Not the End (Not Alone Novellas Book 1)

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Losing Me

  A Word from GG’s Rec Room

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Also by Gianna Gabriela

  Not The Same

  Prologue

  Better With You

  Fighting For You

  Not the End

  Copyright © 2018 Gianna Gabriela

  ISBN: 978-1721822225

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, or by any other means, without written permission from the author. The only time passages may be used is for teasers, blog posts, articles, or reviews, so long as the work isn’t being wrongfully used.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events, and incidents portrayed are solely from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual places, people, events, or other incidents is coincidental or are used fictitiously.

  Editor: Lauren Dawes

  Proofreader: Brandi Kennedy

  Cover design & formatting by Lauren Dawes (Sly Fox Cover Designs).

  To all of you.

  Yes, all of you.

  All of you who are lost.

  All of you who have struggled.

  All of you who have suffered at the hands of others.

  All of you who have lost yourselves in the journey of life.

  All of you who look in the mirror and don’t recognize the person looking back at you.

  Search for yourself.

  Find yourself.

  Love yourself.

  It’s not too late.

  It never is

  .

  Prologue

  I know this emotion too well.

  I’ve known Jake since elementary school. I remember seeing him sitting at a lunch table on his own, and feeling sorry for him, I left my own table to join him. I remember the look on his face when he saw that he wasn’t alone anymore. I remember asking my mom to pack me a second set of chocolate chip cookies because he really liked them—he loved them, actually—and I wanted to make him happy.

  In middle school, things changed. He started being noticed by the other girls. He was growing into a man; he captured other peoples’ attention with his shaggy blond locks and baby blue eyes. I remember the first time he moved up in the social ladder. I was sitting at our usual table, waiting for him to arrive so we could go about switching and trading whatever lunch our parents had packed for us that day. Apple slices for carrots. Chocolate chip cookies for raisin ones. It had become our thing. I saw him enter through the cafeteria doors and my heart immediately began to beat faster. It always happened when Jake was around. I watched him walk in my direction, watched him smile when he noticed me. He was closing the distance between us when Janice Walcott got in his way—when she got in our way.

  From that moment on, our table wasn’t cool enough for him anymore. It stopped being our table. It was just mine. He sat with Janice and her friends. Eventually, her friends became their friends and my Jake became her Jacob. It wasn’t until a few months ago that he first approached me again. The rumor was that Janice had cheated on him, so he ended it. The halls were reeling with the news that Mills High’s power couple had split. Guys were lining up to ask Janice out, and girls had never really stopped trying to get their claws into Jacob when Janice wasn’t watching.

  “Hey.” That was what he said after joining me at my table again for the first time in years—the first time someone else had sat at my table with me. That was all I needed him to say for us to return to the place we were at before everything…before Janice.

  For three months he sat with me every day. Three weeks ago he asked me to prom.

  I said yes.

  “You look so pretty,” my momma says the moment she sees me coming down the stairs.

  “Oh mom, it’s your job to say that,” I tell her as I reach the final step.

  “It is, but it’s true. You’re going to be the prettiest girl at the ball.”

  “It’s Junior Prom, mom, not A Cinderella Story,” I tell her, though it might as well be one.

  I still can’t believe Jake asked me out. Not even in my dreams would a guy like him look my way, especially with all the other girls pining over him. I can’t believe he chose me.

  “When’s your date coming?” Momma asks, the camera already hanging from her neck, ready to take photos of her baby girl.

  “I’m meeting him there,” I answer. Her mouth opens with what I know will be a follow up question, and I brace myself to give an answer she won’t be thrilled with.

  “Isn’t it tradition for the guy to pick up the girl? Or am I stuck in the past?”

  I shrug. “They still do that, but he had something important to do today so he asked me to meet him there.” She looks at me skeptically, but I assure her, “It’ll be okay, mom. I’ll just drive myself.”

  “I can drive you if you want.”

  “I think that may be worse than showing up on my own.” I say, laughing as my mother joins me at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Bummer! I won’t be getting pictures of you both together.”

  I run my fingers through my hair, making sure it’s smooth enough. “I’ll make sure I get you a copy of the one we take when we walk in.”

  “Okay, but in the meantime, I won’t let this camera go to waste. Go ahead, strike some poses, Dimah.”

  I decide to give my mother what she wants and pretend to be a runway model. Today, I’m feeling confident. Which makes perfect sense, because when the hottest guy—a senior football player—asks you to accompany him to prom, you can’t help but get some pep in your step. Little old me, the envy of all the other girls.

  A few dozen photographs later, I give my mom a kiss goodbye and head to my car. The rules are simple: no drinking, no driving, and no sex. But we all know what happens at prom, and if Jake asks, I’m not sure I’ll say no. Who could say no to a tall, muscular, handsome man with baby blue eyes and blonde locks like Jake’s? Certainly no one else would. So why should I?

