of them anywhere but the can sends me spiraling.

  I can’t spiral.

  Not with her around.

  “Come on, Max. That’s no fun.”

  “Why do you think spilling my beans will be a fun experience?”

  “Because.” I take my eyes off the road to glance at her. She’s staring at me, and she’s smirking. “I think the amount of beans you have to spill isn’t as big as you think.”

  Ah, shit. She’s cute.

  She’s also naive.

  And wrong—very, very wrong.

  “Baby, we’ve been through this. My beans stink. They should really stay in the can. Got it?”

  Her cheeks redden. “Don’t think just because you call me baby I’m going to agree with everything you say.”

  “My beans. My rules.”

  “It’s totally uncool of you to pressure me to unlock my gate when you refuse to even touch yours. Don’t you think this summer is going to get boring if all I do is talk about myself?

  “We aren’t exactly strangers, Gia.”

  “We aren’t exactly the greatest of friends either. You came at me for not talking much at family dinner, but it’s not like you attend very often or talk much when you do. I’m supposed to be your sister, and I don’t even know your middle name.”

  “You aren’t my sister.” I blurt it quickly—so quickly it comes off as rude.

  “Okay then.”

  “Shit, Gia. I’m sorry.” I risk a peek at her. She isn’t looking at me anymore. She’s staring out the windshield, watching the mile markers as we pass them. “That came out like I don’t have interest in getting to know you. I do.”

  I really, really do.

  “I just don’t like the word sister. Not for you.”

  “Why?” Her head turns, and even from the corner of my eye her curiosity is blatant.

  “Well, I’ve never had a sister before.” My hands flex against the steering wheel. I smirk. “I’m pretty positive you aren’t supposed to think about them scratching their itches at night between silk sheets and dim lighting.”

  “How’d you know I have silk sheets?”

  My throat runs drier than the Sahara desert. Swallowing is damn near impossible.

  Don’t think about Gia in her bed.

  Don’t think about Gia in her bed.

  Don’t think about Gia in her bed.

  I fan myself dramatically.

  Her laughter filters through the air in the car. “So, you can tell me about the wet dreams you have about me and my silk sheets but you can’t spill some beans?”

  “Alright, hold up.” I laugh. “I said nothing about wet dreams.”

  “It’s okay, Max.” She stretches across the console to pat my upper arm. “I’d have wet dreams about myself too.”

  I take one hand off the wheel, poking her in the cheek. “You are something else.”

  “So you’ve said.” Sitting back into her seat, she keeps her eyes trained on the side of my face. I write myself a mental note to have her drive every once in a while, so I can look at her too. “So, what's your middle name? Or is that too big of a bean to spill?”

  This is a bean I can give up. “Morgan.”

  “Maxwell Morgan Mitchell.” My full name is sweet on her lips, like chocolate sauce on vanilla ice cream. I store the sound next to the fantasy of her and those silk sheets.

  Fantasy and low-key flirting is as far as it goes.

  “Giovanna Maria Moretti.” I echo.

  “I like your name better.” She says. “Did your moms give that name to you when they adopted you? Or was that your birth name? I mean, obviously, they gave you the name Mitchell but what about the name Maxwell?”

  “Pass.”

  The leather squeaks under her movement. “Did you just… pass?”

  “Yep.”

  “You can’t pass!”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me! It’s a simple yes or no question.”

  “That was not a simple question, Gia. I already told you I wasn’t going to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Spill my beans.”

  “I didn’t realize that question was spilling your beans. I’m just trying to learn more about you.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” She straightens. “Why?! Because I just ditched my entire life to come on a road trip with some dude who could be the next road slasher!”

  “Road slasher?”

  “I told Benny you weren’t a serial killer. If you try to slice me up with a spatula, I’m going to be insanely pissed.”

  “Gia!” I bark a laugh. “I’m not going to slice you up with a spatula. What in the hell?”

  “Well, good.” She blows violently at an errant hair. “Because I’d fight back. I’ve taken self-defense classes.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  The car quiets. I watch her pick at the ends of her nails from the corner of my eye.

  “My favorite color is purple.” She says. “I really like french fries even though my mom yells at me for consuming too many carbs when I eat them. I sleep with my socks on. I used to be afraid of clowns. Now, I’m not afraid of anything except this trip.”

  She’s spilling her beans—spilling them in an attempt to make me feel comfortable enough to spill mine.

  It’s a cute effort.

  “Why are you afraid of this trip? I promise I won’t try to fillet you.”

  She dips her chin, smiling. “I trust you, Max. I’m afraid of this trip because there’s a lot riding on it. What if I never figure out what I’m supposed to do?”

  “Should I turn around?” We haven’t been driving that long, and it’s not like I have a strict schedule. If she isn’t ready, I would never force her.

