Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22
The ringing phone wakes me.
I grab it off my nightstand, hardly registering the ten digits flashing on my screen. “Hello?”
“Avery? God, I’m sorry.” Gabriel’s voice cracks.
I sit up straight, catapulted to an awake state. “Gabriel?” I look at his side of the bed, confirming he’s missing from it. “What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.
“Gabriel, what is happening?” I’m sharp with him now. Terrified.
“I need you to come get me.” His voice breaks at the end.
Weight presses against my chest, my heart, my stomach. Though I dread my next question, I ask it anyway. “Where are you?”
A beat. Then two more, before he says in a garbled voice, “The police station.”
A sharp inhale stabs my throat. I think I knew he was going to say it, but hearing the words is different. They are confirmation of a fear I refused to acknowledge.
“What did you do?” I’m crying now, my voice climbing up my throat, only to tumble down.
“I’d like to tell you when you get here.” He recites the address, his voice hardly louder than a whisper. "I…love you."
All I can say is, “Do you?”
I tap the end button just as I hear his hoarse whisper. “Yes.”
My fingers shake as I pull my jeans up over my hips. I fumble with the zipper so many times that I yank off the jeans and stuff my legs back in my pajama shorts.
I am so beside myself that I end up in a sweatshirt, forgetting it’s the middle of summer. I don’t even crank the air conditioning on the drive. Thoughts of what might have happened consume me, but it’s more of a distraction than anything else. I know what happened. I knew this was coming.
I pull into the parking lot and immediately spot a lone, dark figure leaning on the wall of the police station. Slowing, I put the car in Park and watch him approach.
My husband.
Gabriel opens the door. He stands in the space, hesitating. He shuffles from one foot to the other.
Why is he just standing there?
The pieces fall into place. He’s not sure he’s allowed in the car. His shame breaks my heart.
“Get in,” I say.
He folds himself in the passenger seat, and we do not speak for a full minute. Then he closes the door, and I drive.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
I look at him in the glow of a streetlight as we pass under it. He stares at the floorboard, shadows darkening the skin beneath his eyes. “What are you sorry for?”
My fingers shake against the steering wheel. I no longer want confirmation of what happened. I want to curl into a ball and cry.
“For putting you through this.” Slowly his head moves back and forth, like even he can’t believe it.
I ask the question, with the answer I already know. “Did you drive drunk?”
He nods, eyes still cast down.
“How much trouble are you in?” I’ve heard of the leniency police officers will show firefighters. Those could have been rumors though, and until now I’d never thought to ask.
Gabriel lifts his head, swinging his face to meet mine. The brokenness in his gaze doesn’t appear to have a bottom, and I’m lost in those dark eyes of his, falling down into nothing and everything and whatever is waiting once we hit bottom.
His lower lip trembles. I turn right, faster than I intend, and park the car on a dark and quiet street.
My back presses against the door as I turn and face him. I wait.
“I’m in a lot of trouble.”
I’ve never heard his voice like this. Shallow, and full of despair.
“Start from the beginning.” I don’t know how my voice is calm.
“I went out with Plotnik and Casella after we were done with our reports. I know I told you I’d be home, but—” He hesitates, and I finish the sentence for him.
“You didn’t want to come home.”
His answering nod is tiny and regretful. “Things have been hard. Between us, I mean.”
My skin prickles. Anger bubbles, but it doesn’t break the surface. I’m feeling too many other emotions for anger to take hold yet.
“It’s my fault.” He shakes his head. It seems to be his favorite movement right now. “Everything is my fault.”
“Keep going,” I instruct. Fear grips my heart. For the first time since he called me, I’m beginning to understand this might be worse than I thought.
“I had too much to drink, but I didn’t want to ask you for a ride. I didn’t want you to know I’d been drinking. I see your disappointment every time you look at me, and I didn’t want to add to it again, and…” He coughs on a sob. “And I didn’t call for a ride, because then my truck wouldn’t be there, and you would know.” He digs into my center console and finds a travel pack of tissues. “How did you know, in St. Lucia?”
“I woke up and found you on the couch. And you reeked.” I wait for him to be done blowing his nose. “I restarted my birth control that night.”
He sobs once more, louder this time, filled with more anguish. I cry too, but quietly.
When he can speak, he says, “I’m sorry. So sorry.” He’s shaking his head again, like even he is astonished by all that has happened. “I ruined it for us. I—” His voice cracks. “I have no idea what’s going to happen to me.”
I take a deep breath. Reality and whatever this is that I’m doing right now do not feel like they are one and the same. This is a different me, an alternate version, and I’ve been asked to play her role momentarily. “Is this not a standard-issue DUI?”
More sobs from Gabriel. “Someone walked in front of my car.”
Horror races through me. “Are they ok?”
“I don’t know. Nobody would tell me anything. One moment I was driving, and then there was a loud sound. I never even saw them. I got out of the truck.” He makes a sound, an anguished huff of emotion. “I’m the one who called 9-1-1.”
I’m too shocked to think. My limbs are frozen, and simultaneously tingling. I’m no longer tethered to this earth, and I could float away.
I’m on autopilot now, turning on the car and driving us home. I want to climb in bed, wake up in the morning, and call this all a dream.
But I’m really awake. And this isn’t a dream. It’s a nightmare.
“Will you get special treatment because you’re a firefighter?” How can something I used to think was unfair suddenly feel like a lifeline?
“My special treatment was them letting me go home with you and not having to post bail. I don’t think there will be any more special treatment from here on out.”
My wheels are already turning, making lists and plans. There is no control to be had in this situation, so I grab onto whatever I can. “We’ll start making calls on Monday morning, find a good lawyer. That’s the most important thing.”
“I need to know if the person is ok. They were awake when the ambulance arrived. I’m almost positive their leg was broken. Maybe I can go to the hospital?—”
“Do not go to the hospital.” I don't know what I’m talking about, but it sounds like a bad idea. Something a lawyer might warn against. “We don’t know what the future holds, and what a case against you will look like.”
Are these my words? Is it me speaking?
Our walk into our home is surreal. The placement of my purse on the entryway table is surreal. It doesn’t feel real when I take off my sweatshirt, or change into a tank top. Gabriel stands in the middle of our room, lost.
“Take a shower,” I say, pointing through the open door into our bathroom. He listens. When he comes back into our room, I’m already lying in our bed. I’m on my side, my back to him. The mattress dips with his movement, the comforter shifts. His gaze burns into my back. I don’t know what he’s feeling or thinking, and I don’t want to ask.
I’m running out of compassion.
It’s a slippery slope, I know, because compassion is more important than anything else.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll try to find more of it. Tonight, the well has run dry.
Gabriel doesn’t touch me, though I can feel he wants to. The sheets shift again, and I know it’s Gabriel rolling over. Giving up.
Marriage is hard, but this can’t possibly be what everybody meant. This isn’t petty annoyances or differences in spending habits.
This is so much worse.