Chapter 10
By the time the fundraiser was over and Rooney finished filming, it was nearly midnight, and Anya was worn out.
She handed her ticket to the valet, then felt a little pulse of surprise when she saw Gabe sitting on a bench.
She’d assumed he left with Jo and the others while Anya and the video team stayed behind to work.
“Hey,” she said. “You’re still here?”
He looked up. “My stuff’s in your car.”
“Right.” Anya swallowed. Between their tense drive earlier and Gabe coming to Anya’s rescue with Rooney, she wasn’t really sure how to talk to him now. “Um, are you staying in Brentwood with the rest of us? Or going back to your hotel?”
“Neither.” Gabe looked uncomfortable. “My parents live like twenty minutes from here? I can call a cab.”
“Don’t do that, I’ll take you.” Anya waved him off.
“It’s all these steep hill streets—”
“And you don’t trust my driving?” Anya gave him a look.
“No—I just, if you’re tired,” Gabe said feebly.
“Oh.” Anya nodded, feeling a weight in her solar plexus. “You’ve had enough of being in a car with me today. Fair. Super fair.”
“That’s not it.” Gabe stood quickly. “You drove all the way to LAX—”
“And was a total jerk in the process,” Anya broke in. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Gabe gave her a little smile. “It’s what we do, right? Giving each other shit?”
“Sure,” Anya agreed, but something about the moment still felt thorny.
The valet pulled up in her rented sedan, and Gabe punched his parents’ address into the GPS.
It was only a couple of miles away, but the roads were twisty and treacherous, and everyone else seemed to be driving way faster than Anya.
She was surprised that even at this hour, and in a residential neighborhood, there were plenty of cars on the road.
“Everyone’s always driving in LA,” Gabe commented. “Local hazard.”
“Did you like growing up here?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, just shrugged, then leaned back and closed his eyes.
He looked really tired, she thought, with his suit jacket off and five o’clock shadow grown in, and dark bags under his eyes.
Anya felt an urge to keep looking at him, to stroke his hair, even, or murmur soothing things—god, she must be tired too.
She shook off her exhaustion and focused on the road.
When they came to the end of a long street, the GPS chirped, “You have reached your destination,” but Anya didn’t see a house, only a big wrought-iron gate.
“Gabe? I think we’re here.”
“Yeah.” He blinked a couple of times. “Hold on a sec.”
He got out of the car and punched a few numbers into a metal box beside the gate, and it swung open. Anya stared as he got back into the car.
“Okay, so you’re rich rich.”
Gabe didn’t respond. For some reason, Anya started to feel anxious.
“Are your parents home?” she asked.
“My mom should be. Probably not my dad, but I’m not sure.”
“They didn’t tell you?” Anya frowned at him. “Aren’t they excited to see you?”
“Take a left up here.” Gabe pointed to a fork in the road.
“Jesus, what’s to the right?” Anya muttered, but then the house came into view.
It was as big as Jeff Rooney’s house, or possibly even bigger, but it wasn’t at all sleek or modern.
It was white and grandiose with a hodgepodge of architectural flourishes—arches, scrolls, columns, the works—illuminated in front by giant footlights.
“Is your dad Baron von Trapp or something?” Anya asked as she pulled into the driveway.
“Yes on the emotional detachment, no on the heroism or bursting into song,” Gabe joked, but there was something hollow in his voice. “Hey, can you stop the car?”
“What?”
“Anya, stop the car.”
She stopped short, and Gabe got out and jogged toward the front door. It was wide open.
“Gabe?” Anya got out and followed him. “Is everything okay?”
He called out, “Mom? Are you here?” then went inside. Anya wasn’t sure if she should follow, but if something was wrong, she certainly wasn’t going to leave him to deal with it by himself.
“Do you think she went out?” Anya asked as she walked in behind him.
“She doesn’t go out.” Gabe ran through the mammoth front hall and up the grand stairway. Even if Anya weren’t in heels, there was no way she could keep up with him.
“Mom?” he shouted again. “Where are you?”
There was panic in his voice, and Anya’s heart rate rose accordingly, though she couldn’t understand why he seemed so worried.
Who cared if you left your front door open when your house was up a private road behind a giant gate?
Anya followed Gabe down the upstairs hall, but then he pushed through a door at the end of the hall and went stock-still.
“Gabe?” Anya asked. “What’s wrong?”
He was standing in a dimly lit bedroom where everything was plush and white—white carpet, white walls, white furniture, white bedding—and in front of him, a woman in a white silk robe was passed out on the floor.
“Oh my god, is she all right?” Anya looked at Gabe, but he looked oddly emotionless, his face blank and wan.
