Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
The day of my coffee meeting with Gabriel coincides with my last interview for my research project.
I’m in the final stretch of my degree program to become a marriage and family therapist. The end part of the program is completing a research project, and I’ve chosen to study longevity in marriage. Much of my research has been conducted through interviews of people who’ve been married far longer than I’ve been alive.
The Bergmans, married fifty-two years next month, appear to be two halves of the same whole. Albert spoke only once, but Ingrid chatted long after I finished taking notes. She showed me their four children and twelve grandchildren, one of whom is expecting. She talked proudly about their occupations and adventures, and her opinion on all of it.
When I finally mentioned I had a date I was going to be late for, she shooed me from the room.
A lump has parked itself in my throat for most of my drive to this coffee shop. I pull into a parking spot, flipping down my visor and checking my makeup and teeth in the mirror.
My heart and my pulse? Different story. My heartbeat is everywhere, all at once.
I go on dates, but this one feels big in comparison. Like all dates before today were practice. This one? It's the real thing.
Gabriel sits at a table for two in the corner. He wears dark jeans, and a light-blue shirt. I can’t decide if he’s more breathtaking in or out of uniform. He smiles when he sees me, a grin that doesn’t hold pretense. My knees wobble as I make my way over. He stands when I’m halfway there, running his hands once down his thighs. His nervousness is both disarming and endearing.
“Hi, Avery.”
He steps out from his side of the table, surprising me by reaching for my hand. He takes another step at the same time he pulls me in for a hug.
It’s a real, solid hug. Nothing flimsy or awkward, where only our sides meet. This is a full on, chest to chest hug.
I melt into him. Into his wide chest, round shoulders, and the feeling of safety that comes part and parcel with this man. Beneath the fabric is hard muscle, ridges and bumps I could get lost in, and a scent I never want to forget. He rubs my back, his hand moving up and down, and I allow the feelings to wash over me, both the vulnerability and the soothing. Two things I rarely allow myself, but letting Gabriel be the liberator of both feels like a foregone conclusion.
He releases me, but not for long. He takes my hand, leading me through the tables of people and to the counter to order. He gestures for me to go first, so I recite my usual. Cold brew, no room.
Gabriel orders and pays. I could have paid for mine, but I like the way he pulled out his wallet and handed her a ten, as if me paying wasn’t in his realm of thinking. We take our coffees back to the table.
“So,” Gabriel says, leaning forward. He props his elbows on the table’s edge, his palms gripping his coffee. “How are you? I’ve been in plenty of fires, but never the way you were.”
“Would you mind if we didn’t talk about the fire? I know we made this…” I falter on the word. I don’t want to say ‘date.’ “… plan to meet based on the idea of talking about what happened, but…”
“Ready to not have it be the center of all your thoughts and conversations?” He lifts his eyebrows as he guesses my feelings.
I nod, relieved he understands. “Exactly.” The fire terrorizes my sleeping hours, and I’d like to keep it from my days. Last night I dreamed help never arrived, and I woke myself up before my dream-self leaped from the bedroom window.
Gabriel pushes at his shirt sleeves, sliding them up to the middle of his forearm. The fabric strains against the muscle, and a light dusting of dark hair peeks out. “Are you in school?” he asks, sipping his coffee.
He’s doing what I asked of him, and I appreciate that. “I’m in my second year of graduate school at ASU.”
“Studying?”
“Marriage and family therapy.”
“Uh-oh.” His eyes narrow playfully. “That involves psychology. Are you psychoanalyzing me right now?”
I laugh. “Yes.”
His eyebrows lift. “Results?”
“Inconclusive.”
He nods. “I guess you’ll need more time with the patient.”
One corner of my mouth lifts in a grin. “I guess so.”
Gabriel sits back, one palm on his thigh, the other wrapped around his cup. “Second year? So you’re almost done?”
“Almost over the finish line. I’m wrapping up a research project right now.”
Gabriel sips his coffee. I like watching the bob in his throat when he swallows. “What are you researching?”
“Success in long-term relationships.”
“How do you study something like that?”
“Interviews.” I cross my legs and lean back. “I just came from one. A sweet old couple who’ve been married fifty-two years.”
Gabriel’s eyes widen. “What was their secret?”
