CHAPTER FOUR GABRIELLE
CHAPTER FOUR
G AbrIELLE
I gather our plates and the empty pizza box off the table, making a mental note to tell Cricket that the boys ate every single crumb.
The news that Alden still doesn’t offer recycling to the community blows my mind. The waste management company dropped off our refuse containers earlier in the day, and the poor man appeared mind-boggled when I asked about the bin for recyclables. I’m pretty certain no one has ever requested one before.
Carter’s footsteps tap against the floor above the kitchen. He wanted the smaller of the two rooms upstairs. He’s convinced the proximity to the router will give him better ping for his video games. Whatever that means. Occasionally, a laugh will trickle through the thin walls and make its way to my ears. I stop in my tracks and appreciate the sound every time I even think I hear him.
I turn toward the sink as Dylan enters the room. He barely acknowledges me with a grunt. Already in his pajama pants and no shirt, he pads his way across the room.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, dropping the plates into the sink. I try not to look at him like he’s a wounded badger, even though that’s exactly his vibe. “What are you up to?”
“Getting food.”
I drop the pizza box in the trash. “Did you not get enough at dinner?”
“I did. But I’m hungry again.”
He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. He simply opens the refrigerator and peers inside. I’m not sure he’d acknowledge my existence if I hadn’t spoken to him first.
“We don’t have much to eat,” I say. “I haven’t had a chance to go to the store.”
The door shuts with more force than necessary. I start to say something—to remind him not to be so hard on our things—but think better of it. This isn’t a battle I really want to fight tonight.
“Do we have anything in the pantry?” He spins around and faces me for the first time. “Do we even have a pantry?”
“Yes. We have a pantry.” I point at the tall cabinet beside him. “Again, there’s not much in there.”
“Enough to even look?”
“I don’t know, Dylan. But it would probably be faster for you to take five seconds and have a gander rather than stand here and grill me over it.”
He narrows his eyes, letting them rake over me as he turns away.
“Did you have fun with Kyle?” I ask as he rummages through the few boxes of crackers and cookies we brought from Boston. “You didn’t really say much when you got home.”
“It was fine.”
“Carter seemed to enjoy himself.”
“Well, Carter is seven. Of course he enjoyed himself. He got to hang out with older kids at the rec center.” The pantry door smacks shut. “Must be nice to have that kind of freedom at seven. I barely have it at fourteen.”
I set my jaw in place and remind myself he’s doing this on purpose. He’s poking and prodding, trying to rile me up to prove a point. Reacting won’t help.
“You don’t have anything to say to that?” he asks, lifting a brow.
“I have a lot of things to say to that, Dylan. But I don’t have the energy to rehash a topic we’ve gone over a million times.”
“You mean that you don’t trust me.”
“Dylan . . .”
I look at my son and silently plead with him to stop.
He’s not this kid—this argumentative, sometimes hateful, rule-bending person I’ve lived with over the last year. If he were, I would know. I’ve known him since before he walked this planet.
I know the sound of his breath while he sleeps, the ticklish spot just behind his right knee, and that beneath his hair are two crowns at the top of his head. There are twenty-seven freckles across his nose and a birthmark resembling chocolate milk on his left inner thigh. He likes to build things and take things apart. He hates needles and apples. And somewhere, buried under a lot of anger and frustration, is a little boy who misses his father.
“Trust is earned,” I say carefully. “And you helped your case today by going out with Kyle and coming home on time, not giving him any trouble, and being a good sport about Carter tagging along.”
“You didn’t give me a lot of choice.”
I sigh. “I wanted you to meet people. You’ll be going to school with those kids on Monday. Won’t it be easier if you recognize some of the faces?”
“It would’ve been easier to stay in school in Boston. So if that’s what you’re worried about, you’ve already screwed me over.”
“Dylan ...” I call after him, but he’s on the stairs before I can get his name out.
