47. Riley
FORTY-SEVEN
There”sa moment in every relationship when you come to a fork in the road. It usually comes early on, in the first week or the first month.
It”s when you get a glimpse of the other person and you know, deep down, whether this will end soon.
Until Gabriel, I”ve only gotten one message from previous relationships.
This will end.
Soon.
Sometimes the message is loud and clear, like the guy I dated a few times who agreed to go to sushi, then said he hated raw fish. Sometimes the message is a little more subtle, like when one date repeatedly made a weird snorting noise with his sinuses.
But I haven”t gotten any such messages from Gabriel.
Quite the opposite, actually. The kindness he showed in Miami with my feet, and the gentle caring he displays almost every time we see each other, makes me want to relax and enjoy this ride.
I can”t get the reality out of my head: he”s a made man. But I”m trying to shove that aside, because these past several weeks since Miami have been the best I”ve had in years. Maybe in my entire adult life.
I could chalk it up to the sex, which is incendiary, but it”s more than that. It”s the way Gabriel asks me questions about my day, and wants to know my opinion on things. It”s how he holds doors open for me, and the way he looks at me when he thinks I”m not paying attention. It”s how he looks younger and less stressed when he sleeps in my arms, and how he kisses me hello like he”s a man stranded in the desert who needs water.
Since our one-nightgetaway in Miami, Gabriel and I have fallen into a routine. I spend a couple weeknights at his house, sometimes fewer if he”s traveling for business. Weekends are for him, and we sometimes go out on his yacht, or take his jet to Miami or The Bahamas. He keeps talking about a longer stay in New York, but I have to wait until I get vacation at the newspaper for that.
I”m surprised he”s so tolerant of my job, but I don”t tell him this. For some reason, I expected a mafioso to have a problem with his girlfriend working a demanding job, but Gabriel is nothing but encouraging. He reads all my fluffy feature articles, even the one about adopting Easter bunnies.
”What do you think Reese would do with a bunny?” he muses.
”Eat it,” I deadpan, and we laugh.
On Sunday nights when I”m back at home, I always get a little depressed. I”m certain Gabriel wouldn”t mind if I stay, but something tells me I should keep my distance just a little, maintain a bit of mystery.
Sunday nights are also when I video chat with my Mom. I don”t want to do that from Gabriel”s house because that would be inviting all sorts of questions from her. Ones I might not be able to answer, like where is this relationship with this man going?
Tonight, I”m at home after being at Gabriel”s all weekend. The usual Sunday Scaries are out in full force in my brain, an irrational parade of fears, punctuated by waves of dread.
I pace around my little, dumpy apartment, wondering if I should call Gabriel and tell him how I”m feeling. Would that be too needy of me? I”m certain he”d come get me, insist that I stay with him, and try to cheer me up.
No, I need to put on my big girl panties and be an adult. Prepare for the week ahead, do shitty adult stuff like laundry and maybe even balance my checkbook. I flop on my sofa and let out a guttural moan. I hate the feeling of the weekend being over. It”s as if time for me is evaporating with each tick of the clock toward Monday morning.
My phone rings, and it”s Mom. I tap on the screen and her freckled face and short red hair fill the screen. She looks like she”s out of central casting of some Irish period drama.
”Hey, you!” I can tell she”s in a good mood by the twinkle in her light brown eyes.
This makes me relax and smile. When Mom”s not worried about finances or Dad”s shitty antics, she”s a shining gem.
Mom”s feeling chatty and tells me all about Mrs. O”Connor at the local bar (she kicked some guy out for being too drunk), about how she”s feeding some stray cats (but don”t tell Dad), and how it”s still so cold in Boston.
”I”m jealous of your weather. You look so tan, Riley.”
I don”t tell her it”s because I lounge by Gabriel”s pool on the regular. ”Yeah, it”s difficult to avoid the sun here. You should come visit. Just you. Not dad. We can have a girl”s weekend.”
”You know I”d love that.” She swallows hard. ”But I”m saving money for your father”s party. You are able to get the time off, aren”t you?”
”When is it?” I grimace. Crap, I”d forgotten all about that.
”Your father”s birthday?” She laughs. ”In August, as it is every year.”
”Okay, so in four months. Got it.” This is do-able, I guess. ”I”ll make it work.”
”Do you think you”ll be bringing a boyfriend?”
Mom”s question catches me off guard and I grunt. Is Gabriel my boyfriend? We haven”t had that conversation, but he sure seems like he is. I try to imagine him going to Boston with me, walking into my childhood bedroom postered with Colin Farrell photos. Going to the local Irish pub to drink a Black-and-Tan. Shaking hands with my father, who generally despises Italians.
”Riley, answer in complete sentences. You sound like a cavewoman.”
I roll my eyes. ”You always ask me if I have a boyfriend. Every weekend.”
”You seem so happy, that”s why.”
