Chapter 31
Ella
My alarm yanks me from my dream, and I groan into my pillow. That means it’s after lunch, and even though my stomach is growling, I hide under the covers.
I wrote all through the night again, so there’s no way my brain is ready for the day. It doesn’t help that I’m in a foul mood. Before I’d gone to bed this morning, Gable informed me that we’re nowhere even close to finding out more about the hard drive or who killed Asher.
It’s taking forever. I knew it wouldn’t be simple, but I miss home. I miss my bed, my dad, my flower shop, my routine. It’s lovely here, and quiet, and I appreciate what Gable is doing for me, but it’s slowly getting to me.
Don’t be miserable, Ella. Get up.
“No,” I cover my face with a pillow.
Sulking isn’t attractive.
It is today.
So, I go back to sleep and wake up hours later.
To the smell of cooking.
After quickly showering and dressing, I leave my room and pause at the bottom of the stairs, peeking down the large hallway. Standing in the open-plan kitchen, in front of the stove, is Gable.
I’ve never seen him cook, not once. But he’s right in front of me, in a T-shirt and jeans, acting like he belongs in a kitchen. I approach slowly, cautiously, wondering if this could be a mirage.
“Hey.”
He looks over his shoulder, then wipes his hands on a kitchen towel as I approach. He extends his hand. “Gable Flynn.”
I arch a brow, my gaze darting between his face and his hand. “Did you hit your head?”
He sighs then leans close. “Living in a warzone isn’t easy, so let’s try and find some common fucking ground, Gibson.” He raises his brows. “You wanted something normal. Here’s normal.”
A slow smile creeps across my face. He’s right. We’re arguing every day, several times a day, but maybe one night of peace might help. And this is what I need: a night where he’s not protecting me and I’m not a lamb waiting to be slaughtered.
I take his offered hand. He squeezes gently, a strangely reassuring action.
“Ella Gibson.”
“Sit, Ella Gibson.”
I sit at the kitchen table and watch him work. He moves around effortlessly, taking a large dish out of the oven. It smells delicious, and when he starts cutting up garlic bread, I almost start salivating.
He plates up lasagna and salad, placing a board overfilled with garlic bread in the center of the table and taking a seat.
And we eat.
It’s quiet. Almost uncomfortable. Like we’ve suddenly forgotten how to be around each other, or it’s a first date that we immediately regret agreeing to.
I decide to break the silence first, going along with his roleplay.
“So, what do you for a living, Gable?”
“I’m a contract killer.”
“Ah.” I pick up my glass of wine. “Fascinating. How did you get into that line of work?”
He presses his lips together, clearly trying to hide a smile. “That’s a long, boring story. What do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh, you’re that Ella Gibson,” he says. “I thought I recognized you.”
I flick my hair over my shoulder. “I’m incredibly famous.”
“I read somewhere that you’re also incredibly annoying.” He forks more lasagna into his mouth, then swallows. I scoff. “What’s your favorite thing about writing?”
“Getting lost in worlds that aren’t real. There’s nothing better than my imagination. What’s your favorite thing about murder?”
He takes a bit of garlic bread and chews, clearly thinking very seriously about his answer.
“It’s quiet.”
I chuckle and fork some more lasagna into my mouth, chewing and swallowing before speaking again. “Really? People don’t scream and beg?”
“After,” he clarifies. “It’s quiet after. In here.” He taps his temple and continues eating. I watch him for a moment. I’ve never thought of death as a quiet thing. It’s sad, and dark, and inevitable, but I’ve never considered the silence that the end brings.
“Where did you grow up?” I ask, returning to my meal.
“SoCal.”
“No way. Me too.”
“I hated it.”
I wince. “Oh. Why?”
“I’m not really a sun kinda guy.” He’s already finished his lasagna and gets up to serve himself more. He returns to his chair. “I bet you loved beach days with all the jocks.”
“Jocks? Are you kidding? My dad was a local cop, and I used to prefer the library. The most conversations I had were with my characters. What kind of kid were you in school? Smoking behind the math block?”
He laughs. “Yes.”
“I knew it. You’re so predictable, Gable Flynn. So, if you hate the sun, where’s your favorite place to be?”
He gestures around us. “Here. Snow. Rain. Endless forest. Quiet.” He rests his forearms on the table and looks me in the eye, dark eyes almost bright tonight. “Is there anything better than being in here when it’s snowing?”
I smile slowly. “No, there’s not.”
It’s hauntingly beautiful on those days, like I’ve stepped into a storybook, like magic is possible.
There are moments where I’ll find myself staring out at the heavy falling flakes, imagining myself dancing in the deep snow, spinning and spinning until I’m breathless, lungs full of fresh air, my mind filled with music.
I’m so lost in my own thoughts I don’t notice Gable carefully touch my cheek. He presents me with his finger, an eyelash balanced delicately at the end.
