Chapter 26
Ninety-Six Words for Love
Patricia, Gavin, and I make dinner together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Grilled halibut with Peruvian aioli, mashed potatoes so creamy they deserve a sonnet written about them, and Apple & Olive Oil Cake from an Ottolenghi recipe that feels half spell, half dessert. Even before we take a bite, I know I’ll remember this meal forever.
Golden light filters through the garden-facing windows, soft and slow. We clink glasses of mocktails made with Girl Meets Dirt shrubs and toast to Patricia’s visit.
There’s a tenderness to Gavin tonight. The way he ribs Patricia, eyes crinkling at the corners. He makes her laugh in a way that is not performative. Just honest. Familiar. Like muscle memory. She nudges him, calls him incorrigible, and he smiles like he’s ten years old again.
And I’m undone.
Not by his hands or his voice or his irritatingly well-fitted shirt.
By this: the way he looks at his mother like she hung the moon.
The way his eyes flick to mine and linger a beat too long.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
We talk about Marisol’s party in the garden, about island sunsets and grazing tables, and the citrus trees beginning to bloom. Patricia tells a story about Gavin’s childhood obsession with dinosaurs that has him groaning and me nearly snorting.
By dessert, I know the truth. Or at least, I start to.
That these are two of my favorite people. Not Patricia and Jared. Patricia and Gavin.
When did that happen?
I glance across the table. Gavin’s smiling at something Patricia said, tipping back his glass, and I’m struck again. Not just by his face, but by the space he takes up in this room. In me.
Why did it take me so long to notice how dangerously attractive he is?
Because I wasn’t looking. Now I am.
I reach for my water, my neck warm with the kind of heat that has nothing to do with temperature. I glance toward the window, pretending to admire the madronas glowing in the last light of day.
Patricia wipes a crumb from her lip, then turns to Gavin. “Honey, have you and Olivia set a date yet?”
The question lands like a glass shattering at the edge of the table.
Gavin’s knee shifts under the table. Close enough to brush mine. He doesn’t move it away. He may not even feel it, but I do.
“Olivia’s been busy taking meetings with producers who want to steal her away from Wake Up, America,” he says. “And I’ve been out here.”
“It’s been almost a year,” Patricia says.
Gavin grins at her, but it’s the kind that hides things. “Let’s be real, Mom. You’re more excited about the floral arrangements than the wedding.”
She gasps in mock offense. “You wound me.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Admit it.”
“Okay, fine. I’ve had your wedding florals planned since you were two.” She leans toward me conspiratorially. “But I doubt Olivia and I will ever agree on style. And be warned: I’ve never seen a bride make it to the altar without at least three full meltdowns.”
“Even you?” Gavin teases.
“Especially me,” Patricia says, laughing. “Ask your father. I cried so much the week before our wedding, I’m surprised he still showed up.”
“I can’t imagine Olivia crying,” I say before I think better of it.
Gavin’s mouth twists into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come to think of it, I’ve only seen her cry once. And that was before we were dating.”
He glances at me, this time with something unreadable.
“You two, though,” he says, “You cry at the drop of a hat.”
“We can’t help it if happy things make us cry,” Patricia says, her voice warm as she reaches for my hand. “Ava and I feel things deeply.”
I squeeze her fingers, grateful.
“I have a theory about that,” I say.
Gavin lifts a brow. “Is there anything you don’t have a theory about?”
“Well, yes. Many things.”
Like why I suddenly want to memorize the shape of your mouth.
Like why it hurts when you talk about your fiancée.
He tilts his head. “Let’s hear it.”
I tell them about my college roommate Asha’s grandfather, a famous palm reader from Madurai. The year-long waitlist because people believed in him so much. How he looked at my hands and told me I was in my seventh and final life.
“He said it was an honor. That I’d learned everything I was meant to learn. That my soul would finally rest.”
“Moksha,” Patricia says quietly.
I nod. “No more reincarnation. No more heartbreak.”
Gavin leans in. “So … you cry because …?”
“That’s my theory. I cry at beautiful things because my soul knows it’s the last time it gets to experience them. Last time I get to watch a mother kiss her newborn’s head. Last time I get to hear children sing in a choir. Or—”
“A field of wildflowers as far as the eye can see,” Patricia adds.
“Yes. That. It’s joy and grief tangled together.”
Patricia’s eyes well up. Mine do too. She takes my hand again and holds it tight.
“See?” I laugh. “Happy crying.”
But it isn’t just that. It’s the idea of losing this. This bond I have with them. And when I glance over at Gavin, he’s watching me. His eyes dark with something I don’t recognize—or maybe don’t want to name.
I hold his gaze. I should look away. I should. But I don’t.
Patricia is watching us now, too. Like she’s trying to watch a movie she’s seen before but can’t quite remember how it ends.
And then, the strangest thing. Not a thought. Not even a realization. Just a knowing.
It rushes through me like a whisper and a wave.
This brother.
My heart—so quiet for so long—slams against my chest.
The voice is not gentle. It doesn’t ask. It declares. Like my heart has been waiting for the most inconvenient moment in the world to raise its hand and shout.
I want to argue with it. To remind it that he’s engaged. That Olivia exists. That this is ridiculous.