And like I do every Sunday, I deny, deny, deny, that I have anyone important in my life.
On Saturdayswe chill at his house. I sleep in while he works out in the home gym, and then he wakes me with kisses and coffee and breakfast in bed. Around mid-morning, we head to the pool, where we lounge in a cabana, eat snacks, and drink healthy, non-alcoholic cocktails.
”This is my favorite place in your entire house,” I say as we settle in. There”s a wide outdoor lounger, big enough for two, with lots of soft, flaxen-colored pillows. It”s covered by a white pergola, flanked by palm trees and tropical foliage, and there are a few side tables for our drinks, books, and snacks. There are also plenty of electrical outlets, and I plug in my phone and my tablet.
”It is? Better than my bedroom?”
”Yep. It”s so perfectly, aesthetically beautiful, like we”re starring in a movie. Being here with you on Sundays is the best. Lazy. I like lazy Gabriel. The bedroom is my second favorite place.”
He laughs and kisses me. Today he”s brought a book, something about World War Two history. I like that he reads in his spare time, because literacy is hot.
We stretch out on the lounger, him cracking the spine of his book and me powering up my tablet. I enjoy reading various newspapers online, so I can think about feature stories to write in the coming week.
I glance up and take a sip of my cucumber water. The glittering water of the pool and the gorgeous mansion behind it soothe my soul, and relaxing here in the shade is like being at a spa.
Life is perfect, and my only wish is that I could tell Lorna about all of this. As it stands, I”ve told no one in my life about my blossoming relationship with Gabriel. My father would be pissed that I was with an Italian man — the Irish and Italian in my native Boston are longtime rivals. I also hesitate to say anything to Mom, because I don”t want her to start ordering invitations to our wedding. I can”t allow myself to think that far ahead, even though this is going better than any of my previous relationships.
And telling the people at the paper is out of the question, because they”d think I”m sleeping my way into getting better stories and assignments.
So all this luxury, all this perfection, is for me only.
I swipe through several articles in the Boston paper, and then get to the crime page, then tap on one about a South Boston man arrested for hitting his girlfriend repeatedly in the face.
”Goddammit.” The word explodes out of my mouth after I read through the article twice.
”What, babe? What”s wrong?” Gabriel murmurs.
”Nothing.”
”Hmm, doesn”t sound like nothing.”
”It”s an article in the Boston newspaper.”
”Mmm, about what?”
I continue reading. Un-fucking-believable. Declan O”Connor was arrested on a domestic violence charge, then released because the victim refused to press charges. That human boil is out free, again. Rage rolls through me, so fast and hard that I feel a little shaky.
There used to be a time, when I was a teenager, that I”d burst into tears if I was angry. After Lorna”s death that behavior stopped, and now when I”m enraged I feel shaky and see red in the periphery of my vision.
”The guy who killed my best friend Lorna was arrested for beating his new girlfriend. Then he was released from jail, because she wouldn”t press charges or get a restraining order. The asshole shouldn”t even be walking free at all. He should be in prison for life, or worse.”
I fume in silence for a bit, then go on a rant. ”He”s going to keep doing this to women, you know. And who knows what else? Did you know that two thirds of mass shootings are perpetrated by men with a history of domestic violence? This guy needs to be stopped and the legal system up there isn”t doing jack shit. His mobbed-up father knows all the powerful defense lawyers in Boston, and that”s why he keeps getting released. He”s a fucking menace to women and I wish he”d just die already.”
Gabriel looks up from his book. The muscle in his jaw is pulsing, an indication he”s angry, or annoyed. I can”t tell which. ”Riley. Do you want me to take care of it?”
He says this casually, as if he”s asking me what I want to eat for lunch, or whether I”d like to go for a swim.
”W-what?” I”m so shocked that I can barely get any words out.
”Would you like me to handle the situation?” He closes his book and turns his head in my direction.
”Are you serious?”
”We”ve known each other for a while. I think you know when I”m joking, and when I”m not.”
It”s true. When Gabriel is joking, the right side of his mouth quirks up. There are no quirks right now, just a harsh, angry slant of his lips. Still, it”s difficult to comprehend what he”s saying.
”Are you offering to...” It”s as if I don”t want to utter the words aloud, as if they”ll invoke an evil curse or something.
”Exactly. I”m offering to hurt the guy so badly he”ll be in a coma for the rest of his life. Or I can kill him. Your choice. Would you like me to take care of the man who murdered your friend, so you don”t have to read things like this anymore? I”m happy to do it, especially if it will take away your pain. I hate seeing you so upset. But I”m also willing to kill a piece of shit like this just to help society.”
Since Gabriel”s wearing sunglasses, I can”t see his eyes. His expression is so unemotional, so practical, that it sends chills down my spine. I shiver, despite the warm, humid Florida air.
Or perhaps the chills are from something else.
The fact that I”m considering saying yes, so I can avenge Lorna”s death.