22. Gabe
22 /
gabe
My heart shot into my throat as Brody bolted from the terminal. Every instinct screamed at me to run after him and fix this, but I was frozen—pinned by the shock on his face and raw anguish in his voice. His words echoed in my mind, each one twisting the knife I’d somehow driven into both our hearts. You made a bet? You bet about me?
Through sheer force of will, I finally got my legs to move, but Holky grabbed my arm as I lunged forward.
“Let him cool off, Gabe. He’ll be back soon, and you can?—”
“Fuck that!” I wrenched free, nearly tearing my jacket in the process.
“Gabe, listen. If you go after him now, he won’t?—”
“Shut the hell up.” I didn’t wait for a response. If I’d stood there one more second, I’d have exploded, and Holky didn’t deserve the fallout.
The sunlight outside was blinding, bouncing off the fresh snow in shards of white-hot brilliance. My pulse pounded in my ears as I scanned the area, but Brody was nowhere to be seen. It made no sense because he couldn’t have gotten too far yet.
Maybe he went around the building to the front.
I bolted toward the side of the terminal, skidding on a patch of ice, and loped down the sidewalk. But when I rounded the corner, he wasn’t there. I pushed forward to the adjacent parking lot, my breath coming in harsh puffs that matched the frantic beat of my heart. Still nothing.
The top of my head felt like it might blow off. He’s gone. He’s gone, and it’s my fault.
I yanked out my phone and dialed. Straight to voicemail. “Fuck!” Yelling a curse in the middle of the airport might be unorthodox, but it vented a tiny bit of my anxiety. I sent him a text, my fingers trembling so much I could barely type.
GABE: Where are you? Let’s please go home. I can explain everything, I promise. Everything I’ve ever said to you is 100% true. I love you.
The message delivered, but the screen remained dishearteningly blank. No typing bubbles, no reply. Shit. I sprinted toward the main terminal, barely feeling the cold as I shoved through the automatic doors and into the chaos of travelers hurrying to catch a plane.
He wasn’t there. Not in the lines, not at baggage claim, not outside by the taxi stand.
“Shit, shit, shit.” My breath caught when I saw the parking garage looming in the distance. If Brody had gone in there, he could be anywhere. It was a goddamn labyrinth.
I tried texting again.
GABE: Please talk to me, babe. I know you’re hurt, and I get it, but it’s not what you think. I’ve never lied to you.
No response. My stomach twisted into acid-drenched knots, and every second without hearing from him lasted an eternity.
Wondering if he went back to the private terminal, I texted Holky.
GABE: Did Brody come back? I’m down at the main terminal and haven’t found him anywhere.
HOLKY: He’s not here. A couple of the guys had to leave, but most of us are still waiting to see what happens. You okay?
GABE: No, I’m not fucking okay. Don’t let him leave if he comes back.
HOLKY: We won’t. Harpy’s asking if you want us to split up and help look for him.
Damn, why hadn’t I thought of that?
GABE: Yes. Any help you guys can give will be great. Let me know the minute anyone finds him. I’ll check the parking garage.
The enormous structure was a maze of dim concrete levels and stale exhaust fumes. I jogged through each row of the first level, my shoes slapping against the ground, my breaths echoing in the cavernous space. Every corner I turned, I half-expected to see him, slumped against a pillar or pacing between cars.
But he was nowhere. I got dizzy, so I braced myself against a wall and gasped for air. When my phone buzzed, I grabbed it like a lifeline.
HOLKY: Harpy divided everyone up and they’re out looking. We’re meeting back here in 30 minutes, no matter what. You be here too, okay?
GABE: Okay. Thanks.
Thirty minutes seemed like a lifetime. My hands shook as I typed out another message to Brody.
GABE: Please talk to me. Don’t shut me out.
After hitting send, I stared at the screen, waiting for it to show some sign of life. I leaned against the cold concrete wall, unable to hold back tears. Every muscle in my body was taut with worry, and I gave myself a minute to cry.
