Chapter 2
Marshall
I’m sitting at the kitchen table watching Gabriel’s back as he plates pasta at the stove.
His hair is pulled up in an effortless bun, a few strands escaping at his nape.
The long line of his neck is exposed, the skin there lighter than the rest of him, less touched by the sun.
There’s a sheen of sweat on it from standing over the heat.
I look away and scan the kitchen instead, anywhere but that pale strip of skin that shouldn’t be interesting but somehow is.
The kitchen is old-world Italian. Terracotta tiles, wooden beams across the ceiling, copper pots hanging from hooks. There’s a window over the sink that’s cracked open, letting in air that smells like herbs and dry earth.
“Food smells amazing,” I say, because the silence is getting heavy, and I need to fill it. “You didn’t have to go through the trouble.”
Gabriel glances over his shoulder, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s no trouble. I’m happy to cook for someone else. I’ve been alone here for weeks.”
He turns back to the stove and finishes plating, spooning sauce over the pasta, adding a scatter of fresh basil on top. When he carries the plates to the table, I notice the muscles in his forearms, the tendons shifting under tanned skin.
He sets a plate in front of me, then his own across the table. “Wine?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He pulls a bottle from the counter, opens it, and pours two glasses. The wine is red, almost purple in the light. He hands me a glass and sits down, lifting his own in a half-toast. “To surviving family visits.”
I clink my glass against his. “Surviving them, sure.”
The wine is good. It hits my tongue with dark fruit and a hint of leather, and I feel the warmth of it slide down my throat and settle in my chest. The edges of the day begin to soften.
I dig into the pasta, and it’s perfect. Al dente, the sauce rich with tomato, garlic, and Parmesan cheese. I make a noise that’s embarrassingly close to a moan.
Gabriel smirks. “Good?”
“It’s fucking incredible.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes, and it’s not as uncomfortable as I expected. The wine helps. I take another sip and set the glass down, watching him twirl pasta on his fork the way he does everything, like it deserves his full attention.
“So, why’d you leave the States?” I know I wasn’t going to pry. I told myself I’d let him keep his secrets, but the wine is making me loose, and I’m doing it anyway. “You said you’ve been here for a few weeks. That’s a long time to be alone.”
Gabriel’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth. He sets it down and reaches for his wine instead, taking a slow sip before answering. “I wanted to take a break from work. Spend some time somewhere peaceful.”
I know a deflection when I hear one, but I let it slide for now. “And how’s your interior design gig going?”
“It’s fine. Busy. I felt like I needed some inspiration.” He swirls the wine in his glass, watching the liquid catch the light. “Sometimes you have to step away to remember why you started.”
I nod as if that makes sense. Maybe it does, but I wouldn’t know. I’ve spent the last five years building a business and a marriage, and both of them collapsed in the span of six months. Stepping away wasn’t a choice. It was survival.
“Mom and Philip are coming in a few weeks,” I say, steering us toward safer ground. “With Audrey.”
Gabriel’s smirk returns. “Yeah, Claire told me. She isn’t subtle about wanting to keep an eye on us both, is she?”
I laugh, and it’s the first real laugh I’ve had in weeks. “No. She really isn’t.”
“Are you looking forward to it?”
“The family time, or the hovering?”
“Both.”
I consider the question. “I’m looking forward to working on the garden. Bringing it back to life. That part feels good. The rest…” I shrug. “I’ll manage.”
Gabriel watches me for a beat longer than necessary, as if he’s trying to see past the words. Then he nods and goes back to his pasta.
We finish dinner and he brings out tiramisu. I stare at it.
“You made this?”
“I did.”
“Where the hell did you learn to make tiramisu?”
He shrugs. “YouTube, mostly. It’s not difficult.”
It’s the best tiramisu I’ve ever had. The mascarpone is light and sweet, the espresso soaked into the ladyfingers just enough that they’re soft but not soggy. I’m halfway through my second bite when I realize I forgot what a good cook Gabriel was. And he’s gotten better. A lot better.
“You’re going to ruin me for restaurant desserts,” I say.
“Good. Restaurant desserts are overrated.”
I help him clear the plates after we finish. He washes, I dry, and it’s easy and weirdly domestic.
