Chapter 4
Gabriel
I spend the rest of the day in my room, staring at the ceiling.
The plaster is cracked in one corner, a thin line that branches out like a river on a map, and I trace it with my eyes until I’ve memorized every curve.
Marshall knocks three times throughout the afternoon.
The first time he asks if I need anything.
The second time he tells me the Ashfords are gone.
The third time he just says my name, quiet through the door, and waits.
I tell him I’m fine each time, and he leaves without pushing.
I’m not fine.
Blaine’s face keeps appearing behind my eyelids every time I close them.
That self-satisfied smile and the way he looked at me like he still had a claim, like the weeks I’d spent here trying to forget him meant nothing.
I feel stupid and naive. I’m twenty-nine, and I should know better by now than to fall for the lies of an older, married man.
The light outside shifts from gold to orange to purple. My stomach starts growling around eight, a low, insistent rumble that I try to ignore. I’m thirsty too, my mouth dry and cottony. I could stay up here. I could go to bed hungry and wake up tomorrow and pretend today didn’t happen.
But it won’t change anything, and I know it.
I swing my legs off the bed and stand, running a hand through my hair.
It’s a mess. I’m a mess. I catch my reflection in the small mirror above the dresser and wince.
My eyes are red-rimmed from staring at the ceiling for hours, my face drawn and tired.
I look like I’ve been crying, but there’s not much I can do about that now.
I leave the room and make my way downstairs. The kitchen light is on, spilling into the hallway. I hear the faint click of a keyboard.
Marshall is sitting at the kitchen table, his laptop open in front of him, bent over what looks like architectural plans. His hair is damp, and he’s wearing a soft gray t-shirt that fits him well.
He glances up when I enter, and his face shifts with relief mixed with concern.
“Hey,” he says, closing the laptop. “I made tomato soup and Caprese salad. You should eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
The words are barely out of my mouth when my stomach growls, loud and traitorous. Marshall’s mouth quirks, and he huffs out a laugh.
“Sure you’re not.” He stands and crosses to the stove, ladling soup into a bowl. “Sit down.”
It’s not a request, so I sit.
He sets the bowl in front of me, along with a plate of fresh mozzarella, ripe tomatoes, and basil leaves. He’s drizzled balsamic over the top, and there’s olive oil pooled on the plate, golden and fragrant. My mouth waters.
“Eat,” he says, and goes back to his seat.
I pick up the spoon and dip it into the soup. It’s still warm, creamy and rich. The first sip hits my tongue and I realize how hungry I actually am. I eat in silence, spooning soup into my mouth and chasing it with bites of salad.
Marshall returns to his laptop, the quiet click of the keys filling the silence between us. He’s giving me space, letting me eat without pressure. I appreciate it more than I can say.
I finish the soup and half the salad before I push the plate away.
Marshall closes the laptop again and leans back in his chair, his eyes on me. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah.” I don’t look at him. “It was probably some weird heatstroke or something.”
“Gabriel.”
I glance up. His expression is open, patient, and completely unconvinced.
“Even though we haven’t seen each other for a while,” he says slowly, “I can still tell when you’re lying.”
I look away. “I’m not lying.”
“You are.” His voice is calm, no accusation in it, just fact. “Your whole demeanor changed the second the Ashfords showed up. You went from fine to barely functional in under a minute.”
I don’t respond because I don’t know what to say that won’t make this worse.
Marshall leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “It’s him, isn’t it? The older married man you were seeing.”
My mouth opens, wanting to deflect, but Marshall’s eyes are on mine, steady and knowing, and the words die in my throat.
“Don’t lie to me, Gabriel. I’m not an idiot. I saw how he looked at you. Is he still trying to get back with you?”
I feel something crack inside me, a wall I’ve been holding up for too long. I shrug, the movement small and defeated. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in weeks. I came here to avoid him. I didn’t know he’d show up. I never told him where I was.”
Marshall’s jaw tightens. “He’s Philip’s friend. Either Philip or Mom probably let it slip.”
“Maybe.” I rub a hand over my face. “I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”
There’s a beat of silence, heavy and thick. Then Marshall asks, “Do you still have feelings for him?”
I look up, and something in his eyes catches me off guard. There’s tension there, something wound tight and coiled.
“No, I don’t have feelings for him anymore. He’s a scumbag who likes playing mind games.”
Marshall doesn’t say anything. He just watches me, waiting, giving me space to fill the silence if I want to.
“I’m not sure I ever had real feelings for him,” I admit. “I just liked the thrill of it. Being with an older guy. Feeling wanted.”
What I don’t say out loud is that I think I was trying to fill a gap inside me with that relationship. A gap that’s been there for years, deep and aching, that I don’t know how to name or fix. A gap that Blaine never came close to filling, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise.
Marshall studies me for a long moment, his eyes scanning my face as if he’s reading a map. Then he slaps his palms on the table, and I jump.
“Okay,” he says, standing. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”
I blink at him. “Out? Where?”
He shrugs, and there’s a determined grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “To town. You need a distraction.”
“Marshall—”
“Let me be your wingman tonight.” His grin widens, like he thinks this is the best idea he’s ever had. “We’ll find you someone to hook up with and help you forget about that cheating bastard.”
I stare at him. “I’m not in the mood for a hookup.”
“Then don’t hook up.” He waves a hand like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“No obligation. We just go to a bar, maybe a club if we feel like it. You can flirt with hot Italians, and I’ll be there as your support.
Worst-case scenario, we have a few drinks and leave.
Besides, I need a distraction from the garden work.
It’ll do us both good to get out of this house for a while. ”
I’m still staring at him, trying to process what he just said. “You want to be my wingman.”
“Yeah. You know some gay bars or clubs around here, right?” He crosses his arms, leaning back against the counter. “We can go there.”
I laugh in disbelief. “You want to go to a gay club?”
“Why not?”
“You’re straight.”
He shrugs again, unbothered. “I’m not one of those homophobic assholes.”
“You don’t have to do this, Marshall.”
“I know.” His voice softens, and the grin fades into something more sincere. “But I want to.”
I hold his gaze for a moment, and I can see he means it. He’s not doing this because he pities me. He’s doing it because he wants to help, because he cares, because he’s Marshall and this is what Marshall does.
Something warm unfurls in my chest, and I have to look away before it shows on my face.
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” I ask.
Marshall’s grin returns full force. “Nope.”
I sigh, but it’s not real resistance. It’s surrender disguised as reluctance. “Fine. But if this goes badly, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal.” He pushes off the counter. “Suit up, gorgeous. Let’s go break some hearts.”