Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Gabriel won’t touch me.
It’s been two days since the nightmare. Two days since his hands closed around my throat. Two days since he looked at me with horror and called himself broken.
He sleeps on the couch now and won’t even discuss sharing the bed.
“Not until I figure this out,” he’d said, and the finality in his voice left no room for argument.
So I lie alone in sheets that still smell like him, staring at the ceiling, listening to him pace the apartment at three in the morning. Sometimes I hear the punching bag he set up. Sometimes, the familiar sound of his brush on canvas.
He’s busy. Always battling demons. Always moving.
And each move takes him further from me. I can feel it—the distance growing, the walls going back up. Every time our hands accidentally brush, he flinches. Every time I move toward him, he finds a reason to step back.
It’s his bullshit way of protecting me.
And it means I’m going to lose him all over again.
When I finally call Harper, it’s not because I have a plan, but because I’m at my wits’ end.
“You sounded terrible on the phone,” she says when she rushes into the gallery, then pulls me into a hug. “How bad is he, really?”
“Not good,” I say, then signal to Chris that I’m escaping to the break room. Normally, I’d go into one of the showrooms, but right now, I don’t want even a hint of Gabriel keeping me from thinking straight. And the showrooms are pretty much odes to the man and his work.
We sit at the small round table, each with coffee, mine going cold as I try to articulate the width and breadth of the wall that’s gone up between Gabe and me.
“I can’t even talk about it. He just won’t.”
Her brow furrows, then she leans back, her eyes going wide. “Oh. You mean…”
“Touch me. Yes.” I glance at the door, as if I’m afraid the words will escape and tarnish the ears of someone browsing the gallery.
“Ever since that horrible nightmare,” I continue, then gesture vaguely at my throat. The bruises have faded to greenish-yellow, easily hidden with concealer, but we both know they’re under there.
“He’s convinced he’s too broken to be close to anyone, let alone me.”
“And you think he’s wrong?”
“I think he’s scared.” I pull my knees up, wrapping my arms around them like a child. “I don’t know how to reach him. What magical words will bring him back to me. I’ve had him back for like thirty seconds, and I’m losing him all over again.”
“Oh, sweetie.” She squeezes my hand. “He’ll get past it.”
I shake my head. “Maybe. I don’t know. He won’t talk to anyone.
And every time I try to get close, he pulls away.
God forbid I suggest he talk to a professional.
I’ve done that twice, and he just sort of slips away inside himself.
“It’s like he’s built this wall between us, and I can see him through the glass, but I can’t get to him. ”
“Have you tried just talking to him? Telling him how you feel?”
“Only a zillion times. He won’t hear it. He’s convinced that he’s dangerous—that being close to me puts me at risk.”
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “The irony is that it’s the distance that’s killing me. Not the fear of what he might do.”
“What about...” Harper hesitates, clearly choosing her words carefully. “What about showing him? Instead of telling?”
I shake my head, completely clueless. Show him what?”
“That he has more control than he thinks.” She leans forward, her expression intense.
“Look, I’ve known Gabriel since we were kids.
He’s always been about control—controlling his image, his emotions, his father’s expectations.
When he lost that in Aspen—I mean, when those assholes took everything from him—it broke something fundamental inside him. ”
“Well, yeah. I know that.”
“But here’s the thing.” Harper’s voice drops. “He didn’t lose control with you during the nightmare. Not really. He stopped. Some part of him heard your voice and pulled back. That’s not a man who’s lost control—that’s a man whose control runs deeper than he realizes.”
I consider this. She’s right—he did stop.
Even in the grip of that horrible dream, something in him recognized me and let go.
“You may be on to something, but he won’t think so.
He didn’t stop right away. And he was close to truly hurting me.
I’m not scared of him—I’m really not. But a few seconds longer… ”
I look up at her. “That’s what he’s scared of.”
“Except he did stop. That’s what you have to focus on. And what he has to focus on, too.”
She’s probably right. And god knows I don’t have a better idea. “So what do I do?”
“Make him see it.” She shrugs. “I don’t know how. That’s your territory, not mine. But if anyone can reach him, it’s you.”
“Great. You’re a big help.”
“Yeah, well, you get what you pay for.”
The door to the break room opens, and we both turn. David stands in the doorway, looking apologetic.
“Sorry—Chris said you were back here. I wanted to check in.” He looks between the two of us, then frowns. “Bad time?”
