13. Gabe
CHAPTER 13
GABE
I t’s not that I’m trying to listen; it’s just hard not to when all I can hear is Carly trying to get a word in edgewise about her car and how hard she’s been trying to get to this meeting. I can only imagine the yelling-at she’s getting. It sounds like her clients are tough cookies.
It’s not something I would want to do. I find it hard enough to deal with customers in my job, and most of what I do is sit and listen to heavy metal and fix cars all day.
I try to focus on stirring the stew, but it really is tough not to hear the desperation coming through the wall.
Finally, it sounds like Carly stops speaking. I open the kitchen door a crack and lean out into the hallway. From inside the living room, I can hear sniffles. Definitely the sound of crying.
I’m not sure what to do next. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to deal with anyone crying, even less a strange woman in my house.
It’s not something I’ve ever been prepared to deal with.
I dart back into the kitchen, not wanting to seem like I was spying on her if she came out. I wait awkwardly by the stove, stirring the stew, watching as it bubbles, but there’s no movement from the other room.
At a loss for ideas, I stare out of the window and frown. What am I meant to do now?
Is it weird to go to try and comfort a crying woman who is also a stranger, who is in your house, who you’ve been trying to make feel better all day?
I stare back into the stew and decide that if I hear nothing in the next five minutes, it’s best to serve up dinner and go from there. At least bringing her food isn’t trying to comfort her.
Pretty much anything I could say would be completely useless, wouldn’t it? I know this for a fact. I’ve never been the best at emotions, and it’s just gotten harder as I’ve gotten older and lost all my close friends.
Five minutes pass agonizingly slowly, and my heart sinks when I realize she’s not coming back to the kitchen.
What are you meant to do in your own house when someone’s upset?
Carefully, I go to the cupboard, grab two of my best bowls and start serving. For the first time in years, I’m glad that I have so much tableware.
I’ve hardly used any of it. I hardly ever have anyone over, and I live alone. But I’m not going to be serving Carly out of microwave tubs or leftover takeout boxes.
That would be really embarrassing.
Cautiously, I sneak up to the living room door and tap quietly on it. “Carly? Are you okay?”
A sniffly grunt comes from inside the room, and I take that as an affirmative. Slowly, I push open the door to see Carly swiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands. It seems pointless to me that she’s pretending not to be crying. It’s not like I’ve never seen her cry before. In fact, the very first time I met her, her eyes were puffy and red.
It has almost seemed strange today to see her as her normal self.
But even puffy-eyed, with no makeup, she’s still beautiful.
That thought makes me want to harden my heart against her even more. I can’t let her in. I can’t be weak.
She’s not staying.
“I brought dinner,” I say, holding out the bowls. “You want some?”
“Please.” She nods, sniffing hard and straightening her shoulders.
I stride over to her and hold up the bowl. She takes it with a thankful nod and places it on her lap. I put my own bowl out on the side table and grab the tray that lives underneath it. I offer it to Carly and she takes it, clearly thankful because the bowl is burning her thighs.
I should have thought that one through in advance, but in my defense, I wasn’t exactly prepared to host dinner today. And I definitely wasn’t prepared to host it with my guest being an emotional hot mess.
On a whim, I pick up the TV remote and press the on button a couple of times. Nothing. “Guess the power’s going to be out all night,” I say.
“Great.”
With a sigh, I throw another log on the fire, watching it crackle and flicker in the hearth. This will keep the house warm, at least. And staring at it means I don’t have to look at her.
“If you want an extra blanket,” I say as I turn slowly back around, “grab one off the back of the sofa. They’re warm.”
“Do you usually watch TV at night?” Carly asks out of nowhere, clearly trying to deflect the attention away from her own emotional disaster.
“I have cable. I mostly watch sports, or whatever’s on. But in emergency cases like this…” I scan along the mantel and smile when my eyes hit the portable radio. I haven’t used it in ages, but I haven’t lost power in ages. The last couple of times it did go out, I’ve just gone to bed to read, but it is good to have it for some background noise for those times when living alone is too silent.
Gently, I twist the knob, and the radio crackles to life. I have to tune it a little to find a station that’s managing to get through the snow, but eventually I land on country music and decide that that’s inoffensive enough. I turn back to Carly, and she nods approvingly.
“How’s the stew?” I ask as I cross back to the sofa, sitting next to her.
Usually, I would sit in my rocking chair, but I don’t need her to comment on how that makes me look like an old man. I’m already too aware of how much I act like I’m ancient.
“Hot,” she says. “But it smells great.”
“I make this all the time. It’s perfect for these winter nights when you can’t go anywhere, can’t do anything. All you’ve got is the fire and the sound of someone on their guitar. It’s perfect.”
“I love country music,” she says. “A lot of people think it’s just pop country like on the radio or that hard country of guys talking about their tractors, but it’s way more than that. I wish more people would realize it.”
I nod along with her. If I’m honest, I’ve never thought that hard about it. I don’t tend to care what other people think about anything. But I suppose she is right.
“So you’re a country fan?” I ask. She nods. “Who are some of your favorite singers?”
This lightens the mood again, and we get to chatting about our favorite singers, our favorite bands, and the favorite gigs we’ve ever been to see. It makes the time pass quickly, too quickly.
When I finally get up to clear our plates away, I realize I haven’t moved in at least two hours.
“If you want to go to your room, you can,” I tell Carly. “You don’t have to spend time with me.”
Just like earlier, her face falls. “If it’s okay,” she says hesitantly, “I’d rather stay down here with you. I don’t think I want the company of my own thoughts tonight. Is that okay?”
“Of course,” I say, and she narrows her eyes a little at my positivity. If I’m honest, it surprised me too.
No. I don’t want to spend my time with her. That’s what I’m telling myself. I’m trying to deny that I want to keep seeing her, that it’s nice to have the company. I don’t. I don’t.
I keep lying to myself.
I dump the bowls in the sink, ignoring my usually meticulous washing-up plan, and rush back into the living room. I sit back down, and we chat about country music into the night in front of the fire, and we stay there until I close my eyes and, tired, don’t open them again.