Chapter Thirty-Two
Aubrey
The first piece of cooking advice Nana ever gave me was to always use a bigger mixing bowl than you think you’ll need. As I got older, I began applying that advice to life.
Give yourself more time than you think you’ll need. More space. More patience. More rest. No sense in creating a mess of things by trying to force it when giving yourself a little more of what you need from the start could avoid the headache.
And if you didn’t have a bigger bowl, it probably meant you needed to cut the recipe or whatever else you were trying to manage in half.
This morning at the arena, when Gabe’s promoter friend came out of the back room and told us an Olympic coach had offered Gabe a job, I realized I’d used too small a bowl for my feelings.
After New Year’s, I’d thought I could contain those feelings to the same volume they’d been in high school—more of the idea of love than anything tangible or sticky.
But this recipe was far more complex than any I’d contemplated back then. Here I was with my feelings overflowing the rim, dripping down the sides and pooling on the counter, because not only was Gabe not able to fight in the tournament—he was probably leaving again. For good.
None of it should have shocked me. Even before he got hurt, there was always a chance he’d lose the tournament. A chance he’d need to find an opportunity somewhere else.
It was one of the reasons what we’d been doing felt safe. Because he was always going to leave, the way he always had. Here for short bursts, then off on another boxing adventure, doing what he loved. He wouldn’t be leaving me; he’d just be leaving.
Yet as soon as Diego had said it, I’d turned to Evan and seen the same overflow of emotions in his eyes he no doubt saw in mine. Our hope bursting and hearts breaking.
Because deep down, even if Gabe couldn’t fight, we’d still hoped he would stay.
Back at my apartment, I skimmed through my streaming services, trying to find something that would hold my scattered attention enough to keep me from checking my phone every thirty seconds. It was almost seven, and I’d heard nothing from Gabe.
Diego had said he’d gone to the hospital, but there’d been no text. No call. No word about his shoulder or mention of the job. No form of communication at all since his message the day before saying he wanted to be alone.
Was he okay? In shock? Devastated about the gym? Ecstatic about the job offer? Bleeding out in a dark alley after being mugged on the street?
I could text him and ask. See if he wanted to talk.
But what if that made it worse? What if he felt like I was hovering and making this about me instead of giving him the space he needed?
He knew where I was if he wanted me. Had known he could reach out since way before New Year’s, and I hadn’t had to chase him down for it to happen. No point in that changing just because we’d slept together.
Something snagged in my chest, and I slammed whatever door tried to open firmly shut. There’d be no thinking about what might have been or revisiting memories and wishing for more. No feeling bad for myself when this was what I’d signed up for from the start—casual and temporary.
I abandoned the streaming services and sprawled across my couch, clicking into my email on my phone. I paused when I spotted the new sous-chef application in my inbox.
It was the worker from the Froyo shop. Mackenzie Bishop.
Not only did she—or rather they—actually apply, but their experience was solid.
They didn’t have a lot of it, still fairly new out of culinary school, but that they’d been to culinary school at all was a pleasant surprise, and in some ways, the lack of experience was better.
Made them a fresher slate, still willing to learn.
I hit send on my reply to schedule an interview as a knock came at my door. My neighbor must have gotten more of my mail. That, or my landlord wanted to inform me about upcoming building maintenance.
I pulled out my hair tie and combed my fingers through the strands in an attempt to look presentable in my pink pineapple pajama pants. Not that anyone would judge me for them on a Sunday evening, but I also wasn’t wearing a bra, and I didn’t know how obvious that was through this shirt.
Except it wasn’t my landlord I saw through the peephole. My pulse skidded as I swung the door open.
Gabe filled the doorway, his hunched shoulders making him seem smaller than usual. Defeated. Like someone had punctured him with a thumbtack, and all his air had seeped out.
My heart thumped faster as I stepped aside. “Do you want to come in?”
He drank me in with his darkened gaze before nodding, his silence following him across the threshold like a presence I wished I could lock out. It loomed behind us as we made our way to the living room.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked, no longer able to stand it. “Water? Have you eaten?”
“At the hospital,” he said, his voice a low rasp.
It folded around me the way I wanted to wrap my arms around him.
“I meant to text you while I was there, but my phone died. I guess I forgot to charge it last night.” He sounded as beaten as his body must have been. Too drained to feel much of anything.
“It’s okay,” I said as I sat, focusing on the fact that he was here. That mattered most to me right now.
He dropped to the opposite cushion like he could no longer carry his weight, his elbows crashing to his knees.
I thought back to the last time we sat on this couch, the night I asked him to have sex with me. My nerves had been a living thing under my skin, warring with my desire, and he’d comforted them both. Allowed me to feel them fully. Eased me into asking for what I wanted.
It was my turn to comfort him.
“Is your shoulder okay?”
He stared at the vase of tulips on my coffee table. I wasn’t sure he actually saw them.
“They’re recommending surgery,” he finally said. “Not right away. Coach Dotson has a guy he’s going to put me in touch with. A shoulder specialist he says is good.”
“Coach Dotson is who drove you to the hospital? The Olympic coach?” I ignored the wooden skewer lodged in my chest.
He nodded, still looking at the flowers. That I couldn’t see his eyes bothered me as much as his silence had.
“I heard he offered you a job.” No point avoiding it. My pitch was shaky, but it came out neutral enough.
“Full-time assistant coach. I’d work with him in the central office. Help oversee training camps and selections.”
I swallowed. “The central office…is in Colorado?” That was where the selection camp had been.
He nodded.
“That’s an incredible opportunity, right?”
His brows rose in disbelief, as if words alone couldn’t describe it. “It’s a dream job.”
