Chapter 9 Alessia
No, maybe Gabriel isn’t the enemy here. But why does he feel like it? Why does he seem like the Trojan horse sent to break down my carefully constructed walls designed to keep men out and lick my wounds?
I glare at him, but then I realize my brows aren’t pinched together like I thought, and my mouth isn’t set to a thin line anymore. Really, I’m just staring at him. Admirably.
I decide to let go whatever defenses erected the moment I realized who he was because I really don’t know him, and this isn’t worth getting upset over.
I apologized, he said we should move on, but when I can’t figure someone out, I get frustrated.
And when I get frustrated, I feel out of control.
And I hate feeling out of control. Goes back to that whole ‘I hate surprises’ thing.
The last thing I need is to direct all my frustration and insecurities at Gabriel.
Especially since he’s Natasha’s cousin, and apparently one of the best men she knows.
I can kind of see why now, sitting across from him.
He’s kind, patient, and willing to overlook my mistakes without even knowing me.
His shoulders are relaxed, his smile is easy, and he doesn’t look uncomfortable about this weird mix-up at all.
I stab my fork at another bite of salmon and take the opportunity to study him again.
That strong jawline. Those broad shoulders that look like they could crush me in ways I probably shouldn’t be thinking about anymore.
Each lift of his fork to his nicely shaped mouth reveals the tiniest bit of tattoos on his wrists and as a tattoo lover myself, that only makes me even more attracted to him.
And he works in construction as a business owner, of course.
Though, I guess that shouldn’t be too surprising.
I moved to Brookhaven, Connecticut—basically the blue-collar capital closest to New York City.
But even still, I’m surprised by how much I find that attractive.
I’ve always dated men who’ve worked in desk jobs.
A guy who works away from a computer screen with his hands all day is new.
This isn’t the worst date. He’s right: he isn’t the guy I thought was cheating.
Even his cousin wasn’t cheating, though it’s hard to know if he would have.
I should ease up on him, let down my defenses a little bit.
But how? It feels like the defensiveness is oozing out of me, unintended, and I can’t seem to turn it off.
Maybe I’m not ready to get back into dating.
When I went to the bathroom earlier, after excusing myself to try and pull myself together and focus, I looked in the mirror and hated the expression that was staring back at me.
And it’s not because I don’t believe that I’m beautiful, but because my full lips and dark eyebrows seemed permanently set in a scowl.
Like my body and nervous system have been trained to be on high alert anytime I entertain a man who isn’t my cousin Memphis.
I’m always scanning for threats, preparing for an attack on my heart.
Bracing for them to say something that’ll piss me off or confirm what I already think that I know.
That men were created for pain. That I was right about them all hurting me.
And that simply isn’t fair to Gabriel. But worst, if I ever want to find love again, it’s not fair to me. And no amount of white wine—possibly the worst drink choice for this date—can soften those edges that I’ve sharpened with pride.
I should’ve ordered tequila. Maybe we could have done a shot together first.
“So, what brought you to Brookhaven?” Gabriel asks, pulling me from my thoughts and back to our present meal.
“Well,” I say, swirling my wine glass to distract myself, “after my divorce, I had to move out of the apartment my husband and I owned in Manhattan. I ended up crashing with an old college friend. A few months ago, she got engaged and told me it was time to move out. Right around the same time, my mom called to say my grandma wasn’t doing well.
She lives in Brookhaven. Next thing you know, here I am.
Living with my grandma and trying to get back on my feet. ”
He nods. “That’s nice that you had family to move in with.”
“It was… until she kicked me out a week ago. Graciously, Natasha allowed me to move into the house she just bought and pay way under what she deserves in rent.”
“I’ve seen the place. I don’t think you’re ripping her off. It needs a lot of work.”
I smile because that’s the first time someone’s said that, and it does make me feel a tiny bit better about how much I’m paying her.
“Who knew divorce lawyers were so expensive.”
He nods knowingly. “I paid mine off five years ago. It’s a steep bill. Especially when you’ve got other payments that don’t wait for you to catch up.”
Isn’t that the truth.
