52. Riley
FIFTY-TWO
Catherine sayssomething in a low murmur, but I can”t make out the words over the whooshing of blood in my ears.
My hand finds the wall and I flatten my palm against the cool surface, seeking something grounding, something solid. Already my legs feel as if they”re going to buckle, and I wonder if I”ll be able to make it back to the office to sit before I collapse or puke.
Or both.
Should I even return to the office? How am I going to resume my interview with Cath after Gabriel leaves?
If he doesn”t leave, that will be even worse. Their voices become audible, as if my hearing is tuning them in like a radio dial.
”Gabriel, I”m doing an interview now.”
”Oh. I”m sorry to have interrupted. The place looks great.”
As much as I want to not hear this conversation, I can”t tear myself away.
”The reporter”s wonderful. You should meet her. Wait. Let me go get her.”
Oh, fuck.
”You don”t have to, really. I only wanted to stop in and say hi.”
This would be a great moment for the earth to open up and swallow me.
”Hang on. Just a second.”
Muted footsteps echo through the airy space and I”m turning to scurry back to the office when Catherine comes barreling around the corner.
”There you are. Come. You can meet my early muse.” She looks positively radiant, her smile wide and bright.
”Uhhh...” I”m only capable of communicating through grunts.
”I”m surprised you haven”t met him.” She reaches for my arm and tugs. ”This will be great for your article. Maybe he”ll even want to be interviewed.”
”No, no, no, Cath. I don”t do—” Gabriel”s voice dies in his throat when he sees me, being pulled into the room.
”This is Gabriel Greco. Riley, he”s a... businessman. A well-known one. And Gabe, this is Riley Murphy, a reporter for the local paper.”
All I can do is stand there, slack jawed, clutching my notebook and pen, with my legs feeling like jelly. Gabriel”s black eyes reveal a flicker of emotion, then it”s as if an invisible veil drops over them. He”s looking at me with a thousand-yard-stare, as if I wasn”t just in his bed hours before.
Shame, anger, and abject sadness wash over me.
Catherine talks for a bit about how we were doing an interview, then her head ping-pongs between the two of us. ”You”re sure you haven”t met?”
”We”re acquainted,” I manage to grind out.
Gabriel can”t meet my eyes. He”s biting his lip and has his hands on his hips, like he”s apprehensive about something. Or pissed. I can”t tell which.
”Yes,” he says slowly. ”Acquainted.”
Catherine”s eyes widen. ”Oh. Oh! Well, great. Anywho, Gabe and I were dear friends growing up, and he was my muse for a lot of my early paintings.”
She called him Gabe. She knows him on a deeper level than I ever will. I feel as if someone”s reached into my chest and ripped my heart out.
Something in my brain clicks, perhaps a self-preservation instinct. Or the desire to not projectile vomit. I pat my crossbody handbag. ”I”m getting a text. One second.”
Frowning, sweating, I dig around for my phone. Of course, I”m getting no such text, but every cell in my body is screaming to get the hell out of this place. Otherwise I”m going to say several inappropriate things. It”s a miracle I”m even being this polite, and deserve an award. I should haul ass out of here and never talk to either one again.
”Oh, would you look at this?” I shake my head at the cell screen, while pretending to swipe and tap. ”There”s been a terrible car crash on the interstate. Six killed. All hands on deck in the newsroom. I”m so sorry, but this is the reality of my job. Cath, I”ll call you to reschedule?”
Maybe because I spoke quickly, as if uttering one long word, or because anxiety and possibly anger are radiating off Gabriel in waves, Catherine nods.
”Um. Sure. That”s terrible. Where”s the crash?”
I sip in a breath and furrow my brows. ”By the mall.”
Gabriel”s eyes finally focus on me, and I suspect he knows I”m lying.
”Oh dear, that”s awful. Well. Maybe we can get together for drinks?”
”Fine. Maybe! Yes. Talk soon.”
I refuse to acknowledge Gabriel on my way out, and would promise anything at this point to be through with this situation.
”Maybe the three of us can go to dinner, wouldn”t that be cool, Gabe,” she chirps.
My hands hit the door and I shove it open, banging through without saying a word. Once I”m outside and out of eyesight, I break into a run all the way down the street to my car.
Inside, I peel away, not wanting to know how long Gabriel stays in the gallery.
A few blocks away, I”m crying so hard I can”t drive, and I pull into the parking lot of a restaurant. Giant, heaving sobs wrack my body, and I stay there for many long minutes. I wail until there”s nothing left inside but a dull, soul-crushing ache, and then I”m ready to go home.
Once in my apartment,I take off my work clothes, feeling as though I should burn them merely for being present on one of the worst days of my life.
Not the worst, of course, that”s reserved for the day I found out that Lorna died. Today comes in as a distant, yet surprisingly emotional, second.
”How could he fucking do that?” I mutter, pulling open my freezer and grabbing the bottle of vodka. I”d bought it when I moved to Tampa, thinking I”d need it because I”d be inviting newsroom friends over. Since then, it”s sat unopened.
I twist the cap off with a satisfying crack and splash some into a glass. Thank God I have some cola in the fridge, and I mix a strong drink and take a giant gulp.
