66. Riley
SIXTY-SIX
The night grinds on,each minute feeling like an hour. Everything I do seems to take longer than necessary, and everything”s going wrong. My phone isn”t holding its charge, my pen stopped working, the rain ruined a page of my notes.
Fuck my life.
After Gabriel walked away from me without saying a goodbye, I was furious. Still am. My insides are vibrating with barely controlled anger, with a healthy mix of sadness for the people who had to endure the trauma of the shooting.
Of course, there was nothing I could do after he left but continue working, so I interviewed several more witnesses and neighbors then sent the information back to Helen. She cleared me to leave, and that”s when I got angry at the newspaper.
Why hadn”t Helen sent any reporters to help? This is a huge story, one I”m sure that will get national attention.
I”m still angry as I drive to the hospital. There, I”m met by the hospital spokeswoman, who tells me in no uncertain terms that I can”t linger on the property to interview relatives of the injured.
”I”ll have you arrested if you don”t leave,” she says in an obnoxious tone.
Well, wouldn”t that make the evening so much better, I think as I walk to my car.
Now I”m in yet another empty parking lot, wondering what I should do. Feeling helpless in every way. It”s just after midnight and I just got off the phone with Helen. Another reporter has been brought in for the overnight shift, and Helen says I”ll probably be needed early tomorrow for a follow-up article so I should go home and get some rest.
But the question is: what home am I going to? My own, or Gabriel”s?
”Screw this,” I say aloud, and turn the car”s steering wheel, driving onto the street. I”m headachy and hungry.
I”m going to my house. Alone. My feelings about everything — Gabriel, his involvement in the mafia, tonight”s mass shooting — are too complex to distill into a late-night conversation. It”s for the best if I go home and sleep off my anger and sadness.
Home is like a mausoleum, quiet and musty-smelling because I hadn”t turned the air conditioning on and all the windows were shut. This place tends to get like this, and I suspect the previous tenants had a cat because I sometimes get a whiff of old kitty litter, which grosses me out.
Two thoughts pop into my brain. One is that I wouldn”t have had to deal with any of this had I gone to Gabriel”s. And two, it really sucks being poor.
The first thing I do is strip off my clothes. They”re damp and clammy, and a hot shower is the best thing I can do for myself. Afterwards, I wrap myself in a silk robe, hating that everything here is reminding me of Gabriel, but too tired to change into anything more complicated.
I blast the air, crank the fans and open a window. Now is not the time to give a crap about the electric bill. All I want is for this stuffy smell to go away, and it”s like a wind tunnel in here.
A quick check of my phone shows that it”s charging, but slowly, and I”m annoyed that I might need to buy a new one soon. Gabriel would gladly pay for a top-of-the-line phone, but tonight I”m not sure I want him doing anything for me. I pull open the fridge with a sigh.
I”m starving, yet don”t feel like eating. A vague pain in my abdomen makes me rub my stomach, and I decide on a glass of wine and a Tylenol. Terrible, I know, but I don”t care. Probably I should eat something. There”s a box of crackers left over from the food Gabriel brought over the weekend, when I was hungover.
I pull them open and shovel a handful in my mouth, feeling like a goblin.
Jesus, it”s been a wild week. Catherine, the bar, the public scene with Gabriel in the bar. Him telling me he loves me...
And a mass shooting.
Oh, and the detail that Gabriel killed the man who raped Catherine. Can”t forget that. I start to laugh and cry in total disbelief.
After flopping on the sofa with my wine glass, I turn on the television and find a reality TV marathon about people living naked in the jungle, hoping to distract myself with something mindless.
It doesn”t help. I can”t stop thinking about that waitress who witnessed the shooting or all the people who lost their lives. Probably they had families, friends, children. Even if they were in the mafia, they didn”t deserve to be gunned down in cold blood while eating meatballs. I sniffle and choke back some tears, and grab another glass of wine, wanting to forget it all.
Then there”s Gabriel. I sip my wine while watching two hairy guys traipse through some jungle. I can appreciate that Gabriel had more on his mind than returning my call, and yet it seems horribly insensitive. Didn”t he know I”d be beside myself with worry?
And the way he”d glared at me during his impromptu news conference was almost humiliating. Surely some of the news people know we”re dating. One reporter even said under her breath that she thought she saw the two of us at The Circle the other week (she did).
Then again, if he”d given me preferential treatment, other reporters would”ve been up in arms. Maybe there was no winning in this situation.
