Chapter 8 #2
Some weird little voice in the back of my head wants to believe he isn’t.
Or at the very least, wants to believe that he wouldn’t try to.
He did save my life, after all. But that doesn’t matter.
At the end of the day, the potential to hurt me is there.
He has the physical strength and ability to overpower me, and that’s reason enough to be leery.
“I saved you,” he snaps, indignation clear in his tone.
His honey-colored eyes darken, taking on an amber hue. My stomach does a flip and I jerk my gaze away.
Don’t look at the pretty boy with pretty eyes.
Come on, Cecilia, get it together.
“Yeah. Thanks for that.” Sarcasm drips from my words. “Look, can you just say or ask whatever it is you need to and go away? I’d like to get out of here sometime this century.” I try for haughty annoyance, but I’m not sure he’s buying it.
He surprises me when, without argument, he walks himself back, not stopping until his shoulders press against the far wall, leaving a good fifteen feet between him and the ladder now.
“I just want to talk. See how you’re holding up.” He nods to the ladder. “You can get out now. I’ll stay right here.”
I consider him for a moment, searching for the lie, but before I can come to a decision, my leg spasms again and I dip below the surface, taking in a mouthful of water. That makes the decision for me.
Pushing myself forward, I climb up the ladder, careful to keep him in my line of sight as I inch further away from him around the edge of the pool. My legs shake and I know he doesn’t miss it.
Grabbing my towel from a nearby chair, I wrap it around me, but I don’t bother to take a seat no matter how fatigued I am.
If this conversation goes south, I need to be on my feet, ready to bolt if I have to.
“You know I won’t try anything, right? I’m not like that. I don’t hurt women.”
“Sure,” I say to placate him.
He curses under his breath, in Spanish I think. But I don't know the words. His harsh tone and expression are enough to convey his meaning, though. He’s not happy. Guess what? Neither am I.
“What’s your damage?” he demands in a clipped tone. “You're acting like I’m the enemy or some shit when all I did was carry you out of here when you needed help.”
“I never asked for your help,” I remind him. Is he expecting a thank you? I hope not, because he won’t be getting one from me. If that’s why he’s here, I hope he’s prepared to leave sorely disappointed.
Gabriel’s mouth drops open, eyes flashing in indignation. “Are you fucking with me right now?”
I shake my head. “No. I didn’t ask for your help.” I wait, expecting him to tell me I’m stupid or to storm off in a huff, but he doesn’t do either of those things.
His eyes bore into mine, like he’s trying to peel back my layers to see what’s hiding underneath. His penetrating stare leaves me exposed, but it's his words that grip me, making my veins fill with ice as guilt and shame surge through me.
“You’re going to do it again.” He barks out a humorless laugh. “Aren't you?!” His loud voice booms through the empty room and I barely manage to keep myself from staggering back.
His eyes are unwavering. I know he wants to step forward. To crowd me. I can see it in the veins that stand out on his arms. In the tension lining his neck. He’s holding himself in place, not allowing himself to take a single step closer. But he doesn’t look away.
The hairs on my arms stand on end.
The way he says it, like it’s a statement. A fact. He doesn’t need me to answer because he already knows.
I cross my arms over my chest and chew on my bottom lip. How does he see me? See the things everyone else misses?
No one else has bothered asking me that. I’m sure they think it, but no one says it. Not out loud.
But Gabriel seems intent on driving his point home. “It might not be today. Might not even be this week or this month. But the thought is still in your head, right?”
I don’t answer.
“RIGHT?” He mutters another foreign curse and hangs his head. His chest heaves as he sucks in a deep breath. “Fuck!”
A sinking feeling hits me and I try to decipher where it’s coming from, but draw a blank.
“Answer me!” He straightens and takes a single step forward.
I ball my hands into fists. “Why do you even care?” He doesn’t know me. We’re not friends. Why does any of this matter to him?
A stark expression crosses his face, but it’s only there for a second before a new emotion covers it up. Anger. Vivid and raw.
“Do you have any idea how fucking selfish you are?” He pushes from the wall and stalks toward me. “Does it even register for you the kind of damage that little stunt of yours caused?”
My pulse races and a chill climbs up my spine.
He doesn’t pause to let me answer. “I saw your parents that day. After they were called to the clinic.” His lip curls in disgust. “They were wrecked. And you want to do that shit to them all over again?”
My heart pounds in my chest. My mind short-circuiting at his words.
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
Words jam up in my throat. I don’t know what to say to that. Or if saying anything will make any of this better. More likely, it’ll just make things worse, so I keep my mouth closed and ignore the sting of tears behind my eyes.
Gabriel’s expression bleeds with emotion. Anger and anguish warring with one another. My shock at his words begins to wear off the longer he stands there and I realize he’s only a few inches away. My throat constricts. He’s close. Too close.
My feet are frozen in place. My breath trapped in my lungs.
A shuddering exhale hisses through my teeth and it takes everything inside of me not to mentally shut down. To curl in on myself as I wait for whatever comes next. He’s just so angry.
Hot tears threaten to spill over, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction. He has no idea what I’ve been through.
“You don’t get to do shit like that.”
My feet finally move, but I’ve only retreated two steps before my back hits the wall
Gabriel follows suit and braces his hands on either side of my head, caging me in.
“You’re not a child. No one is going to excuse your behavior. Whatever the hell your issue is, grow the fuck up and get over it. Life moves on.”
My jaw tightens.