When we take the wine bottle and our glasses out to the veranda, the sun is beginning its descent, the sky shifting from blue to gold. The air is cooler now, almost pleasant. We sit in the chairs facing the garden, and Gabriel stretches his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles.
The wine has made us both looser. The conversation shifts and becomes lighter.
We talk about things I haven’t thought about in years.
The time Gabriel’s cat knocked over an entire bookshelf in Philip’s study.
The summer I broke my arm trying to climb the oak tree in our backyard.
The weird phase Audrey went through when she was six and insisted on wearing her skeleton costume everywhere.
“She wore that thing to the grocery store,” Gabriel says, laughing. “Claire tried to get her to change, and Audrey cried for an hour.”
“She wore it to my baseball game,” I add. “Coach asked if she was there to scare the other team.”
Gabriel’s laugh loosens something in my chest I didn’t know was tight.
It feels good to catch up with him like this, and I’m starting to think it was stupid to avoid him for so long.
The years we missed feel like a waste now, and I’m not even sure why I did it.
Maybe because it was easier. Maybe because he always made me aware of myself in a way I didn’t know what to do with.
I glance over at him. He’s looking more relaxed now, the tension in his shoulders gone. The light is golden on his face, catching in his eyes and turning them amber.
He clears his throat and sets his glass down on the small table between us. “I… didn’t give you the entire reason I’m here.”
I straighten up, the levity of the moment shifting. “Okay.”
He doesn’t look at me, keeping his eyes on the garden, on the fountain in the distance that’s cracked and dry. “I was in a relationship for a while. And it ended badly.”
“How badly?”
“Turned out he lied to me.”
I wait, letting the silence stretch. My stepbrother isn’t the type to spill everything at once. He needs space to get there.
“He was older,” Gabriel continues, his voice quieter now. “Married.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Gabriel.”
“I know.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I know.” He finally looks at me, and there’s something raw in his expression that makes my chest tighten. “I’m not proud of it.”
“What did he tell you?”
Gabriel lets out a sharp, bitter breath. “That he was separated from his wife. That they barely lived together. That he was planning to divorce.”
“Don’t you know that’s what all adulterers say?”
“I know. I’m an idiot.” He reaches for his glass and drains the rest of his wine in one go. “I’m always falling for the wrong guy.”
The way he says it, sad and resigned, makes me wonder how many times this has happened. How many times has someone taken advantage of him, lied to him, broken his heart? The thought is so unpleasant, and the intensity of it surprises me.
I suddenly want to cross the space between us and pull him into a hug. The urge is so strong I have to grip the arms of my chair to keep myself rooted.
“It’s my fault,” Gabriel says. “I should’ve been smarter. I should’ve questioned what that scumbag was saying to me.”
“Yeah, you should have,” I say, and his eyes snap to mine. “But it’s not entirely your fault. He’s the one who lied. He’s the one who made promises he had no intention of keeping.”
Gabriel holds my gaze for a long moment, and I see something shift in his expression. “Thank you. It’s been a while,” he adds. “We should’ve done this sooner.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “It’s good to see you.”
He nods, then looks down at his hands. “You’re the first person I’ve told. About the relationship.”
That surprises me more than the confession itself. Gabriel’s always been private, but I didn’t realize he’d kept this completely to himself. “Thanks for telling me.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell our parents, though.”
“I won’t. And I won’t bring it up again unless you want to talk about it.”
“I don’t.” He stands and picks up his glass. “I don’t want to give him another moment of my time or thoughts.”
He drains the last few drops of wine and sets the glass back down. “I’m going to go to bed early. You must be tired too.”
I am tired, bone-deep tired, but I’m not ready to go inside yet. “I’ll sit here a bit longer.”
“Watch out for the mosquitoes. They get vicious at night.”
I chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He nods and turns to go, then pauses at the door. “Marshall?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for listening.”
“Anytime.”
He disappears inside, and I hear his footsteps on the stairs, faint and fading.
I sit alone on the veranda, the sky deepening to the last pale edge of blue.
I should follow Gabriel’s lead and go to bed, but I can’t move yet.
There’s a strange weight in my chest, like something settled there during dinner and isn’t planning to leave.
I don’t know what it means. I don’t know why Gabriel’s confession made me feel like this, protective and restless.
I finish my wine and set the glass down.
The mosquitoes can have me. I’m not ready to go inside yet.