Once I finish the wine, I tug a blanket over my legs and stretch out. The fact that Gabriel”s linked, even a little, with this shooting, makes me wonder about a future with him. Is this what I want out of life?
But his recent, sweet words echo in my brain as I shut my eyes, and all my doubts resurface as I fall into a sweaty, troubled sleep.
”You and I have been together a couple of months, and I know it”s really soon. Maybe too soon to say these words. But I love you. That”s all. I love you.”
I awake to an insistent,angry pounding noise. For a moment, I think it”s the television, which is still tuned to the stupid reality program. Then I think it”s the rain, which is coming down hard now and beating against the window.
Sweat drenches my body, soaking into my robe, and running like a river between my breasts. It seems as though I was drooling, too. A droplet of sweat falls from my chin and hits my arm, and I quickly wipe it away, feeling embarrassed and gross. Being out in the rain tonight has surely given me a cold.
The pounding noise echoes through my apartment again, and in my half-asleep state I realize it”s coming from the front door. A glance at the clock on the wall reveals that it”s three in the morning, which means I was asleep for a solid two hours.
”Riley. Riley! Open the door. Now. Goddamnit.”
I recognize the growly masculine voice, and let out a groan of annoyance as I haul myself to my feet. There”s another few beats of pounding, and I just know my neighbor”s probably going to complain about the noise.
”Riley, I”m going to bust this?—”
I swing open the door when Gabriel is in mid-sentence and glare at him. ”Can you have some consideration for other people who live in this building?” I hiss.
His jaw is set in a hard line and he barrels inside, taking me by the upper arm and slamming the door behind him.
”What the fuck? Ow. Stop.” I wrench out of his grip. ”Don”t manhandle me.”
But he doesn”t let go, instead gripping my shoulders and backing me up against the wall of my hallway.
”Why didn”t you answer my texts and calls?” He stands imposingly over me, his voice loud and angry. His usually well-groomed black hair is wild and disheveled, with strands falling onto his forehead. His jet-black eyes are wide with rage and his skin has a sheen of perspiration, or dampness from the rain.
”I could ask the same of you.” It”s impossible for me not to sound petulant and pissed.
Without letting go of me, he shuts his eyes for a beat, as if he”s summoning his patience. When he opens them, he releases me, and I huff and snort as I wriggle out of his reach.
He walks to the sofa and sits, tipping his head back so it almost hits the cushion. He still seems like he”s trying hard to control himself, like he”s holding himself back from doing something unwise.
”I was worried. So worried, Riley. Going mad with worry over you. I tried calling several times, and texting. And I couldn”t get it out of my head that you were hurt or worse.” He follows up with a few swear words, and I”m almost sympathetic.
Almost, but not quite.
Because I”m in an irritable mood — a headache is raging in my brain on top of everything else — I make a show of checking my phone. ”Yeah, I see that now. But I was already asleep. It wasn”t the best night, you know.”
”No shit.” He pauses. ”I told you I”d see you at home. Why didn”t you go there? I went home after spending hours at that fucking restaurant with the mayor, and you weren”t there.”
”Last I checked, this is my home.” I throw myself into the chair that matches my old sofa, not wanting to be next to him.
He sighs and lifts his head to stare at me. ”I”m truly sorry I didn”t return your voicemail. Everything happened so fast. What a fucking shitshow.”
”What did happen, Gabriel?” I fold my arms and tuck my legs under me, not feeling charitable or well. The weird earlier pain in my abdomen has migrated to my side.
He shakes his head. ”I can”t tell you everything, so I”d rather not say anything.”
My lips part and I gape at him, unable to form words. I want to scream and yell, to demand an explanation or an apology. But I can feel the anger and frustration simmering beneath my skin, and I”m petrified of what will happen if I give it the chance to escape. My body trembles as I try to keep my composure, tears threatening to leak from my eyes.
Something inside of me stands up and refuses to let him have the last word. I point my finger at him, and for the first time in my life, I speak to a man with anger in my voice.
”If you”re not going to be honest with me, then you can leave. There”s the door. I think you know me well enough by now that I won”t put anything you tell me privately in the newspaper. You want privacy and loyalty and devotion and I”ve given you all three. I”ve given you my love, Gabriel. My love. And you repay me by making me worry for hours that you”re dead? Hell no. If you”re not going to tell me what went on tonight, and how you”re connected to a mass fucking shooting that killed several people, you can take your beautiful Italian ass out of my life right now.”