Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Mia
Mom watched me as I read Gabe’s text. It was a treat to have her here with me, visiting, if inconvenient.
But I’d taken the next day off, a Tuesday, switching my schedule to work on the weekend instead.
She sat across the table from me, sipping her wine, and I felt her eyes on me like a security blanket, comforting and warm, like she wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.
He was coming over. After the initial jolt of excitement and pleasure, guilt intruded replaced by nerves.
I had no idea if his coming over was a good thing or bad thing.
I knew I wanted him. More than anything. I had no idea if I could handle him, whether I’d regret getting involved. But who was I kidding? I was already involved. I put down the phone without replying.
“It was him, wasn’t it?” my mother said, half concerned, half smiling. Kind of how I felt.
I nodded.
“Scary stuff,” she said. I’d told her everything.
I had to. Now that I didn’t have Denise to talk to, and because it was all about Denise, my former best friend, I had to talk to someone.
My mother made a fantastic confidante. She judged me, but only for the good.
She would stand by me no matter what, defend me until the ends of the earth.
Dad used to call her Mama Bear in honor of her fierceness as a mother.
“Do you think he’s coming for me?” My pulse quickened at the thought. “He was pretty upset about being late yesterday. Maybe he’s coming over to ditch me, tell me to get lost.”
“He wouldn’t come over for that.”
“Yes. He would. He’s that kind of guy.”
“Someone worth having then. Let me get out of your way. I’m sure he’s not expecting your mother to be here.”
“Where are you going?” I was alarmed. I knew she couldn’t stay, not for this, but the thought of her leaving panicked me.
She was my connection to everything that was good in life, to my past, my world.
That meant a lot now that I was in this strange place starting over.
Without my father, without Paul, and now without my best friend, Denise.
“I’ll check into the Ritz. You can come over tomorrow for breakfast.” She rose in that smooth elegant way she had to her full height, undiminished by age at six feet tall, a breathtaking beauty.
She gave me a hug, took up her coat and her bag, and I followed her to the door.
Now I was worried, wondering how close he’d been when he’d sent the text, if he’d pass my mother in the hall.
He’d know who she was instantly. Then he’d insist she come back inside and our conversation, his purpose in visiting, would be derailed. I gave my mother a kiss and closed the door on her, my heart fluttering around, my insides bubbling like a wild pudding needing a good soothing stir.
Maybe I should cook something. It was nine o’clock. Too late. Instead, I paced around my apartment, going from one room to the next, inspecting, tidying, anticipating the buzzer, anticipating him. My never-ending crush, Gabriel Wyatt. Man of my dreams. Or was he?
Sometime later, I heard the buzzer and froze.
Had I known before I opened the door, before I saw his face, that he wasn’t there to make love with me again? That he was there to push me away before we’d gotten started? To end our fledgling relationship before it grew wings, before it became ferocious and destructive?
If not, it only took me a split second to reach the conclusion.
Maybe it was my emergency room triage training, forcing me to take in a mountain of details at a glance and draw instant conclusions with pinpoint accuracy because those conclusions often resulted in decisions that could mean a matter of life or death.
Stepping aside as I let him in my apartment, I felt that same life or death emergency feeling, except I had none of the usual confidence and professional detachment—only the alarm of adrenaline and jumping nerves in my belly.
I hugged my arms around myself and followed him to the middle of my living room where he stopped, not sitting, taking up all the space and all the air in the room with his larger-than-life body, his larger-than-life persona.
I felt small, insignificant by comparison. But why? Why should I? I lifted my chin.
“What is it, Gabe? Say what you have to say.”
He looked at me with unbearable sadness in his normally lively, teasing eyes and cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair. His beautiful soft wavy hair. I wanted to touch it, to touch him, but there was nothing in his demeanor that spoke of invitation.
“Mia, I can’t do this. I can’t have this relationship with you.” The pain in his hoarse voice spoke volumes, but it didn’t change his message.
I wondered if there was something I could say, anything I could tell him that would change his mind. That it would work because I didn’t mind if football came first, didn’t mind if he paid me little attention half the year? Didn’t mind that he thought of a game as more important than his lover?
I didn’t cry, felt frozen. Managed a nod. When he stepped toward me I turned away, feeling repulsed, betrayed. “We only had one night,” I said.
He said nothing. I felt him standing behind me, making no move, giving no explanation. The gray fog around his relationship with Denise lifted and I understood now, on a visceral level, with the churning in my gut, what Denise had gone through. I shuddered and turned to him. Denise.
I’d lost my best friend over him. For nothing.
Staring at him, my body shook, starting from my toes, watching his ice-blue eyes, distant and unflinching.
The tremor rose in me, but unlike the tremors of orgasm bringing unspeakable pleasure to the surface, this brought the destruction, the unspeakable rising of anger and rage.
My hands fisted as I lifted them and pounded on his chest.
Then I swore at him until he grabbed my hands.
Pulling away, I turned away from the unreachable remoteness of his face.
I swore at the wall, at him, at Denise, at life.
Used all the vilest language I knew, spinning on him and shouting, spitting foul words until my voice was hoarse.
