Chapter 32 Gabriel
Gabriel
I’d planned to sleep in the guest bedroom after my workout, but I wasn’t ready to climb under the covers and stare at the ceiling. I’d had to get out of the house.
Now, I run a hand through my shower-damp hair and look up as the waitress approaches with my drink order. Her smile is sympathetic, but she added an extra swing to her hips when she turned my way. Her sympathy would extend further than a few kind words if I flirt back.
I stare at the table as she sets the glass of amber liquid and ice in front of me.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You bet.” She hesitates, then ventures, “Rough night?”
How to answer that question? “My wife hates me?” “I’m avoiding my house because I can’t face the look of betrayal in her eyes?
” “I’m lonely as hell and want to stop fighting for one damn night because I’m too fucking exhausted to keep going?
” I clear my throat and give a friendly, but not too friendly, smile.
“Nah. Just tired. Busy week. I’m waiting on someone. ”
She nods. “I’ll keep an eye out for your friend.”
I pull the wrapper off my straw, then start tying knots in it.
One at a time. Tie a knot, then snap it off and toss it to the table.
Then another and another, making a little pile of paper bows.
When I reach the end of my straw wrapper, I remove the cocktail napkin from under my glass, rip the paper into strips and start again.
The knots in the red paper remind me of Sydney’s belt and how she kept her rings safe by tying and tying.
I glance at my drink, then work the paper into another knot.
A quick check of my phone shows Sydney hasn’t texted. No shock there. She’d tear her own fingernails out with pliers before she’d make the first move after a fight, if you could even call it that, and she didn’t want me there in the first place.
I tie another bow, snap it off, and add it to the pile.
A man, taller than I am by an inch and a half, with light brown hair that looks like he stuck his finger in a light socket, pulls out the chair across from me, and lowers himself to sit.
Glasses perch on his lightly freckled nose, but they don’t cover the bleary sleep deprivation in his blue eyes.
“Sorry, Henry. I didn’t think about the baby. You probably aren’t getting much sleep as it is.”
He glances down at my ever-growing pile of knots and untouched glass. “I’m glad you called.”
Our waitress stops by our table and fans her face. “Two of you? Your mother must be proud. That is some gene pool.”
Henry frowns. “Our birth mother was an alcoholic and an addict who overdosed on a combination of prescription painkillers and alcohol, leaving behind two motherless sons who never fully recovered from her loss. Also, we’re both married.”
Subtle, Henry.
She freezes, then clears her throat. “Sorry to hear that. About your mother, I mean. Er . . . congrats on the being married part?”
Henry nods then flips open the menu. “Thank you. Our wives are delightful. I’d like water, with lemon slices in a separate dish, not floating in the glass. I’d also like a glass of unsweetened iced tea and a large order of nachos.”
When she walks away, I shake my head. “She was making small talk. You could have said ‘thank you’ and moved on.”
“She was flirting. Probably for the purpose of a bigger tip, but I refuse to participate. It’s disrespectful to my wife.”
There’s no point explaining there are subtler ways to handle these things. Henry is Henry.
He pulls a black fidget spinner from his pocket and flicks it. I pick up a strip of paper and tie another knot, my attention solely on my fingers.
Henry indicates my glass. “What is it?”
“Iced tea.”
“I wasn’t sure.”
I nod. “Sydney said she was proud of me. For staying sober.”
“We all are.”
“Then she had a memory from when I was drinking.” I swallow, then shrug. “She hates me.”
“I don’t believe that.”
I rub the tattoo on my chest. “She said ‘I hate you.’ Is that clear enough?”
“If the memory was new, it would have felt fresh. Maybe she just needed time to cool down and put it into perspective.”
“Can we talk about something else?”
“Yes. Of course.” He spins his plastic toy. “Did I tell you how sensitive to smells Franki was when she was in the early stages of pregnancy?”
I shake my head.
“One morning, she said she hated my deodorant and asked me to use something else next time. I told her I’d have Spencer pick up another brand.
Then I went about my day. Two hours later, I put my arms around her.
She shoved me away, said, and I quote, ‘You’re revolting,’ and puked in a potted plant.
When I followed her to rub her back and see how I could help, she called me a monster who didn’t love her. ”
“Poor Franki,” I say.
“See? You recognized immediately that my marriage wasn’t in crisis. I, unfortunately, took her statement at face value.” He hesitates, then admits, “I was rude to my sick, pregnant wife.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“We’re discussing your problems, not mine,” he says blandly.
“We were talking about you and Franki, Henry.”
“Yes. I said, ‘Oh yes, I do love you.’ But, my tone was . . .” He appears to struggle with the word. “She called it butthurt.”