“Damn you, Christopher,” I say, letting the licks of anger stemming from my ex-husband’s death burn for a moment.
Chris and I divorced three years ago, when Carter was four and Dylan eleven. Our mutual friends said we had the most amicable divorce they’d ever seen. We tried to explain that we didn’t fall out of love—our love just changed. Instead of being spouses, we were more like friends.
“We’ll still do life together. We’ll just do it from different houses.” Christopher smiles at me with the same goofy grin Dylan used to wear. “You deserve a lover, someone to appreciate all the wild goodness you have to offer. This doesn’t mean I don’t love you, Gabs. It just means that there’s someone else out there who can love you better. And I love you enough to want that for you.”
Tears fill my eyes as I fight back a surge of emotion. I miss him so much too.
“You were supposed to be here,” I whisper to the empty room. “You were supposed to help me with this.”
I look at the ceiling through the fluid clouding my vision and fight to regain composure.
“Mom! My ping is, like, two thousand, and I’m getting killed before I can even render in!” Carter shouts from upstairs. “My ping was two at home! This isn’t fair!”
His little voice makes me smile, even though my heart pulls that he still calls Boston “home . ” Of course he does. Give him some time. I wipe my eyes with my hands and clear my throat.
“Speak English, please!” I shout back.
“Our internet sucks!”
I smile. “I can’t help it.”
“I can’t live like this.”
“It’s a travesty, I know.”
His door closes. His steps are a bit heavier on the floor than they were earlier.
I take a breath and spot the old pancake advertisement my mother hung in her kitchen for decades, tacked to the wall above the baker’s rack. My apron, the one Christopher purchased for me the Christmas before he passed, hangs off a hook by the broom closet. The refrigerator holds magnets the boys made when they were younger. School pictures, handprints dipped in paint and laminated for eternity, and one sequined blob I’ve never entirely understood from Dylan’s first-grade year.
Part of me thought I should declutter as we packed up the Boston house. I took each magnet off the fridge, intending to throw them away. But those silly little trinkets help make our house a home. They’re a reminder of the continuity of our life together. And in a way, a reminder that there’s so much life left to live.
The house is suddenly too small. I’m too antsy.
A chilly blast of air smacks me in the face as I step gingerly onto the back deck. I sit on the porch swing and pull my knees to my chest, balancing my bare feet off the edge. I can hear Carter playing his game—and his frustrations with the ping—as I move gently back and forth.
My attention shifts across the lawn and lands on the lit window at Jay’s house. A shadow crosses the pane—a shadow big enough to be him.
Jay.
Goose bumps dot my skin at the memory of his calloused hands against my body. The decadence of his smirk drifts through my mind like a warm, lazy river. The way his gaze penetrated me makes me shiver. Too bad that was all that got penetrated.
“Hey.” Cricket steps onto the porch, tugging her cardigan closer to her body. “Sorry if I startled you. Dylan let me in.”
“He wasn’t sneaking out, was he?”
She laughs, sitting next to me. “No. He wasn’t sneaking out. He had a box of crackers in his hand.”
“He’s very irritated that we don’t have snacks yet.”
“I can’t blame him. I’d be irritable, too, if I couldn’t snack.”
I bump her shoulder with mine.
She laughs. “Kyle said they had a good time at the rec center. He said Carter was the life of the party and that Dylan got off to a slow start but wound up making a few friends. That’s good news.”
“Kyle is my new favorite person in the world.”
“He’s a good boy. Now, what are you doing out here all by yourself? It’s so chilly,” she says, burrowing into her cardigan again. “Aren’t you cold?”
“A little bit. I just needed some fresh air.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I sigh, gazing at the stars.
There’s something different about sitting on the deck at night and conversing with someone instead of doing it over the phone. Taking up space next to her and being honest and vulnerable is such a blessing. It’s validating and freeing, and for once, I’m not alone.