I exchange a glance with Harper. There was a time when David’s presence would have made this conversation impossible. When the awkwardness of discussing my love life with a guy—even one who is top of the friend zone—would have shut me down completely.
But things are different now. We’re different.
“Actually,” I hear myself say, “I could use a guy’s perspective.”
David’s eyebrows rise. “On what?”
“Sex. And Gabriel.”
He chortles—that’s really the only word for it—then takes a seat. “This should be interesting.”
“And how to convince a stubborn man that he’s not as broken as he thinks,” I add.
He leans back in the chair, his expression somewhere between amused and wary. “You really want me to be part of this pow-wow?
“Sure,” I say. “That’s what friends do, right?” I hold his gaze. “Share perspectives?”
A beat passes, then he nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s what friends do.”
Harper looks between us with barely concealed amusement, but she doesn’t comment. Smart woman.
“So,” David says, leaning the chair back onto two legs. “Gabriel won’t touch you because he’s afraid of losing control. And you want to show him he won’t. Am I tracking?”
“Wow. Psychic much?”
He tilts his head toward the door. “Here’s not the best place to discuss anything gossip-worthy. Just fyi.”
I exchange an amused glance with Harper. “Noted.”
David leans forward, bringing the chair back down. He clears his throat, starts to say something, then stops again.
“Close your eyes,” Harper says. “Then picture yourself naked and spit it out. Or picture Bella naked. Whatever works.”
“Harper!” She looks at me and shrugs, utterly unrepentant. “Just lightening the moment. Nobody thinks clearly when they’re stressed.
She’s right. My newly arrived stress headache is definitely clouding my judgment.
“Look,” David says, the word bursting out as if he’s trying to shut us up. Which, frankly, he probably is. “This is weird for me, but—have you considered taking control yourself? Not giving him the option to retreat?”
“Sort of,” I semi-admit. I twist my fingers together in my lap. “But what if it goes to hell? I mean, what if I push too hard and he breaks?”
“Then you’ll deal. But you deal with it together.
” David’s voice is gentle but firm. “I mean, come on, Bella. You’re not fragile.
You survived losing Gabriel—not to mention surviving his miraculous return.
You survived a lifetime of your father’s bullshit.
You’re seriously fucking strong. “If Gabriel breaks, you’ll help him put the pieces back together. That’s what love is.”
The word hangs in the air between us—love. From another man, it might sound bitter. From David, it just sounds true.
“He’s right,” Harper says. “And for the record, I’m impressed.” She nods at David. “That was very emotionally intelligent of you.”
“I have hidden depths.” He turns to me with a grin, and there’s no pain in his eyes. Just warmth. And that’s when I know for sure. We’re fixed now. Just friends. No lust. No benefits. No romancy goo.
At least one relationship in my life is on even ground.
Now to get there with Gabriel.
I find him in front of his easel that evening.
He’s been there all day, from the looks of it. Paint smears his forearms, his shirt. One streak across his cheekbone looks like war paint. Canvases surround him—all unfinished. All fragments of whatever he’s trying to exorcise.
But there’s something different about this one.
It’s me. Or the suggestion of me—curves and shadows, the impression of a woman reaching toward something. Unlike the others, this one has depth. Layers. It’s not finished, but it’s closer than anything else he’s painted since he came back.
“You were working on that one this morning,” I say as the door clicks shut behind me, blocking the sound of tonight’s first fight at The Beast.
Gabriel doesn’t look up. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“You never sleep anymore.”
“I sleep.”
I suppose he must, but not enough. Never enough.
I cross the room, stepping over discarded brushes and crumpled paper towels stained with color. When I reach him, I don’t touch. Just stand close enough that he can feel my presence.
“Gabriel. Look at me.”
He doesn’t move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he sets down his brush and turns.
The exhaustion in his face makes my heart ache. Dark circles deep beneath his eyes. His beard wild and untrimmed. The haunted look of a man who’s fighting a war he doesn’t believe he can win.
“You can’t keep doing this,” I say softly. “You can’t keep running from me.”
“I’m not running. I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being a coward.”
The word lands like a slap. Something flickers in his eyes—anger, maybe, or hurt.
“You think I want this?” His voice is rough. “You think I enjoy sleeping on the couch while you’re not even twenty feet away? I can hear you breathing, Bella. I can smell your shampoo on the pillows. Every part of me wants to be in that bed with you, but I can’t.