Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set Gigi Blume (fantasy books to read .txt) 📖

close working relationship. Greg Wickham was my godfather. Practically family. I remember when Jorge first came to live with him. His mother had died and all of a sudden, Greg had a son. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I was happy to have another kid my age at Fourth of July picnics and pool parties. We’d hide and get into all sorts of mischief when we were young. Boy stuff. But then Greg died, and Jorge came to live with us. He became a brother I never had. I know that sounds lame, but that’s how I saw it. But there was always something off with him, like he wanted the world to feel sorry for him. So, he’d do stuff to get attention. At first, it was pretending to have a sore throat all the time or a belly ache. Then it turned into self-harm and petty theft. I get it. He didn’t have his parents. He was hurting. But my father did everything he could to make him feel welcome. When we grew up, Jorge became rebellious. He’d often leave for weeks at a time without telling anyone where he was going. I suspected drugs.

When my father passed away, Jorge inherited a small production house. None of us knew about it. It’s a long story, but basically, my stepmom took my dad for almost all his cash. No prenup. The production house was a fledgling project she didn't know about. It was all he could offer Jorge. But Jorge didn’t want it. Said it was an insult. He wanted money. So I made a deal with him. I bought the company with some of the earnings I had made from my first feature film. The rest of the money came from investors. Catherine De Bourgh is one of them. I paid Jorge a generous sum, and he took off. I didn’t see him for two years. But then he came back. Strapped for cash. Demanding more. He didn’t understand Dad lost everything in the divorce. He died penniless. The only thing he could leave for my sister and me was the house. Even that was in danger of foreclosing had I not had some success with my movies. The responsibility of caring for my home and my sister was left on my shoulders. I’m not complaining. I’d do it again. But I had nothing of my father’s left to offer Jorge.

I set the letter on my lap, trying to piece together Jorge’s story to compare it to Will’s. There were some parallels, but from completely polarizing points of view. Which one was an accurate depiction of the true facts? My head spun. I didn’t know what to think.

I was startled from my thoughts by the abrupt bang of my bedroom door. The thunderous entrance of Lydia and Holly flung it open. Had I forgotten to lock it?

“Just borrowing a suitcase. Okay?” Lydia was already rummaging through my closet. Holly offered me a silly grin as if to say crazy Lydia and then ran to my dresser when she noticed my collection of Fan Pop dolls.

“You have the limited edition Elphaba doll?” she exclaimed. “Wicked. Ha! No pun intended.”

She laughed at her little quip, turning over the dolls to read the edition number on the bottom. I did have an impressive collection. Jane wandered in and sat on my bed, watching the girls go through my belongings. No biggie. The party was now in my room. Lucky me.

“Can I borrow your sequined mini skirt?” Lydia was going through my dresser now.

“That was a costume from my twelve year old tap recital,” I replied.

She just shrugged and continued to search my drawers. Holly helped her.

“What are you reading?” Jane nodded to the letter on my lap, which I snatched up and held to my chest, so she couldn’t take a peek.

“Nothing,” I said, so not sounding suspicious. “Just some notes I made for myself. Acting notes.”

Her eyes narrowed. She was on to me.

“Carry on,” she said. “Don’t let us interrupt you.”

She slid off my bed and knelt on the floor to help Lydia with the suitcase. The girls pulled globs of clothes from the black trash bag Lydia kept in the corner of my room, along with tattered boxes filled with Lord knows what. This was the sum of her existence. A couple of trash bags and some boxes. But she was fine with this arrangement for the time being.

While the girls busied themselves with the job of selecting what items to pile in the suitcase, the letter burned into my palms. What was the truth? I could handle the truth. I couldn’t resist the pull of it. My eyes instinctively drew themselves to the letters on the page. I wiggled onto my side to turn my back on my friends and continued to read in silence.

One day, I found Jorge ransacking the house. He’d shoved some items in boxes. I really didn’t know what he took exactly—some valuable stuff, I guess. Some of Dad’s books and knickknacks from the study. I confronted him, and that’s when he lost it. He threw every insult imaginable in my direction. It had to be drugs. Why else would someone lash out like that on family? When he left that day, I thought I’d never see him again. It was both heartbreaking and a relief. It’s extremely difficult when someone you care for becomes someone you no longer recognize. But that’s what addiction does to people. I couldn’t let that touch my little sister. Unfortunately, I was too late.

I settled into my pillows, both enthralled at what I was to discover next and disappointed in my morbid curiosity. This was all too strange. Jorge didn’t seem like a drug addict to me. He was a hot surfer. Hot surfers don’t do drugs. Do they?

After the course of a few months, I noticed a long thread of text messages from Jorge on Georgia’s phone. Most of them stupid small talk like