I had to find him. It killed me to think of him somewhere, wondering if what we had was real. Pushing off from the wall, I ran up the ramp to the second level of the garage, but as the moments dragged on, my heart sank deeper into despair. How would I fix this if I couldn’t talk to him?
No one found Brody. He answered no calls, replied to no texts, and left no clues about where he’d gone. The boys tried to rally me with empty assurances, but I barely heard them. After a while, I faced the truth: the only reasonable choice was to go home. I clung to the hope that Brody would be waiting there, cooled off and ready to hear me out.
Realizing he might have taken a cab, I gathered his luggage and loaded it into my car. The drive home was a blur, and as I pulled into the driveway, my eyes immediately went to Brody’s house. The windows were lifeless, uninviting voids. I sat for a moment, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ached, before forcing myself to get out. Maybe he was here, at my place. He could be sitting on the patio, the heaters glowing, waiting for me to get here and make everything right.
My hope evaporated as soon as I stepped inside. No one was out on the patio, and my house was suffocatingly silent. Not even the hum of the refrigerator could distract me from the emptiness. It had never felt this hollow and lonely in all the years I’d lived there.
I went to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water, then headed to the TV room to think. One of Brody’s shirts was on the armrest of the couch. I picked it up and held it close, and the faint smell of his cologne—leathery and masculine—hit me like a fist to the chest. I crumpled, sinking onto the couch and clutching the shirt as if it were Brody himself. My shoulders shook with sobs I couldn’t stop, the sound raw and broken in the silent room.
How had I hurt him like this? The thought was a dull, repetitive throb in my mind. He had been through so much, and I winced again at the idea of him out there, thinking I’d betrayed him. I knew his history and how deeply his scars ran. That I had become another wound, another reason for him to doubt his worth, was unbearable.
I cried until there was nothing left but the echoes of my own misery. Staring into the cold fireplace, I tried to will the flames into life. If I built a fire, would it ease the icy pit that used to be my stomach? The afternoon inched by, and eventually I had to use the bathroom. After washing my hands and splashing water on my face, I stared into the mirror. I looked twenty years older than I had this morning. Red-rimmed eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, and defeat etched into every line of my face told the story of my misery.
After a stop in my room to change clothes, I went to the living room and looked out the east-facing windows, which gave me the best view of his house. It was still dark over there.
“Fuck!” The word burst out of me, tearing through the silent room. I couldn’t just sit here. What if he was home, sitting in the shadows and spiraling the way I was? Snagging a jacket from the hook by the door, I stepped outside and shuddered as the wind cut through my coat.
His house was a three-minute walk away, but it felt like a mile. My heart pounded with every step until I was standing at his front door. I rang the bell and waited while Otto’s furious barks greeted me on the other side.
“Brody! Come on, babe. Let me in.”
Otto’s barks gave way to high-pitched whining, the way he always sounded when he was excited to see me. It nearly broke me all over again. Once more, I rang the doorbell. When there was still no answer, I knocked and called his name. Nothing.
Emma wouldn’t have come back after work, knowing Brody was returning today. That meant he’d surely be home soon. He wouldn’t leave Otto alone, especially since the dog might have finished all the food Emma had left out this morning.
My steps crunched in the snow as I made my way around the side of the house. The back gate was unlocked, and I slipped through, feeling like a stalker as I tiptoed toward the back door. The tall window next to it offered no answers; the kitchen was dark, with no signs of life.
“Brody!” I shouted, hammering on the door with the flat of my palm. The sound echoed across the frozen snow, but there was no response.
The walk back home was endless. The frigid air burned my lungs, and my tears froze on my cheeks.
When I got inside, I turned up the thermostat and reached for the bottle of scotch on the shelf. Halfway through uncorking it, I hesitated. If Brody showed up, I’d need to have all my wits about me. With nothing to do but wait, I put the bottle down and trudged to the TV room. My heart, heavy as a boulder, dragged me down onto the couch.
After a moment, I turned on ESPN and stared at the screen while my mind looped the same agonizing thoughts. Where are you, Brody? Please, God, let me fix this.