  “No. I need to do this. I need to figure out if there’s a place for me in this world outside of City Hall.”

  “There is. I’ll help you find it.”

  “In the meantime, I get to be a groupie for an up-and-coming musician.”

  “I’ve never had a groupie before.” I wag my eyebrows. “Are you gonna wear a T-shirt with my face on it?”

  “Can it be purple?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “Can I take a picture holding your guitar?”

  “Fine, but if you drop Johnny and hurt him, don’t you dare laugh at me for cry
ing.”

  “Johnny?”

  “My guitar.”

  “After Johnny Cash?

  “Uhm, no. Depp, actually.”

  She throws a hand over her mouth, but it does nothing to muffle her laughter. “You named your guitar after Captain Jack Sparrow?”

  “So what?” I chuckle. “He’s a cool dude, and I was twelve.”

  “You’ve had your guitar since you were twelve?” She angles her body so she can see in the backseat. Johnny’s back there, strapped in with a seatbelt, in the exact position I put him last night.

  His body is ruby red, practically shimmering beneath the sunlight coming in through the windshield. His neck is long, carved from mahogany. Sometimes, I press my nose to it when I’m playing, searching for that unique smell. Normally, I would keep Johnny in his case, but he’s safe in the car and too pretty to spend this entire trip locked up.

  “Wow. It still looks brand new.”

  “I treat Johnny very well. He’s my baby.”

  She turns back in her seat, adjusting the seatbelt so its back across her chest. “Are you self-taught?”

  “No. My moms put me in lessons.”

  “Oh, that’s cool. Did you always like music?”

  It’s not that simple.

  Not that question, or the one she asked about my name. Maybe the answers to them are simple, but the actual feelings the answers provoke are anything but simple.

  Nothing about my life or the way I handle it is simple.

  I search for the half of me that’s always waiting to emerge whenever my past gets brought up, no matter the capacity. I’m stunned to discover that half isn’t trying to break free. He’s hovering—listening and apparently unconcerned about me spilling some beans for Gia.

  “Actually, no. At first, it wasn’t exclusively guitar lessons. It was music in general. I wasn’t particularly interested when they signed me up, but it only took one lesson for an obsession to form.”

  “I wish I would've asked my parents to put me in something like that. Though they probably would’ve said no.”

  “I didn’t ask my moms, Gia. They just did it. I, uh…”

  Not every question has to be so hard, Max.

  “I didn’t speak for a long time after they adopted me. I mean, they knew I could talk. I just chose not to. I didn’t play with any toys or watch any TV. I didn’t have any friends. School was especially hard because I didn’t actually start until the foster care system got ahold of me. I was seven when I started, so homework was difficult and something I avoided. Most of the time, I’d sit in my bedroom and stare at the wall. Putting me in music lessons was their attempt to get me to express myself.”

  “Well, it worked.” She offers me a smile, not at all making me feel uncomfortable over what I just revealed. “Now, you have Johnny and a heavenly singing voice.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know how that happened.” I breathe a laugh. “I just opened my mouth and one hell of a sound came out.”

  “Maybe it’s because you’re one hell of a guy.”

  “Gia Maria! Are you flirting with me?”

  “Oh, shut up!” She shoves my shoulder, not giving a shit it’s connected to the hand that's steering the car. “If either of us is the flirt, it’s you.”

  “Guilty as charged. You know how much I love scratching my itches.”

  “Well, for the rest of the summer, you can scratch your itches in the shower.”

  A laugh so violent wracks my chest, I choke on it. When she winks at me, my chuckles turn into coughs, and I have to wipe at the wetness forming in the corners of my eyes.

  I think maybe I was expecting her to sit in the car and fiddle with her phone the whole time, or read a book, or plug in a pair of headphones and fall asleep.

  I sure as hell wasn’t expecting her to buy every single package of licorice the gas station had on their shelves and feed them to me as I drove down the road. I wasn’t expecting her to beg me to go through a drive-thru so she could buy five large cartons of french fries. I wasn’t expecting her to laugh at all of my corny jokes, and I wasn’t expecting to love every second of it.

  When we’re sitting in bumper to bumper traffic, I ask her why she chose me to guide her toward freedom. She just shrugs and mumbles shyly—something about how I make her feel warm and safe. When I grip her shoulder and prompt her to look at me, she says it again.

  I make her feel safe.

  I make her feel like she can craft her own choices.

  My presence feels calming she tells me. Like she can relax. Like she doesn’t have to play the part of Gigi Moretti, future governor. She says she doesn’t need to hear about my beans in order to understand I’m an incredible friend.

  I think she does.

  So I spill one for her. Just a little one. Because she asked and for some reason, denying her anything twists me up inside.