“From what I can tell, different people need different things from their spouses. And the ones who make it long-term are the people whose spouses give them what they need, whatever that might be. But at the end of the day, I think it’s all distilled into compassion. You have to have compassion to see and meet needs.”
He nods his head slowly. “Compassion. Hmm.”
The way he says it makes me think he doesn’t believe it. “Why do you sound like you’re not convinced?”
“I’ve been a firefighter for five years, and started out with a lot of compassion. But over time, when you see awful things over and over, you lose some of that. I have to compartmentalize, so I can do my job.”
He looks pensive, so I ask, “Do you regret that? Having to compartmentalize?”
He shakes his head. “No. I don’t think a person could survive the job otherwise.”
“Do you love it? What you do?” I ask because public service jobs strike me as emotionally draining, and if you don’t love it, how else can you refill your cup every day?
“Love it?” Gabriel shifts. “Nobody’s asked me that before. I guess I love it.”
“You were frowning. Just now, when you answered.” I use one finger from each hand to draw an upside down smile on my face.
Gabriel drinks his coffee, and I see it plain on his face, him feeling like maybe I’ve noticed too much. Like he has been too vulnerable, and he’s not comfortable with that. “Maybe it bothers me, and I didn’t realize it.” He taps the rim of his cup with a finger. “Do you remember the guy who walked out from the kitchen with me at the station? The young guy?”
I nod.
“That’s Ryan. My best friend. He loves what we do. Lives for it.” A faraway look comes over Gabriel’s face. He blinks three times in rapid succession, like he’s bringing himself back to the moment. “Some aspects of the job are great. My dad is the captain, so I get to spend a lot of time with him. You met him. He was the person standing in the bay when you walked in.” Gabriel shakes his head. “But, to me, it’s a job. For Ryan, it’s more than a job. It defines him.”
He falls quiet, and I get the feeling everything he said is only skimming the surface.
“I’ve been thinking about the 9-1-1 operator,” I say, to take the spotlight off him. “How her voice could’ve been the last one I heard. And what that might have done to her. It made me wonder if she’s been in that position before.”
The air between us takes on a sad quality. I said I didn’t want to talk about the fire, and now I’ve brought it up. Gabriel opens his mouth to speak, but his gaze moves to something behind me.
He points, and I turn. A young woman sets a stack of newspapers in a wire rack. She has already positioned one so it faces out, the front-page photo of a firefighter coming out of a burning home with a person thrown over his shoulders. The headline reads, Firefighter Saves College Student .
Gabriel is up from his seat, grabbing a copy and tucking it under his arm. He pays for it and returns, setting it on the table lengthwise so we can both read.
“You gave an interview?” he asks, glancing over the article.
The tip of my tongue traces my upper lip and I nod. “Yesterday. My sister set it up.”
Cam had communicated with the reporter, and when it was time she placed my laptop in front of me with the video call already going. Then she sat beside me, off-screen but holding my hand.
I tap the paper. “The reporter didn’t tell me it was going to be front page news. She made it sound like it was a little piece.”
“Must be a slow news day.” He keeps skimming. “The crew is going to love this. They’ve started calling me ‘hero.’”
My eyes widen in apology. “Because of me?”
“Yes,” he says, but he’s grinning. "It’s ok. There are far worse things to be called.” He gets to the end of the article and looks up at me through dark lashes. “She wrote that we’re going on a date.”
I palm my forehead as mortification makes me want to sink into the cold tile floor. “I’m so sorry. My sister mentioned it right before the call was over. I didn’t think it was part of the interview.”
His thumb runs the length of his lower lip. “Don’t be sorry. I don’t care if the entire world knows I asked you on a date.”
My toes curl, gripping my shoes as I try to keep myself rooted to this moment when everything inside me feels like butterflies and somersaults. “You don’t do that often, do you? Ask the people you save from a burning building if they’ll go on a date with you?” I’m teasing because I don’t know how to handle the intensity between us.
He smirks, a dimple appearing in his right cheek only. “You’re the first.”
“I feel honored,” I say in a joking voice.
“I hope you know I didn’t ask you out because I expected you to agree.”
“Why did you ask?”
“Honestly?”
“No, lie to me.”
This earns me a laugh. I like his laugh. It’s deep, almost gruff, and masculine.
“My dad and Ryan essentially shoved me out the door after you left the station.”