My phone buzzes with a text, for real this time. I mutter a curse word and check the screen. It”s from Gabriel.
Riley, we need to talk.
”Eff you,” I say aloud, taking another sip. Not only do I feel betrayed, but I feel used. Maybe he”s been juggling both Cath and I all this time. She seemed so nice. I almost feel as bad for her as I do for myself. He”s playing her, as well.
As I”m considering whether I should return his text with a hearty ”fuck off, don”t ever contact me again,” another message comes through.
I can explain everything. Please don”t worry. I know that was awkward. I have a work thing tonight but we can talk when I”m finished. I”ll be done by midnight. Promise.
A snort comes out of my nose. He probably wants to fuck me one last time. ”Yeah. I”m sure you can explain it all. Slick bastard.”
The phone then rings with a call. It”s him.
”Nope. Nope. Nope.” I set the phone on the kitchen counter and walk into the living room.
There”s no way I can send a reply text or call him without losing my shit. I”m teetering on the edge of anger while filled with deep despair. I”m in no shape to have a conversation with Gabriel.
”What I am going to do is drink,” I say out loud, in my most obnoxious and rough-edged Boston accent.
While seething and half-crying, I continue to sip my rum and cola. Then I get an idea that might ease my loneliness. Well, two ideas.
One is to make another drink. After I do that I grab my phone. Gabriel”s texted one last time.
Please let me know if you are safe.
”Safe from you,” I spit.
I locate Brynn the photographer”s number in my contacts and dial.
”Hey,” she answers in a bright voice.
”Hey,” I mimic her happy tone, and I realize that”s what I”ll be doing for a long time going forward — pretending that I”m a happy, whole person. When I”m really broken inside. ”What are you doing tonight? Want to get a drink?”
One hourand one drink later, my taxi pulls up in front of The Cure, a hipster bar in South Tampa. I haven”t been here, but Brynn swears it”s a great place with a band and cheap drinks.
Outside, a few scruffy-looking guys that are my age, wearing skinny jeans and ironic T-shirts, mill around, smoking. They don”t acknowledge me as I walk in.
Maybe it”s my slight buzz, but I”m feeling more relaxed.
This is where I should be. I”m in my early twenties, like everyone else here. I shouldn”t be soaring around the city with a man ten years older, dressing in expensive evening gowns and eating dinners the equivalent of my rent.
Fuck Gabriel Greco, I tell myself as I weave through the crowd.
Brynn had texted earlier, saying she”d secured a spot at the bar for us. I spot her at the far end, two full shots of liquor lined up in front of her.
I call her name and she waves. We hug when I reach her, and then she shoves a shot into my hand.
”You up for a night of drinking?”
”You don”t even know how much.” I toss back the shot — it”s tequila, God help me — and order a rum and cola.
”You”re sure you want to mix your liquor?” Brynn asks.
”That”s the least of my worries tonight.”
”What happened? Is your new editor a pain in the ass?”
”No, nothing like that. Work”s great. Or, well, was, until I went to interview Gabriel”s girlfriend. Or best friend. Or whatever she is. He”s trying to hide her, that”s all I know.”
Brynn looks at me in horror and leans forward. ”Tell me everything.”
Over the next fifteen minutes, I bring Brynn up to speed on the shitshow that is my love life. Part of me is dimly aware that I”m verbally unloading on a work colleague I don”t know that well, but I”m in such desperate need of female friendship that I don”t care.
And Brynn is appropriately shocked, horrified, and angry on my behalf. She”s also the only person at the paper who”s truly taken any sort of interest in me, and has been the nicest. That goes for tonight, too.
”What a jerk,” she breathes. ”And how awkward to stand there with the two of them.”
”I”m heartbroken, honestly. Things had been going so well.”
”Wasn”t it kind of dangerous to date him anyway?” She tilts her head.
I hesitate, then shake my head. ”No, why?”
”All the mafia allegations?” She tosses her long, brown hair over one shoulder.
That”s not something I”m ever going to tell anyone. ”Didn”t see any evidence of that.”
By Brynn”s raised eyebrow, I know she doesn”t believe me. ”Well, the only way to forget about this is to move on.”
”Yeah, easier said than done.”
”Is it, though?”
”Hunh?” I grunt, then take a sip of my margarita. I”m good and buzzed now.
”See those two guys across the bar?”
”Brynn, I”m trying to block out every human with a dick right now.”
”Well, I”d advise you check them out, because they”ve been checking us out. To my right. Sitting by the plastic pirate.”
I glance over, and sure enough, there are two guys. They have that overly scrubbed look about them, as if they”ve bathed in body spray for their night out. They also are covered in tattoos. The one with dark scruff shoots me a lopsided grin, and the other nods.
”Brynn, they look like they spend all their time lifting weights, possibly when they were in prison. Do you see those tats?” I hiss.
Brynn stares at them defiantly and holds up her empty glass. Within a few minutes, the bartender places two fresh drinks in front of us.
”From the two gentlemen across the bar,” the bartender says. ”The two gentlemen who appear to be coming over to chat with you both.”
”Remember, Riley, the only way to get over him is to get under someone else,” Brynn says with a laugh as the two guys approach...