  “My name has always been Maxwell. Maxwell Aiden Royce.”

  6

  Gigi

  "Max, open your mouth! I want to see if I can toss a Cheeto inside.”

  "One second, baby." He flashes me a quick smile as the car rolls to a stop. "There's a lot of traffic. The last thing we need is to get into an accident because I'm distracted by a hot Italian babe tossing cheese puffs into my mouth."

  "Well.” I flip my hair playfully. “Now, you get two cheese puffs just for calling me hot.”

  "Uh, yes. I love cheese puffs. How many do I get for calling you a sexy little vixen?"

  A burst of giggles stir in my stomach as the car inches forward and then stops again. We've been in bumper to bumper traffic for over an hour. I'm on the brink of losing my mind.

  Max is a fucking cucumber.

  The amount of times we’ve been cut off validates the middle fingers I keep pressing to the glass of my window and the F-bombs I’m dropping like I'm trying to blow up the highway. Max just snickers, shaking his head like dangerous, inconsiderate drivers don't even bother him.

  Maybe they don't. Maybe he's a robot incapable of feeling a healthy dose of road rage.

  "Are you a robot?" I blurt, shoving more cheesy goodness in my mouth.

  "Yes." He blinks at me. "I'm a robot."

  "I figured."

  "How'd you find out my secret?"

  “Because you're the calmest driver in the history of calm drivers."

  "I'm a robot because I don't flip people off?"

  "You're a robot because we've been riding this truck's ass for over an hour in this damn traffic and you look like you still have every ounce of your patience.”

  "Well, getting angry isn't going to magically open up the highway."

  "Yeah, but it might make you feel better." I lick at my cheesy fingers.

  “I don’t like being angry.”

  “Yes. I’ve noticed. Can I ask why?”

  “No.”

  I laugh around a mouthful of puffy Cheetos.

  Throughout the last day, I’ve been teasing him about his beans, poking at him to reveal tiny secrets. It’s all in good fun. I’ve memorized most of his mannerisms by now—recognizing the tightness in his forehead and the way he fidgets when he’s uncomfortable with a question.

  I change the subject immediately and indefinitely.

  I won’t coerce him back into a memory that troubles him. As much as I want to know Maxwell Mitchell, I won’t harass him into opening up to me.

  “One day, Gia, you’re going to regret trying to get me to spill my beans.”

  "Babe, I'm just teasing you. You don't have to spill any beans."

  His face beams with the endearment.

  Babe.

  If there’s one thing Max and I excel at, it’s flirting with each other. It’s a dangerous game I’m playing—surrendering my smiles to a musician with enough secrets to fill the ocean.

  I’m not sorry.

  Conversations with Max are effortless, even when he doesn’t talk back. He doesn’t do girlfriends, and I won’t let him scratch any itches but I will be his friend.
His best friend even, because though we haven’t known one another for long, he sees me.

  And he’s fine with who he sees—no adjustments or modifications needed.

  “Gia Maria, you are not just teasing.”

  I feed him a cheese puff. “I want to know you, Max, but our friendship is not determined by whether or not you spill some beans. I don’t need to know anything you don’t want me to.”

  “What exactly are your questions?” He munches on his snack, horrified of the question I haven’t asked yet.

  I start with something easy.

  “How come we only have the summer for this trip? I thought you wanted music to be your life?”

  “Are you suggesting we spend the rest of our lives eating Cheetos and french fries in my car?”

  “Don’t forget about the licorice.” I point a Cheeto at him. “It’s my favorite.”

  “Your favorite.” He nods, expression tender. “I’ll remember that.”

  We inch forward only to stop less than a second later. Our drive from Durham to Chicago should’ve only taken us twelve hours. Between the traffic, the number of snack stops we’ve made, and crashing in the car at a rest stop last night, we are well over twelve hours. The GPS stuck to Max’s dashboard is now telling us we will arrive in four hours.

  I call bullshit.

  “My moms are throwing themselves a huge anniversary party in the middle of September. I promised I’d be back for it.”

  “Are you performing?” While my lips ask the question, my brain begins to calculate the number of weeks I have to figure my shit out before September appears and Max dumps me off in front of City Hall.

  “Nah. I just get to be their son.”

  Eighteen. I have eighteen weeks to get it together.

  Just over four months.

  “Then what? Back on the road?”

  “I’m not really sure. That’d be ideal, but I guess I have to see how this trip goes first. I already told you my gig in Chicago is the only one I actually have lined up.”

  “Who do I call to get you some more?”

  “Damn, baby. You went from groupie to manager overnight.”

  “A groupie isn’t as useful as a manager.”

  “They can be.” He shoots me wink, earning himself a smack in the gut as the car finally starts moving.