“I’ve spent the last year at a standstill,” I say, the words flowing easily. “Christopher’s car accident threw all of us for a loop, and I’d like to say that I’ve spent the months since making sure the boys are okay. But if I’m being honest, I’ve had to grieve too.”
Cricket touches my leg. “Of course you have, honey. I’d know you were lying if you said otherwise.”
I look at my cousin and smile softly. “I told Della today I wanted to have fun again. But it’s more than that. I want to feel alive again. You can have a fun night or weekend—and I want those too. But I also want to walk through my everyday life and feel like ... me .”
“This makes me happy to hear.”
“It does?”
“Yeah. It does.” She pushes off and starts us swinging again. “I hoped coming home would give you some room to breathe again. You’ve had a lot on your plate.”
You’re telling me.
For the last thirteen months, I’ve spent every waking hour keeping a careful eye on the boys. I had to sort out Christopher’s estate since he left everything to me for safekeeping for the kids. And that, on top of watching out for the boys’ emotional well-being, has consumed me. Drowned me. It’s all depleted me in so many ways.
“Yeah, you’re not wrong,” I say. “I’ve spent much of my energy and spirit on other people, not that I’d have it any other way.” I drop my gaze to my feet. “But I’m ready to climb out of the trenches and live my life again. But ... ”
Cricket rubs her hands together and then blows into them.
“It’s not that cold,” I say, shaking my head.
“Maybe not for you.” She repeats the action and then drops her palms onto her lap. “Do you want me to give you permission?”
“Permission? For what?”
“You’ve spent this whole conversation trying to convince one of us, if not both, that you deserve to get back out there again.”
Oof.
“Gabby, it’s your life . You don’t need anyone’s confirmation or approval to live it however you want. And if Christopher were here, he’d say the very same thing.”
Even though she’s wrong—I wasn’t seeking her approval for anything—her words touch my heart.
“Thank you,” I say, fighting a lump in my throat.
Her eyes sparkle. “You’re very welcome. Now, can we go inside? Because I’m turning into a sheet of ice out here.”
“Wear a coat next time,” I say as we get to our feet.
But just before she steps into the kitchen, she pauses by the railing.
“What happened here?” she asks, her brows pulled taut.
My gaze flips to Jay’s house just as the light goes off.
The story is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite back the words before they can pass my lips.
Maybe it’s a story for another time. Maybe it’s a story I keep to myself. Either way, I don’t want to share it. Not yet.
I gesture for her to go inside. “Oh, nothing. It just broke this afternoon. I’m going to fix it tomorrow.”
“I’ll get the first aid kit ready.”
“Hey!”
We laugh as the door shuts behind us.
“I’m going to head home,” she says, continuing through the kitchen to the front door. “I just wanted to check on you. And I didn’t want to hear another thing about golf. Peter is on this golf kick, and it’s driving me batty.”
“Well, thanks for coming by. I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She stops on the threshold. “Tomorrow is the first Saturday of the month.”
“Okay . . .”
“Della, our friend Scottie, and I all get together on the first Saturday of the month. We have cocktails at one of our houses at seven. This month, we’re at Della’s. So if I don’t see you before then, I’ll see you there.”
“What if I can’t come?”
She laughs and makes her way down the sidewalk. “You can come, or I’ll come get you. You only have to go across the street. No excuses.”
It’s very matter-of-fact—a simple explanation to a question she deems a joke. Even though people demanding my time usually make me want to push back, this time, it feels nice.
“I’ll see you there,” I say just before she’s too far down the street to hear me.
Before I close the door, I glance to my left. I hope the darkness conceals my wide eyes at Jay’s shirtless figure across the way.
My gaze follows the lines of muscle down his back. The security light overhead illuminates him. He grabs something from the cab of his vehicle and then heads back to the house. But just as he reaches the garage, he looks my way.
His steps stutter. My heart skips a beat.
I wait for him to say hello or smile. Instead, I only get a half wave, half salute before he disappears into the garage.
“Men,” I mutter, shutting the door behind me.