Instead, I keep looking.
“Gavin?” Patricia says. “What do you think of Ava’s theory?”
He startles. Blinks. Looks down at his plate.
“Sorry, I drifted. Must be the wine.”
He’s lying.
And I can’t stop wondering where his mind just went.
I steam milk for cappuccinos, guiding the wand just beneath the surface until it stretches into light, airy foam. But my eyes are on Gavin and Patricia in the dining room, swing dancing. Chuck Berry’s You Never Can Tell crackles through the speakers, its bright, brassy piano riffs ricocheting off the walls.
Patricia flicks her fingers beneath her chin and slides them out in front of her eyes—mock sultry, full Uma Thurman energy—and Gavin, God help me, mirrors her. Deadpan. Committed. He shimmy-shuffles backward, shoulders rolling, then pinches his nose and does an exaggerated water wiggle like he’s cannonballing into an invisible pool.
They’re pure joy—spinning, twisting, laughing.
Then he pulls her back in, smooth as silk, spins her once, twice, dips her low enough that she squeals.
This is the real Gavin, I think, as a lump forms in my throat. He’s been rationing this version of himself. Keeping it carefully folded away. But up close, I see it—because Patricia knows how to unfold him.
And that Gavin pulls me in like a riptide.
The song ends in applause and breathless laughter. Gavin’s phone buzzes. He checks the screen, expression shifting into something more contained.
“Olivia,” he says, already stepping away.
Patricia lifts her cappuccino. “Come on,” she says to me. “Let’s give the groom some privacy.”
We carry our drinks out to the back veranda.
“Since when does your son have hips?” I ask.
Patricia laughs. “Surprised he can dance?”
“I mean—” I wave vaguely toward the living room. “He was swing dancing like he’s been rehearsing for a retro dance competition. I’ve seen him parallel park with less confidence.”
She grins. “When I was sick, someone had to take Cari to and from her ballroom dance classes.”
Patricia’s voice softens. “He didn’t want her to quit. So, he learned the steps. Waltz. Foxtrot. Even a little rumba. He’d practice with her in the living room after homework.”
The image lands somewhere under my ribs.
We step fully into the night air. It’s cooler, salted faintly by the ocean. Patricia settles onto one of the chaises, and I follow.
Above us, the sky opens wide and unapologetic, dotted with stars.
“So, I guess the brooding billionaire businessman routine is… performance art?”
Patricia’s eyes sparkle. “My son contains multitudes.”
She takes a sip of her cappuccino, then pauses before speaking.
“By the way,” she says, like she’s casually ordering coffee, “Gavin’s the one who told Marisol about the dinner. Sent her pictures. Told her to call you.”
I pause, hand gripping my mug.
“He did?”
She smiles. “He sees what you need. Even when you don’t think he does.”
We’re quiet for a while, letting the stars do their job.
“Love that you can actually see the stars here. I never noticed them in New York City,” I say.
Patricia sips, then nods slowly. “Stars remind us that sometimes you can’t see light without some darkness.”
I think about what she’s saying. Would I have seen the island’s beauty—the garden, the friendship Gavin offers—if I hadn’t first been lost?
“How are you, really, Ava?”
“I still think about Jared. I miss him more than I should. Working for Gavin and building the garden has been a great distraction, but there’s still something missing.”
Tears come, but not the poetic kind from earlier. These clock in, do their job, and leave my chest lighter.
I haven’t grieved Jared. Not really.
Now I do.
And underneath the ache is ... space.
Patricia gently places her hand on my shoulder, part comfort, part grounding.
I wipe my eyes. “An Inuit friend once told me there are a hundred words for snow in the Inuit language. First fall, dangerous crust, powder.”
“I’ve heard that, too,” Patricia replies.
“I wonder if they have different words for different kinds of tears?”
“I don’t know the answer to that, honey, but I do know that in Sanskrit there are ninety-six words for love.”
My mind drifts to the framed cards on Gavin’s wall. “The art in the dining room?”
“I found them in India. Collected them over time on two trips there. I don’t have all 96, but …”
“They’re beautiful.”
“They’re a good reminder that we’re lucky to have any kind of love in our lives.”
Could Jared be a different card?
Maybe our love was respect, creativity, and habit.
A bright card, but not the card.
“Thank you, Patricia.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Actually, you have. I just figured out how I can keep Jared in my life.”
“That’s wonderful, Ava,” she claps her hands together, delighted.
“You know, you’ve been taking care of me since I met you.”
“Well, you’ve been taking care of my sons. First Jared. Now Gavin. He looks good, by the way,” Patricia says.
“I’ve been feeding him well. Did you know he considered coffee a food group? I’ve also tricked him into eating more raw vegetables.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” she replies.
“Oh?”
“He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him look. Content. Like a man in love for the first time.”
“That’s great, right? He and Olivia are about to get married and start a new life,” I remind her.
“I don’t think my son is in love with Olivia, Ava.”
My pulse betrays me before my voice can, so I say nothing.
We watch the sky. And I wonder if love is what’s been blooming all around me while I wasn’t looking. A hundred kinds of snow. Ninety-six kinds of love.
And yes—Gavin.