My eyes meet his.
“Make a wish, Gibson.”
Something in my chest flutters, and I quickly stamp it out. I close my eyes and blow gently, and when I reopen an eye, I sigh. “Damn, you’re still here.”
He snorts a laugh and returns to his meal, but I’ve forgotten the fork in my hand.
My attention glides over Gable’s features—his strong jaw lined with stubble, a scar by his lip, small, but noticeable now I’m closer.
The darkness of his eyes, a brown so steeped in shadows it’s almost black.
His straight nose, strong brow, the silky falling of his dark hair.
If he were in my book, who would he be?
A tortured hero.
I smile. Yes.
A man who would give his life for someone who could never love him back.
A good man buried beneath years of betrayal. A man tainted by those who turned their back on him—but who still gives it all up for love.
I return to my meal, fighting the temptation to run up the stairs, open my laptop, and tell Gable Flynn’s story.
We talk about the softer side of life. Silly things that don’t amount to much but fill the quiet. He laughs sometimes, but always quietly, as if he’s trying to hold it back, while I laugh freely and without restraint.
“Tell me a secret about you, Gable Flynn.”
He tuts. “We’ve gone over this before, Gibson.”
“Yes, but it’s different now. Now you can tolerate me.” I grin and push my empty dessert plate aside. Chocolate cake with cream. Delicious. “Tell me.”
Gable finishes his cake, and after moving his plate aside, he runs his tongue over his thick bottom lip to catch a stray bit of cream. He seems to be lost in thought, and I’m so hopeful he’ll answer that I don’t make a sound.
“I used to wish on stars,” he says. The breath I pull in is slow, and I wait for more.
“No matter what home I was in or family I was with, there was always one constant thing. I could see stars. I was nine when my mom first left me, ten when I met my first family, but I still hoped she’d come back.
With every day she didn’t, I got so angry, because it meant the wishes were going nowhere.
” He looks away, out the back wall of windows, to the snow falling beyond.
“Every day I’d wake up without her, I would wish, again and again.
Years passed. Families came and went. She never came back.
Finally, I looked up and decided I was probably only allotted a certain number of wishes and stopped wasting them on her. ”
I reach for his hand, and I’m surprised when he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he stares at where we’re connected and runs his thumb across my palm.
“The night Asher died, I wished on a star again.” He pulls his hand back. “Another wasted one.”
“Not wasted,” I say quietly, and he meets my eye. “Maybe Asher heard the wish. Can you imagine how much he would’ve loved that? Knowing of all the things you could want, it was for him to come back?”
He tenses his jaw. “I don’t believe in wishes anymore, Gibson.”
“But maybe he did.” I trace my finger across the table.
“I told Asher I loved him that night. He’d said it to me in the apartment, and I wasn’t sure how I felt, or what I wanted, but he was dying in my arms, and …
” I try to blink away tears but fail. “It felt like the nicest thing to say at the time, whether it was true or not.” I take a deep breath and force a smile.
“He got an ‘I love you’ and a wish all in the same night. I may not have known him long, but I know he would’ve been happy with that. ”
Gable watches me, and the moment stretches between us.
“What do you want from life, Gibson?” he asks, searching my face. “What’s something you want more than anything?”
The question lifts me, and my smile becomes real, because since losing Asher, I’ve searched for the answer to that question. I’ve always known my happiness comes from my books, but I needed to know more about myself, to understand what makes me happy, and for that to take shape as a plan.
So, on the endless nights I couldn’t sleep, I thought about what I really want.
“I want … a view like this when I write.” I look at the window.
“I want a couch in my office that’s probably older than me, but comfier than clouds.
I want a favorite mug, and cups of coffee in bed.
I want tangled feet under covers and Sundays spent in the cold of soccer matches for my kids.
I want mess, and unpredictability, and a house so filled with love that every day feels like an exhaustive blessing.
” My smile widens as I return my attention to him.
“I want unconditional love that makes me burst. I want more than romance in the pages of my books, but more than that, I want what I don’t even know I want.
I want something better than my imagination can come up with. ” I exhale deeply. “What about you?”
“Honestly? I want you to stop eating my Oreos,” he says, and I burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the room, and Gable grins as he watches me. “But what you said sounds pretty good, too.”
I rest my forearms on the table. “You want kids?”
He shrugs. “I’d probably suck at being a dad. It’s not like I’ve ever had a good frame of reference, and my life doesn’t exactly call for a family, but … in another world, if I’d chosen a different path? Maybe. Something simple. Easy. That sounds like a pretty good thing to aim for.”
It’s then that I realize it isn’t only grief holding us together anymore.
It’s loneliness.
It’s hope.
It’s a dream.
A dream that there’s something beyond this awful thing that’s happened to us, a life we can see in the distance.
Something worth wishing for.