  Driving to Mills High takes a few minutes and after parking my car in the student lot, I give myself a once-over in the mirror. Looking back at me is the most basic girl you’ve ever seen: brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin—nothing special. But I guess I must be somewhat special to get a boy like Jake to look my way, don’t I? I reapply my lipstick, open the door, and get out.

  1

  I, too, have lost me many times before.

  FOUR MONTHS LATER

  “What’s a pretty girl like you doing smoking that shit?” a voice says from behind me. I roll my eyes. Maybe if I ignore it, it’ll just go away.

  “You know you don’t have to ignore me, Emerson,” the voice continues. I take another draw of the joint I bought off one of the jocks at the dance. I hold my breath, hold in the smoke, and wait until I have no choice but to let it out.

  “That shit’s bad for you,” he insists, interrupting my high.

  I finally turn to the owner of the judgmental voice, which belongs to the new quarterback of the football team. Lincoln. Aron Lincoln. “You’re saying you don’t smoke?”

  “Hell no,” he answers, disgusted.

  Of course he doesn’t. I mean, star football player—who parties like no other and is known for getting anything and anyone
he wants—doesn’t smoke. How poetic. “Great.” Another inhale. Hold. Release.

  “Why are you out here and not inside?” he says, finally approaching me.

  “I don’t like dancing,” I reply, hoping he sees that I’m not in the mood for whatever the hell this is.

  “There’s got to be more to it than that,” he presses, only mere inches from me now.

  “Why are you out here and not in there with the rest of your fans?” I let the judgment drip from my tongue. There’s no holding back tonight—at least not at this moment.

  “I don’t like dancing either,” he answers, his expression serious.

  I burst out laughing.

  “She smiles!” he says, laughing with me.

  The smile leaves my face almost immediately. “Don’t get used to it.” No one should get used to anything.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, raising his hands—palms out—to me. The proverbial white flag. “You okay, Emerson?”

  I drop the end of the joint to the floor and put it out with my foot. Bending over, I pick it up and toss it in the nearest trash can. “You keep doing that. You should stop,” I tell him.

  “Keep doing what?” he asks, his brows lifting as he leans against the nearby wall.

  “Keep saying my name like you know me. Like you talk to me every day.”

  “And that’s problematic because?”

  “Because you don’t…you don’t know me at all.” Not many people do.

  “Would it be terrible to start now?” he asks.

  “Yes.” And that’s the last thing I say as I walk away from the front door of the school and head toward the parking lot. I put my helmet on, mount my motorcycle, and turn the key. The engine comes to life with a roar. Kicking the peg, I accelerate and take off, leaving the night behind. No dance should have ended like this, but that’s just my luck.

  “How was the dance?” my mother asks as I walk in the door, sufficiently late enough to make her believe I stayed. If it wasn’t for her insistence, I wouldn’t have gone in the first place; in her defense, if she knew what I’d been through in the last few months, she wouldn’t have pushed me.

  “It was good,” I respond. I tell myself that I’m doing a good job keeping up the façade, but my mother must be living under a rock if she doesn’t realize it. I think she chalks it up to ‘discovering myself,’ which is how she’s justified my opting for a motorcycle instead of a car. How she’s justified my opting to go away for the entire summer instead of staying around the house. My losing weight. Wearing all black. Yup, apparently she thinks it’s all normal.

  “Good, sweetie. I’m glad you had fun,” she responds, watching me with tired eyes.

  I know she’s been working late shifts at the hospital, been on her feet for too long, working herself to the point of breaking. But I also know she loves her job. “Yeah, me too. I’m really tired though, so I’m going to head to bed,” I tell her.

  “There’s some food in the kitchen if you get hungry.”

  “Thanks, mom.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” I respond before taking the steps to my room two at a time. I open the door then shut it behind me. Kicking off my boots and then my jeans, I lie down on my bed, staring at the ceiling as the tears fall. I guess I just can’t keep them at bay anymore. I guess nothing has changed—even though everything has.

  Prom Night

  I walk the short distance to the main entrance for prom. Everyone around me is dressed so beautifully and for once, I feel like I fit in. For once, in the last two miserable years of high school, I feel like I’m going to have a good time. I’m finally going to make some friends. Finally going to have my first kiss.

  I enter the room with a giant smile lighting my face, the happiness I’m feeling seeping out. Jake said he’d meet me here. I take a look at my phone but find no incoming texts. No worries; he’s probably already inside.