“And don’t for a second think it’s okay to do what you did to them. I don’t give a fuck what your damage is. Shit like that doesn’t go away for the people you leave behind.”
He barks out a humorless laugh.
“What am I thinking? You don’t care. You don’t give a fuck if you scar your loved ones. If you fucking break them.”
My head snaps up.
“For the record, you will. You’ll destroy them when you succeed with your little getaway plan.”
Frustration crashes over me and my lips press together in a tight line. No one else talks to me like this. Not about what happened. What I did. Mom and Dad coddle me. My therapist tries to understand me. But no one blames me like Gabriel is doing right now. No one else says this is my fault.
He watches me intently, searching for the cracks in my exterior he can latch on to.
“Do you have any idea what will happen once you're gone? The level of destruction that’ll be a direct result of your actions?” He pauses for me to answer, but I have no words. None. They’re trapped in my throat, making it ache and burn. I want to deny what he’s saying but I can’t.
His eyes bore right into me, seeking out my vulnerable parts and demanding that I listen. That I acknowledge the role I’ve played.
“Your parents will be beside themselves with grief, and all grief needs an outlet.” His gaze is like a physical weight pressing down on me, and there’s a bitter edge to his words.
He’s no longer speculating. He’s speaking from experience.
His own experience. “They’ll wonder what they could have done.
What signs or signals they missed.” His jaw clenches.
“Did they tell you they loved you enough? Did they try hard enough to make you stay?”
I turn to look away but Gabriel won’t have it. His arm drops from the wall and he captures my chin, forcing my gaze back to his. His fingers dig into my cheek, his thumb anchoring along my jaw.
“Asking those questions won’t make them feel better, so they’ll move on to the blame game.
” His smile is cruel as he glares down at me.
“They’ll blame each other for your death.
They have to blame someone. Anyone. But they sure as shit can’t blame you.
Even though it's your goddamn fault. They can’t think of it that way. ” He tsks.
I try to pull away but Gabriel’s grip on my face tightens. His other hand lowers to settle on my hip, fingers digging into my skin. There’s no escape. I should be freaking out right now, fighting to get away from him.
But he isn’t finished.
I need to hear what he has to say.
“They’ll remember you as the perfect child who never made a single mistake.
They’ll forget all the bad things in their grief.
All the times you fucked up. All the therapy and hospital stints.
The sleepless nights. None of it exists, so blaming you, putting any shred of responsibility on your shoulders, is wrong. ”
He releases my face and stabs a finger into my chest, looming over me like an avenging angel.
“But it’s not wrong. Them being fucked up over what you did is your fault.
You’re the one who deserves the blame. It’ll be your fault when they get a divorce because the sight of one another is a constant reminder of the kid they lost. And it’ll be your fault when your mom gives into depression and gets hooked on painkillers.
When your dad turns to alcohol so he can forget his kid killed herself and that he lost his wife to her pain.
All of that shit will be your fucking fault! ”
I wilt under the onslaught of his words. Each one hits me hard, like a knife in the chest, leaving me to bleed out on the cold stone floor.
“I … I didn’t think—”
“Clearly.” His chest presses against mine, heaving with each ragged breath. The muscles in his neck are pulled tight, tendons straining. I don’t know what to say. There’s this crazy, irrational part of me that wants to comfort him. He’s like me in a way. Broken. Hurting.
“Who did you lose?” My voice is hoarse, throat thick with emotion.
His warm, heavy breaths fan over my face and his fingers flex around my hip. Our eyes are still locked together and I see anguish flicker across his face, but as quickly as it appears, it’s gone.
Gabriel touches his forehead to mine, the moment all of a sudden intimate.
I squeeze my eyes tight and place my hand to his chest. His heart races beneath my palm, eager for escape.
Mine does that too. Sometimes I wonder if it beats fast enough, loud enough, if it can succeed in running away, and finally put an end to all my suffering.
He presses his lips to my temple and we just stand there, drinking in one another’s pain. Seconds pass turning into minutes, and I realize having him this close doesn’t terrify me like it should. My heart races but for an entirely new reason
He squeezes my hip once more before pulling back, and before I even meet his eyes, I know the moment is gone.
I peer up at him through my lashes, taking in the thin line of his lips. His flat, emotionless eyes. He’s shutting down. Withdrawing into himself in a way I’ve seen myself do time and time again.
“I lost my brother.” There’s zero inflection in his voice. “My twin.”
I gasp, fingers covering my mouth. “I’m so sor—”
“Don’t.”
I snap my mouth closed, unable to imagine what that sense of loss feels like. I want to ask more questions. How did it happen? When did it happen? Is there anything I can do? But I keep my lips firmly together. He doesn’t owe me his secrets. Not when I’m unwilling to offer him mine.
Gabriel steps back and runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the dark strands with an irritated huff. “I don’t know why I told you that.”
He shakes his head and looks away, giving me an up close and personal look at the cut of his jawline. Sharp and unyielding.
Then, without another word, he shifts on his feet and heads for the door.
I stare at his back, reeling. My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. I’m tempted to call out for him, but what would I say?
I’m sorry for your loss.
I wish I could help.
You can talk to me. None of that makes any of this better.
His pain permeates the air around him. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before. It’s there in the hard set of his shoulders. The aggression in his steps. Even now, as he walks away from me, I know the muscles in his back are tight. The strain in his body close to snapping.
He doesn’t want pretty words of comfort.
He doesn’t want anything.
Not from me.
And for some strange reason, it bothers me.