The ache in my chest caught in my throat, making it harder to breathe. I’d already known what this job meant for him, but hearing the words made it worse. Made it real. Enough that my heart cracked at the confirmation of what else I’d known since Diego stepped out of the arena’s back room.
This was goodbye.
Not just an end to whatever the past two months had been but an end to having Gabe physically in my life.
To seeing him at game nights and grabbing coffee on the museum steps.
To being able to hug him when I needed and taking comfort in the familiar fresh scent of his deodorant mixed with the salty musk of his sweat.
Yet I couldn’t not be happy for him. Happy something good had come from all this pain.
Except he didn’t sound excited.
He blew out a long breath and buried his head in his hands. “What does it mean if I don’t think I deserve it?”
My heart broke more at the doubt in his voice, at the jagged notes of confusion and weariness. “It means you gave all of yourself to something that didn’t work out, and that defeat makes it hard for you to accept how amazing you are.”
He scoffed. “I’m not. Just ask Evan.”
“What happened between you two yesterday?”
Gabe kept his eyes on the floor, like he didn’t want to look at me while he remembered. “We both said some things…some that needed to be said. A lot I wish I hadn’t.”
My curiosity swelled like a tidal wave, a hundred questions circling my mind, but I bit my tongue and focused on him.
“I don’t know how I got here,” he said, grief scraping the words from his chest. “It’s like I stepped into the ring at High Hitter two years ago and was knocked into another life.
Some alternate universe where nothing makes sense.
And each time I try to get back to a place I recognize, something else happens that smacks me sideways and takes me further from where I’m meant to be. ”
I knew that off-kilter sensation. Like being tossed in a dryer set to high. Some days, I was still trying to regain my balance.
He shook his head. “This job wasn’t the plan. It wasn’t even a possibility. I was never supposed to be an Olympic coach, so how do I say yes when it never should have been?”
“Because things that shouldn’t be happen all the time. Cancer. Car accidents. Natural disasters. The kind too unlikely to believe. Saying yes to the good things is how we keep living.”
“I haven’t done a good job of that lately.”
“You haven’t stopped trying either.” Sometimes trying looked like training for a boxing tournament. Sometimes it was simply replying to a text.
It all counted. Even when it didn’t work out the way you hoped.
“I’m sorry about your gym,” I said softly, wishing I had better comfort to offer. “I know how much you wanted it.”
He stared blankly at the tulips. “I wanted to fix things with Evan too. Earn back his trust. I thought…” His mouth pulled tight. “I don’t know. I thought maybe I could fix it with the gym. But I don’t know what happens to that now.”
The longing in his voice was almost too much to bear. “Evan will be happy for you.”
He scoffed harder this time.
“Hey.” I scooched closer and almost reached for his chin but stopped myself, unsure if I could still touch him like I would have before. If we were still us or had crossed over into whatever we became next. “Look at me.”
He tilted his head, his eyes finally meeting mine. Their stunning blue was clouded with uncertainty.
“Evan will be happy for you,” I said, tone firm.
I didn’t need to know what they’d said to each other to know it was true.
“Because even if he hated you, he’d still want you to be happy.
He knows how hard you’ve worked. How much you deserve this.
And you do deserve it. Just like you deserved to win High Hitter, and this tournament, and to have a gym of your own. You deserve a job doing what you love.”
His hand shot out for mine and squeezed tight.
I squeezed back, wanting to hang on to whatever piece of him I could.
“And you can still rebuild your relationship with Evan from Colorado. He might even be more open to it that way. You can call and text. Go back to regular video calls. Show him you still want to be there for him even if you can’t be here.
” My throat constricted on the last word.
“I’d be leaving you behind too,” he said softly. Too softly for me to identify the emotion in his voice.
Knowing him, he hated being the one to call things off. Hated having to say no to me when he’d tried so hard to always say yes. From the start, he’d wanted to go by my terms, and he would have wanted to end on them too. But it was what it was.
I forced a shaky smile. “It’s not like it’s goodbye. We’ll still be friends.”
He squeezed my hand again. “That’s what you want?”
My heart was being shoved through a garlic press. I couldn’t speak for a moment, my throat too clogged with words I wished I could say. Words like I want you. I love you. Stay.
Words I’d planned to say to him at one point but no longer would. The same words I’d wished to say more than once in my life.
To my parents, who wouldn’t have stayed no matter how hard I begged.
To Nana, who would have stayed if it was within her power not to grow old.
To Mrs. Hardt, who would have stayed for her husband and sons as much as for me.
Gabe would want to stay too, if only to give me what I wanted. But it wasn’t what he wanted, and I refused to put him in the position of having to let me down. Of thinking he wasn’t worthy of his dream because it might make me unhappy. As if my happiness meant more than his.
It didn’t. Not to me. And if he wouldn’t protect it, I would.
I met his eyes. “I want your dreams to come true.” He’d already given me more than one of mine.
His gaze softened, clinging to mine as his grip on my hand tightened. It almost looked like he was fighting against himself until something gave way, and he pulled me forward to capture my lips with his.
It was hard and consuming, a desperate kiss made of want and need, and I kissed him back like I’d die if I didn’t, my free hand finding his good shoulder to hold on to as my heart flew high and fast.
His kisses turned staggered, his mouth leaving then returning, as if he was still at war with himself.
“Can I?” he breathed between presses of his lips, his large hand cradling my cheek.
I couldn’t speak, my voice gone with my heart, so I clasped him tighter, my fingers twisting in the collar of his shirt, and nodded against his mouth. I wanted him to kiss me more than anything.
I wanted him to kiss me forever.
And if I couldn’t have that, I would at least have this. One last moment with him in this way. One more chance for my body to say what the rest of me wouldn’t.
I want you. I love you. Stay.
And then, I’d let him go.