Chapter 11 Gabe
GABE
Noah slows his steps until I match him. I’m sure he can sense my trepidation.
The walk from the store to Kindle’s isn’t far, but each step takes longer than it should, fear screaming at me to go home.
I keep cataloguing reasons to turn back—we could reschedule, I could fake an illness, maybe I left the stove on—but then the diner comes into view, and it’s too late.
Aiden is waiting outside for us and grins when he sees me.
I must look as worked up as I feel because his expression levels out as he opens the door for us.
Kindle’s looks exactly the same as it did the last time I was here and somehow completely different.
The yellow curtains in the front windows are still there, a little more faded now.
The booths are still teal, the jukebox still going.
“Hound Dog” is playing, and the whole place vibrates with the sound of it.
I hear Noah mutter a little, “Nice,” as he bobs his head to the song. I want to smile at him, but I can’t find it in me. I’m grinding my teeth so hard my jaw aches.
I shouldn’t feel this nervous—it’s just a diner, just brunch with friends—but my anxiety flares anyway.
Bria’s behind the counter, and her laugh carries all the way across the diner.
Lou is manning the bar cart. They don’t even look up when we walk in, too busy running this place like they’ve always done, like nothing in the world could shake them.
I wish I felt like that.
We reach the back table, and Abbie waves bright as sunshine while Ciarán slides his sunglasses off and smirks. “Finally. The buff boys grace us with their presence. I was moments from death by starvation.”
He only wears his sunglasses inside when he has a migraine. I give him a questioning look, but he just shakes his head.
“You’ll live,” Aiden mutters while rolling his eyes, sliding in beside Abbie.
“Don’t sound so pleased about it,” Ciarán shoots back, a saccharine smile lighting up his face.
Abbie hides a laugh behind her hand. “Boys, play nice. At least until the mimosas arrive.”
Their voices rise around me, their banter familiar.
I go to sit, hesitating too long, then panic that I’m in the way.
Noah makes it easy—he sits first, leaving the chair beside him open for me.
The simple tap of his hand against the cushion makes something loosen in my chest. An awkward laugh comes out of me, but I sit, shoulders still pulled high.
When a server brushes too close behind me, I tense.
Noah leans slightly toward me and places his arm on the back of my chair—not touching me, just…
there. It helps more than I want to admit.
It makes me feel like there’s a barrier of protection between me and everything else.
I have the urge to lean into him, let his arm fall around me, and keep me safe.
I glance at him, and he gives me nothing but quiet stability in return. I relax a little in my seat. My smile comes without asking, small and private, just for him. He gives me a subtle wink, and my cheeks warm.
Lou swings by with menus, rattling off drink specials.
Noah orders one, and when the glass arrives—bright orange with some ridiculous curl of zest balanced on the rim—he nudges it toward me as one side of his mouth quirks up.
Did he order it for me? I take a sip and hum despite myself. Sweet, floral, strong.
Abbie launches into gossip about her roommates. Ciarán interrupts with commentary, and Aiden sighs into his glass like he’s been trapped here against his will.
I want to join in, but half my brain is waiting for someone in the diner to turn and stare. To notice the scar. To ask questions I won’t be able to answer.
Abbie looks at something on her phone and gasps, “Oh my god! Velour just posted on Instagram, listen to this: ‘The lights dim. The bass hits. The dance floor opens. Join us every Friday night at Velour for live music, low lights, and heat that lingers long after last call.’ A dance floor! In Willowrun!” She’s practically vibrating in her seat, eyes darting from me to Ciarán, and my stomach drops.
Dancing. Of course they’ll want to go. I can’t do that.
I can’t be in a place like that, low lights, loud music, people everywhere.
I want to dance. I want to go, and I think if they asked me I’d say yes… and then ruin it for them.
“Isn’t Velour a wine bar?” Noah asks as he reads over the menu.
“Yeah, but it’s pretty big, so they’d have the space for a dance floor if they move tables around. I can’t wait!” Abbie squeaks.
I see the spark of excitement in Ciarán’s eyes, but it dims a little as he looks at me, and I have to drop my gaze. When he speaks, his tone is level. “That’s amazing. I’m sure it’ll be popular.”
I expect him to say we should go, but he doesn’t. When I look at him, he’s giving me that soft smile, the one he saves for me. Right now, it just makes me feel guilty.