He tried to calm me, reaching out for me, but I batted him away.
His touch, the sound of his alarmed voice made me worse, angry until I shook uncontrollably, until I collapsed to the floor into a sobbing heap.
I didn’t care anymore whether he saw me cry or not.
What the hell, right? I had nothing left to lose.
It seemed like I’d lost everything already.
That empty pang hollowed me out in a wrenching sob, as I sat on the cold hardwood floor, staring at the picture of my father on the lamp table near me.
I felt his hands on me again and this time I didn’t care. He felt like a ghost, even as he lifted me. Covering my face with my hands, I didn’t care. What could he do to me now? He laid me on my bed, gently, his soothing words penetrating now.
His words of comfort, tender and gentle, whispered as he caressed my cheek, intoxicating me like a sleeping drug. I had nothing left in me to resist, to fight, to react to him. Nothing left even to acknowledge him or feel.
The next morning, I realized I must have fallen asleep fully clothed. But when I opened my eyes, sunlight streaming in the window, sun still low in the sky, I looked over to the bedside where he’d been the night before.
He was still there. The bright sun cast him in a hazy unreal glow.
A million things went through my mind at once then, as my heart thudded like I’d been shot up with speed.
I sat up. Mom. I was supposed to meet her for breakfast. Why was Gabe still here?
With me. I met his eyes. Had I imagined his cruel breakup last night?
Putting a hand to my face, feeling my swollen eyes, reality slithered around the edges of my mind, like a snake I didn’t trust.
“Good morning,” he said. He wasn’t smiling as he studied me. My mind was still spinning, but I knew there was something not right about him still being here, something not logical about him staying all night to stare at me sleeping after ending our relationship in one brutal sentence.
My phone rang and he handed it to me.
“How are you doing, honey?” It was Mom and she spoke in her consoling voice. Did she know? How could she?
“To tell you the truth, Mom, I’m confused. Can I call you back?” I said it more for his benefit than my mother’s. I’d have to explain it all later to her, after I got it all straight in my own head.
Saying goodbye and promising to call later, I put the phone aside gently on the bed. And I looked back at him. He leaned forward in his chair and, reaching out a hand, caressed my cheek with the back of his knuckles. I shuddered.
“Why are you still here?”
He shrugged as if it was nothing of course, because he was automatically a kind person.
“I stayed because you had me worried. After you fell asleep, your phone rang and it was your mother, so I answered it. I didn’t want her to worry.”
“Of course not.”
He stood and paced around. I watched him, admired his body, felt my heart race as he melted it with his words.
“She told me about you, I told her about us. We decided this, your reaction last night, was delayed grief for your father’s death, that you hadn’t fully processed it all.
” He stopped and watched my face. “Your mother said you’d leaned on Paul long past when you should have broken it off with him.
Until you got the call for the job.” He paused and I didn’t comment, didn’t deny or disagree with anything. He resumed pacing.
“The job that your father had pulled strings to get for you. Your mother said you hadn’t wanted to go, to come to Boston, but she knew you had to, had to get away from Paul and so she admitted she guilted you into taking the job by reminding you that your father had gone to the trouble of getting it for you, that he had faith in your ability to do it.
“She told me you’re not a frail person, the opposite. Too strong to allow yourself to grieve. But we both think you need to grieve properly.”
“Your mother cried and I consoled her. She was easier than you to console.”
I didn’t acknowledge that, feeling the shame of a crazy person after an episode, not that I’d ever had such an episode before in my life. But then maybe that was the problem—if Gabe was right.
Squinting at him through sore, swollen lids, knowing I looked horrible and not caring, I said, “Aren’t you supposed to be at practice?”
“A half hour ago,” he said, appearing calm. For some reason this alarmed me. Football was supposed to mean everything to him, being early to practice had been his trademark. He’d already been late for game day on Sunday. This wasn’t good.
Throwing the covers off I bounced from the bed. “If you leave now, before the worst of rush hour, you can make it there in less than thirty minutes.” I saw his jacket draped over a chair and snatched it up, tossing at him. “Go, Wyatt. What are you waiting for?”
I pushed him, shoved him to the door, panic rising up irrationally. What did it matter to me if he was late? “Football is what you want, what you’ve chosen. Go to your mistress now.”
Stopping at the door, holding his jacket crumpled in one hand, he gave me that look again, the same one he had on his face when he walked in last night, the kind of look that reached out and squeezed my heart with a grip of pain.
“Mia—”
“Don’t. Don’t say anything.” It was hard to breathe, but I concentrated on heaving the air in and out of my lungs, keeping my eyes on his, seeing the regret, seeing the vulnerability of a man who had no idea what he was giving up.
But was it up to me to tell him? I couldn’t. Couldn’t bear to have him not listen, not believe me. I would not beg him.
Even though he’d spent the night at my bedside. Even though I had no idea what that meant, whether it meant anything. He could choose me or not. I could choose him or not. Was I so sure I wanted him? Not unless he wanted me the same way. Not to the exclusion of all else, but above all else.