“Did you used to come to visit your grandma when you were younger?”
“I visited a few times over the years with my mom. One summer, she sent me here because I was pissing her off.”
He deadpans, “I can’t imagine why,” with a smirk that practically begs me to flick a piece of rice pilaf at his forehead where one, dark black curl has fallen perfectly. Why is that so attractive?
He brushes it away from his face as if he’s reading my mind.
“You have sisters,” I say flatly. “You get the teenage angst. Imagine that, but times one thousand.”
He nods, taking another bite of his food. “I remember it well. Eden was into Dashboard Confessional, Panic at the Disco, all the emo bands. I’ll never forget the time she yelled ‘you’ll never understand!’ at me when I asked her what grade she got on her English exam.”
I smirk. “That must have been a trip raising a teenager.”
He chuckles. “I enjoyed it. Feel like it set me up for the future.”
My heart stalls for a second. Or maybe it softens.
I can’t tell which. All I know is something shifts in my chest as I look at him.
This kind, steady, impossibly patient man who stepped up and raised his little sister after their parents died unexpectedly was probably navigating periods, acne, teenage break-ups and making dinner each night while stressing about bills before I ever had to think about those things.
The story is devastating. The kind of loss that fractures a family overnight and forces someone to grow up before they’re ready.
I can tell the way it’s matured him already.
I can’t imagine the weight he must have carried.
Grieving. Becoming a guardian. Trying to hold everything together while his own new marriage was rapidly falling apart.
There’s something about that that makes me view him differently from the other men I’ve encountered. Maybe it’s the fact that he has sisters. Maybe it’s knowing he understands women in a way most men don’t even try to or ever could. It makes me feel… safer. Seen, somehow.
And without realizing it, I relax. I lean in a little closer. Let myself enjoy the conversation instead of bracing for it to disappoint me. I don’t anticipate this going anywhere, but it’s always nice to be reassured that there are good, steady men out there.
“Yeah,” I continue, “other than that, this is the longest I’ve ever lived here.”
“And do you like the town so far?”
I nod because, strangely, I do. I always thought I’d be a New York City girl for life.
Born in Atlanta, a massive city on the east coast, but I made it to NYC as quickly as I could.
Both are big cities with different vibes, but with their own diversity of people, culture, food and experiences.
But maybe Brookhaven is what I need right now.
Small towns have a way of slowing you down and stripping away the performing.
And that’s what I think I need to rebuild.
“I do,” I admit. “It’s… cute.”
He smiles. “You could say that. The summers are even better. Boating, fishing, lots of little fairs and parades that wrap around the lake.”
“That’ll be interesting to see. This time of the year is… terrible. I hate this month.”
His brows lift in surprise. “You hate… the month of February?”
“I hate the awkward in-between—no real holidays, no warm weather to look forward to. It’s just gray, cold, and blah.”
“What about Valentine’s Day?”
“Hate it.”
He sets his fork down on his plate so slowly, like I just confessed to hating puppies or sunsets. “I’ve never met a woman who hated Valentine’s Day before.”
I shrug and tick off my fingers. “It’s a made-up holiday, created by corporations to make more money and capitalism sucks.
The holiday is all about giving gifts and getting gifts.
There’s this expectation that you’re going to receive something, and it better be expensive or the person doesn’t care enough about you.
It also isolates single people and makes them feel worse about their status.
Comparison is totally the thief of joy. You can’t get a dinner reservation to save your life, so you’re forced to cook whatever’s in your pantry.
You waste money on chocolate and flowers that are just going to die in a week.
Oh, and let’s not forget the origins of Valentine’s Day are totally insane. ”
His lips tilt at the corner into a smile. “Wasn’t it some Catholic saint?”
I shake my head, my eyes widening dramatically as I whisper, “Oh, you don’t know?”
He laughs, a deep, rumbling chuckle that seems to roll through my entire body. “This ought to be good.”
“Well,” I say, wetting my lips as I lean forward, suddenly far more interested in him than the plate of food sitting untouched in front of me. The meal’s been delicious. I know I’ll be raving to Natasha about it later, but this conversation is even better.