“Do you guys like to dance?” Noah questions, looking at me immediately. I nod and try to smile, but it’s tight.
“Oh yeah,” Abbie squeals, “we’re pretty good, if I do say so myself.” She finishes by buffing her nails on her chest, making Aiden snort.
“Thanks to me,” Ciarán says with a look of pride.
Thankfully, they leave it at that as Abbie starts telling a story about one of her students standing on a desk to declare their undying hatred for homework. Ciarán laughs. “Sounds like an enthusiastic kid.”
“Sounds like detention,” Aiden says.
Ciarán turns to him, brows lifting. “Do you ever stop being the fun police?”
“Do you ever stop talking?” Aiden fires back without looking up.
Abbie groans. “Please, not at brunch.”
Aiden doesn’t look up from his drink. “He started it.”
“Real mature. I spoke,” Ciarán replies flatly. “That’s all it takes with you.”
“Now, now, boys,” Noah interjects in a mock-serious tone I haven’t heard from him before.
Abbie tries not to laugh, eyes locked on mine as I bite back a grin.
The teasing is so familiar, it’s something I can almost fall into.
Still, a part of me wishes they’d stop circling each other like this.
Aiden and Ciarán could get along if they tried—they just refuse to now.
I’ve learned not to step in, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like to sit in a room with them both and not have to hear them bicker or see Ciarán leave when he’s not in the mood for my brother.
Lou passes by to check on drinks, and Ciarán eyes Aiden’s glass. “Let me guess—water again.”
Aiden shrugs. “Keeps me hydrated.”
Ciarán mutters. “Keeps you boring. We’re at boozy brunch, maybe a drink would help you lighten up and stop being such a grump.”
“I’m not fucking boring,” my brother grumbles.
Ciarán’s grin is sly. “Not denying the grump part?”
Noah snickers, delighted to see his best friend getting poked at.
The words slip out before I even realize I’ve spoken. “Do you serve emotional maturity?” I ask Lou, pointing between my brother and Ciarán. “We’re running low at this table.”
For a moment, silence—then laughter breaks out around me. Abbie snorts into her mimosa, Ciarán throws his head back and cackles, and even Aiden cracks a grin.
Heat climbs up my neck, but not the bad kind. The kind that always came if I was the center of attention. For a second, I feel like I belong here. I feel like the old me, the version that could easily go out with his friends and felt confident enough to tease them.
My eyes are drawn to Noah. He’s already watching me—not like I’ve said something stupid.
He looks… proud. Like me saying one dry line in the middle of brunch is worth something.
His hand shifts slightly on the back of my chair, not quite a touch, but close enough to feel the heat of him. It makes me shiver.
The conversation rolls on. Food arrives, plates clattering onto the table.
French toast dripping syrup, eggs piled high, my brother huffing when Ciarán insists the burrata is “better than sex.” I try to eat, but my stomach still doesn’t feel right.
Still, I find myself smiling more than I expected.
I duck my head when it happens, worried it looks foreign on me after all this time.
Toward the end, Ciarán claps his hands. “Okay, business time. I’m organizing an author event.”
His eyes find mine, and I feel like I’m supposed to know where this is going. I have no idea, though.
He keeps our gazes locked, speaking brightly, but there’s a cautious edge to his tone. “The author thought they had a space organized, but it fell through, and now we’re stuck. The event is at the end of next week…”
The words are like ice-cold water down my back.
He’s grinning, all bright eyes and energy, but there’s a softness around his eyes as he watches me. He continues talking about a friend who’s an indie author and writes queer fantasy villains. I’m only hearing parts, anxiety taking over. My throat closes. My shoulders inch back up to my ears.
“Don’t look at me,” I mumble when his gaze won’t leave mine.
“I’m absolutely looking at you,” he fires back, “the bookstore is perfect. Intimate, cozy, a safe space. It would be perfect. Great visibility for the business, too.”
I tighten my grip on the glass until it rattles against the table with my trembling fingers. My voice is low. “I know I used to host things like that. But I don’t know if I can…”
I trail off, cheeks burning. I’ve said too much.
A hush falls over the table. I can’t look at them. My eyes sting at my own omission, embarrassment raking through me.
Ciarán softens his voice. “Then let me take the lead, I’m the event organizer, anyway. You don’t have to do anything you aren’t up for. It’s just using your space, really. If the time comes and you don’t even want to attend, that’s okay too.”