  Walking by a few other people laughing and chatting about college and after-party plans, I head over to the photographer to have my junior prom photo taken—alone. But it’s okay; maybe I can take one with Jake later. I’m sure Mom would appreciate one with me alone and one with the two of us anyway.

  Jake and I.

  Jacob Hastings and Dimah Emerson.

  I smile at the sound of our names finally coming together.

  In awe of the beauty, I enter the elaborately decorated room the prom committee has spent weeks working on. All their stress and frustration in making this place look perfect worked because it looks like a dream, which is appropriate considering the theme of the night: Making Dreams Happen.

  “Deep breaths,” I whisper to myself as I walk around the dance floor, watching all the happy couples enjoying themselves. I keep walking, hoping to find Jake. Hoping to let my night begin. In the crowd, I finally find my knight in shining armor, wearing a traditional black tuxedo with a white shirt and black tie. His hair is the perfect balance of messy and put together. I can see his baby blue eyes even from this distance.

  Smiling to myself, I start walking toward him. He sees me, and a carefree smile softens his features.

  Butterflies are suddenly flapping wildly in my stomach, and I realize this is what dreams are made of. This is perfection. This is what the books talk about.

  I may not be Cinderella, but tonight I’m starting to feel like I’m finally getting my very own happily ever after.

  2

  But unlike you, I needed to find me to survive.

  Dimah is an Arabic word meaning ‘downpour’. I wish I was as strong as the name my mother gave me. I wish I was responsible for a downpour. Instead, I feel closer to light rain—almost inaudible, causing no change. Barely even noticeable.

  Every morning, I wake up with the same utter lack of motivation. The same lack of desire to get changed and go to school. Instead, I wake up with the urge to escape, to run away—to hide. I can’t do that though. I won’t. I’m the only one here for my mom, and I don’t know what she’d do without me.

  I don’t want to be a burden so I get up, hit the shower, brush my teeth, then stare at my open closet. Blue, pink, green, yellow—the colors of my clothes pop out, but I ignore them all. Instead, as usual, I opt for ripped black jeans, combat boots, and a black sweatshirt. A black beanie covers my brown hair. Running downstairs, I find my mother already gone to work.

  On the table, there’s a plate of eggs and toast next to a sticky note that says, Don’t wait up for me today—18-hour shift. Love you, Dimah. – Mom.

  I finish my breakfast, get on my bike, and ride to school. Just three months until winter break; just nine until graduation. Then, I’ll have a new start. A new place. Everything gets left behind and it’ll be like high school never happened—like that day never happened.

  I park my bike in the usual spot, take off my helmet, and hang it over the side. I look at the place I initially thought would change my life for the better, realizing again how wrong I was. Taking a deep breath, I walk with my head down, eyes on my feet, headphones in my ears. Music helps to drown out the memories coming back to me in flashes as I put one foot determinedly in front of the next. I enter the main hallway, eyes still downcast, and only look up when I notice I’m about to run into someone. Glancing up, I see it’s the same guy who saw me outside yesterday—the same guy who almost saw me fall apart. My eyes linger longer than they should, enough time for him to give me a smile.

  “Hey,” he says.

  I study him, wondering what’s going through his mind, wondering what his sudden interest is in talking to me. He transferred here toward the end of last year, but not once has he said hello, not once has he given me the time of day—not even a smile. So why now?

  “Whatever bet you’ve made, give it up,” I answer, my voice low enough for only him to hear. I won’t do this. I take the right side of the hall and walk away. When I feel eyes on me, I turn briefly to find him staring at me. I don’t know what the deal is, but I’m sick of being t
he butt of the joke. I just wish people would let me fade into the shadows—where I belong.

  “Hey, Dim, why you gotta be so mopey?” someone asks. Not surprisingly, they don’t care to hear my response.

  “I mean, just because the guy hit it and quit it doesn’t mean you should be mad,” another guy adds, the voices merging into the background noise.

  “Man, she really changed over the summer,” a girl from my biology class murmurs as I walk by. Ignoring her, I make my way toward my usual table in the cafeteria, the one closest to the trashcan—where no one sits but me. Being the outcast has never been better.

  “She may be hiding under all that black, but she’s still the same girl she was last year,” adds another voice.

  “Whore,” one of Janice’s minions’ whispers.

  Not the most unique insult I’ve heard in the last couple of months. Not even close to the worst, either.

  “Seriously, unbelievable,” Janice—fucking Janice—says from the popular table. My fingers twitch at my side, my hands desperate to get a piece of her. My body desperate to defend myself.

  Dimah.

  Downpour.

  I wish I could draw from that strength and finally have the courage to stick up for myself.

  Instead, I cower like always. With my head down and my tray in hand, I walk to my table and sit. I look at my calendar, counting down the days; counting down to the weekend. The break. The End.