The woman was older and blond and gorgeous; Anya would have known she was Gabe’s mother even if they weren’t in her house.
She was slumped on her side and breathing audibly. The sound of it was wet and labored.
“Mom?” Gabe said. He knelt beside her and gave her a shake, but she didn’t rouse. “Mom? Can you hear me?”
He picked up her wrist and counted her pulse.
“Is she okay?”
“I think so. I need to call 911.”
He stood up and took out his phone. Anya felt confused; she couldn’t make sense of what was happening.
“911, what’s your emergency?” came a female voice from the speakerphone.
“Hi, my name is Gabriel Hunt, I’m at 824 Blue Lark Lane. I found my mother unconscious in her bedroom. Her breathing and heart rate are both sluggish. I think she mixed pills with alcohol—maybe vodka, probably lithium. We need an ambulance right away.”
“I understand,” said the voice. “Please stay on the line.”
Gabe gave the operator a few more details—his mother’s birthdate, the code for the gate—and they promised an ambulance would be there soon.
When Gabe hung up the phone, there was no sound in the room except Mrs. Hunt’s strained breath.
“Do you need anything?” Anya asked him. “Some water or something?”
But he just stared at his mother, seeming nearly as unresponsive as she was.
“Can you go downstairs to wait for the ambulance?” he asked. “Tell them where we are when they get here?”
His voice broke—Anya wanted to run to him and hug him as tightly as she possibly could. But he seemed to want to keep it together, so she thought the kind thing was to let him.
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll be right downstairs if you need me.”
She went back down to the entry hall, still trying to wrap her head around this situation.
Gabe seemed so calm. Had this happened before?
Was this why he never came home? Gabe hadn’t even called his dad—where the hell was he?
Sitting in the empty hall, staring at that eerily open front door, Anya couldn’t help noticing how impersonal the place felt.
There were massive paintings on the walls but no family photos anywhere, no stacks of mail or discarded coats or travel mementos like the ones cluttering every surface at Anya’s parents’ house in Chicago.
It felt more like an upscale hotel lobby than a home.
After a couple of minutes, a siren roared up the driveway. Anya ran outside to find two EMTs unloading a stretcher.
“She’s upstairs,” Anya said. “Make a right at the top of the big staircase.”
One of the EMTs nodded and pointed toward Anya’s rental car, which was parked in front of the ambulance. “Can you move that before we get down?”
“Sure, oh my god—of course.”
They raced inside, and Anya followed to grab her keys. By the time she had moved the car, the paramedics were already loading Gabe’s mom into the ambulance, and Gabe was getting in with them. Anya ran over to the back of the ambulance.
“What hospital?” Anya asked the EMT. “I’ll follow you.”
“No.” Gabe shook his head. “No, don’t.”
“I’m not letting you go alone,” Anya told him. “What hospital?”
“Cedars,” the EMT replied, and Anya nodded. She caught Gabe’s eye as the EMT closed the ambulance door. He looked terrified, like a lost little boy.
—
It took Anya nearly half an hour to get to the hospital and park, then another ten minutes to find Gabe in the ER waiting area, sitting with his head in his hands.
“Hey.” She gingerly laid her hand on his shoulder. “Any news?”
He shook his head, still looking down. “I filled out some forms. They told me to wait.”
“What can I do? Do you want some coffee, or something to eat? Or I could call someone, Tallulah maybe? Or Kira? Or your dad?”
He looked up at her. He looked bone-weary, absolutely wrung out. “Will you sit with me?”
“Yeah.” She sank into the chair beside him. “Yeah, of course.”
Their row of seats was facing a TV playing some late-night infomercial for a blender that would solve all your problems.
“You sure you don’t want a smoothie?” Anya nodded toward the screen, where they were making one in under ten seconds. “It’s Beverly Hills, there’s gotta be an all-night juice bar around here somewhere.”
Gabe sniffed, the smallest possible laugh, but the sound of it buoyed Anya.
She wanted to hug him, rub his back, reassure him that everything would be okay, but he didn’t seem to want that.
So she sat next to him, watching a man with a loud British accent and even louder shirt make what looked like the world’s grossest pasta sauce until a doctor finally came over.
“Mr. Hunt?” the doctor asked. He looked about twenty-five, tall and gawky with big eyes and an anxious manner—not ideal for someone about to give you potentially life-changing news.
“Yeah.” Gabe stood, and so did Anya. She could feel how tense Gabe was beside her. She took his hand and squeezed.
“Your mother’s going to be okay,” the doctor said.
“Oh thank god,” Anya exhaled with relief, but Gabe stayed totally still.
“What happened?” he asked.