“You wouldn’t have come after me on your own?”
“I definitely would have. My wheels were turning slower that day, thanks to a beautiful woman and her even prettier smile.”
A warm flush spreads over me.
Gabriel continues. “There was no way I was going to let you drive away without figuring out some way to see you again.”
I gulp against the rush of endorphins, the flowing oxytocin. “Why’s that? Aside from you doing your job, we hardly know each other.”
He bites his lower lip. “There’s something about you, something I can’t wrap my mind around.” His head moves back and forth slowly as he speaks. “I just knew that if I let you drive away, I’d regret it.”
Words fail me, so I close the inches separating our hands. My fingers slide over his, intertwining. The newspaper lies beneath our grasp.
“Is this the right way to start something?” I ask. Am I confusing my gratitude to him for saving my life for attraction? His thumb draws a circle on the top of my hand. My core tightens.
No. Definitely not what I’m doing.
“We can pretend last weekend never happened. I met you at the grocery store, we were reaching for the same carton of strawberries. Our hands brushed. Sparks flew. You were dazzled by my wit, I was taken by your hazel eyes.”
I laugh. “Have you spent some time on this?”
He shrugs with one shoulder. “I don’t shy away from romance.”
Lucky me. “I am dazzled by your wit.”
His free hand disappears under the table and lands on my knee. His caress is gentle, but potent enough to send a shock through my center, all the way to my heart.
His head tips sideways. “I am taken by your hazel eyes.”
I will my heart rate to slow, but it’s no use. It is soaring, galloping, cartwheeling down a hill. “Then I guess it’s settled.”
Gabriel smiles. His teeth are nearly perfect, save for a lower tooth that turns in slightly. I like this imperfection, so tiny it shouldn’t be termed as such. “I like your name.”
I point to my chest. “My name?”
“A-very. A Very.” He looks playful. “ A Very smart and beautiful woman sits across from me.”
“I’ve never thought of my name that way before.”
“Do you hate it? I don’t have to say it like that.”
I shake my head quickly. “No, no. I don’t hate it.” I like how he has already created an inside joke for us.
“I have to get going,” he says regretfully, glancing at the watch on his left wrist. “My dad bought a new couch, and I told him he could use my truck to pick it up.”
“That was nice of you.” My chair glides along the tile floor as I push away from the table. “Are you close with your parents?” I ask, ducking my head into my purse strap and arranging it across my body.
Gabriel’s mouth opens, then closes. He spends a few seconds thinking, then says slowly, “Yes.”
I want to ask him more about that, but we’re short on time, and maybe it’s too heavy of a topic for a first date. Perhaps dysfunctional families are more third date material.
We walk from the coffee shop, his hand settling lightly on my lower back. I love the warmth, the gentle guidance, the heat of his hand through the cotton of my shirt. We get to my car, and I lean my back against the driver's door. He’s close enough that I can reach out and take hold of his shirt. He stays that way, towering over me, gaze locked on mine.
I want him to kiss me. I’ve never been this attracted to anybody. All of him calls all of me to attention.
He steps closer, sliding a hand into my hair, his thumb tracing the shell of my ear. My head tips into his touch.
“Gabriel.” My whisper is an invitation, and he knows it. He closes the distance at the same time I close my eyes. I know what’s coming, and every inch of me is ready for it.
It’s not a short I-just-met-you kiss. He lingers. His lips are perfect, and I melt against him. When his tongue pushes against the seam of my lips, I open willingly. His sweet caramel coffee flavor mixes with my bitter cold brew. I moan quietly, unable to keep myself from making the sound. He smiles against me as our foreheads press together and we share a breath. I am astounded, floored, unequivocally knocked sideways.
“Can I see you again? Soon?” Gabriel asks. His tone is urgent.
This feeling of being wanted is good. Really, really good. “Absolutely,” I murmur.
He puts a few inches of space between us. “I’m off tomorrow, too. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?”
I nod. “Just tell me when and where and I’ll be there.”
Gabriel shakes his head. “I want to pick you up. Where are you staying?”
“My dad’s house. I’ll send you the address.”
He places a second kiss, short but sweet, at the corner of my mouth. He doesn’t walk away until I climb in my car. I drive home, my fingertips traversing the trail he blazed across my lips.
A kiss that promised a million more.