My lips twitch.
“I showered. She brushed her teeth. I apologized for not addressing the problem immediately. She said she was sorry for lashing out at me. Now we laugh about it.”
I rub my forehead. “It’s not the same with Sydney.”
“If you ask her, she’ll tell you if she really meant it or spoke out of distress.”
The waitress delivers the drinks. Henry thanks her, then slides his fidget spinner into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and shoots off a text, I assume to his wife.
He waits for a reply, then types again before sliding it back into his pocket and folding his hands across his flat middle as he leans back. “How did you decide on this place?”
“It’s close to the house, open late, and has good nachos.” I nod toward the large casement doorway. “The bar is separate from the restaurant, which I appreciate.”
“You ordered tea, then sat there tying paper while you waited for me. You were never planning to drink.”
I shake my head. “No, but accountability never hurts. So here you are.”
“Here I am.”
“I want to talk to my wife . . . about my wife. How messed up is that?” I blurt.
“It makes perfect sense. If I were dealing with a stressful issue, I’d want to be able to talk to Franki about it. Especially if it involved her.”
I fold both hands into a single fist on the tabletop. “Sydney needs me to be a rock, not run off to lick my wounds.”
Henry shrugs. “At least now you admit you have wounds, instead of telling everybody you’re fine while you bleed out like an idiot.”
“You’re an ass.”
“An ass who loves you like a brother.”
“Henry, you are my brother.”
“Exactly. So maybe my perception is biased, but it seems to me that you’re willing to fight for and forgive everyone but yourself. You’re allowed to take up space.”
I shake my head. “Sydney was terrified to get involved with me in the first place. I promised her when she married me that I’d never put her in a position where I needed her to carry my ass or support me.”
“She was wrong to accept that promise from you.”
I tap the table then sigh. “She didn’t. Exactly. It was a silent promise from me to her.”
His eyelids drop to half-mast before he gives a single slow blink. “That’s the stupidest thing to ever come out of your mouth, which is an impressive feat under the circumstances,” he says flatly.
“I love you too.”
“I’m glad you recognized the affection in my tone. Now, tell me what kind of one-sided garbage relationship doesn’t have room for you to support each other? There has to be give-and-take.”
“What exactly do you expect me to take from Sydney right now?” I ask, irritated.
“I like things to be measurable. Fair,” he muses. “Franki chooses the playlist for this drive, so I pick the next one. I stayed up with the baby when he was fussy for two hours and seventeen minutes, so she owes me two hours and seventeen minutes the next time.”
I grimace. “You sound insufferable.”
He tips his head to the side. “I said I like things to be fair, but even I know relationships can’t work on formulas.
Sometimes, what’s fair is that your wife’s favorite artist just dropped a new album, and her excitement about it is worth more than the satisfaction of taking your turn.
Sometimes, she’s exhausted because her body grew a human and feeds a human, and there’s no keeping track of who put in what hours.
There’s only looking out for each other and making life better for the other person in every way you know how to.
You’re looking at what your wife has been through like it’s a weight on a scale.
Nothing you’re currently experiencing is as heavy as Sydney’s current situation.
But needs can’t be weighed and measured like that.
Hers don’t cancel out yours. You have to put that mental load into one trunk, then you both pick it up together.
No keeping score of whose burden weighs more. ”
I shake my head. “Under normal circumstances, maybe, but she didn’t choose me, doesn’t remember me, and doesn’t love me.”
“It sounds like there’s no hope. I suppose divorce is imminent,” he says dryly. “Strange, considering the way she watches you with that weird smile on her face so often. It must be gas. That happens to Ian a lot.”
“Why are you such a dick?”
“I enjoy it?” He smiles as he sprawls in his chair, the very picture of nerdy affability. If anyone notices him, they’ll say he’s harmless, maybe even vulnerable. They’d be wrong.
Henry and I both acknowledge our bodyguards and scan the exits and the small crowd for threats as naturally as we breathe. We’re both capable of striking with deadly force in the space of a heartbeat, if necessary.
“This isn’t new. You’ve always tried to convince Sydney you have no needs.
I’m not saying to make your mental health your partner’s responsibility.
The opposite, actually. Keep up with therapy.
Blow off steam in the gym. Get a new hobby.
But don’t hide who you are or how you’re coping.
She can look at you and see the signs of stress.
Telling her you’re fine when you’re struggling makes you look like a liar. ”
He . . . has a point.
I tap the table. “I know you just got here, but I think I should go home.”
Henry stifles a yawn behind his hand. “I’ll take care of the bill.”