16. Alexis #2
I settle into the couch, curling my legs underneath me, and open my book, although I find myself not really focusing on the pages.
I’m more preoccupied with my hair, tangled from the seawater.
It’s not going to be in good shape again until I shower, but I’d rather not have it irritating my neck while I’m trying to relax, so I fumble with a hair tie and start trying to braid it.
It takes Gabriel around fifteen minutes to get Peyton to bed.
That must be record time. She was probably too tired for her usual bedtime story.
He comes down to the living room, his quiet footsteps warning me of his approach.
I nudge my book closed and set it to the side, still struggling with the braid.
It’s impossible to manage my hair sometimes, especially without a mirror.
“Hey,” I say in greeting as he sinks into the nearby armchair.
“You look comfortable,” he says.
“Trying to be,” I answer with a small smile, feeling a little sheepish. “My hair’s always a mess after the beach.”
“Are you trying to braid it?”
My face falls. “Oh, god, you couldn’t tell?”
He chuckles. “It’s not that bad, don’t panic.” He pauses, his voice a bit hesitant as he adds, “You know, I could probably braid it for you, if you want. I’ve had a lot of practice doing Peyton’s hair.”
I blink at him, taken aback. I guess it’s not that surprising that he knows how to do hair. He’s a single father with a daughter. Still, the thought of a high-powered corporate executive doing a French braid seems a little surreal.
“Sure,” I say cautiously. “Just be warned, it tangles pretty easily.”
“No worries. Peyton has curls.” With that, he gets up and moves to the couch to sit beside me. I turn away from him, offering him access to my hair.
“I guess I should’ve known,” I say. “You’ve had to do a lot of this, huh?”
He gives a small shrug, his eyes glinting with a hint of amusement. “Oh, yeah. Ponytails, braids, buns. It’s not that difficult once you get the hang of it.”
He’s quiet for a moment. His hands are surprisingly gentle as they untangle my hair, undoing the mess I made and teasing out the residual knots left from the ocean. It takes him a while to figure out one knot in particular, right at the nape of my neck.
“God,” I say, my face burning. “Sorry. You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Beach hair is a whole other animal. Besides, it’s the least I can do after you spent the whole day with us.”
“It was my pleasure.” I wish I could get rid of my stilted, overly-cordial tone, but I’m not sure how else to respond. It’s strange to be in this position of pseudo-intimacy—Gabriel’s hands entwined in my hair, his body close to mine on the couch, his ring on my finger—and still be so businesslike.
“I try to get Peyton out of the house on the weekends,” he says. “I work so much during the week that I don’t get to see her enough. So when Saturday rolls around, she gets all twelve hours, eight to eight.”
I smile, even though he can’t see my face. “I like that.”
He shifts slightly, and his fingers go still for a moment, like he’s considering something. Then he says, “You know, the way you told Peyton about your stutter…” He trails off.
I swallow, suddenly nervous. “Oh. I hope I didn’t overstep or anything like that. I just—”
“No,” he says. “I wanted to thank you. I think that meant a lot to Peyton.” He starts on the braid, weaving my hair together carefully.
I shrug one shoulder, doing my best not to disturb his work. “It’s just what I would’ve wanted someone to say to me when I was that age.”
He breathes out, a long, low sigh that sends a rush of warm air over my back. My skin prickles, and I bite my lip, trying to ignore the sudden wave of awareness that washes over me.
“I’m guessing no one ever did tell you that,” he mutters. There’s something dark in his voice that almost makes me shiver.
I shrug again, although this time, the gesture is forced.
I don’t want to seem pathetic to him. The thoughts I had on the beach about my parents’ indifference rush back to me, and I push them down, burying them with effort.
I’m not going to be that pitiful person who whines about how their parents didn’t love them.
Instead, I change the subject. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About me finding some sort of passion project.”
“Yeah?”
“I think I might have an idea. It started to come to me the other day, when we were talking about luxury, and how you should just wear whatever makes you feel good—you remember?”
“Of course,” he says. “What’s your idea?”
“I want to put together some sort of charity project,” I tell him. “Something about accessibility in fashion. ‘Fashion for all.’ That sort of thing.”
“That sounds like an amazing idea.”
I can feel a flush creeping into my cheeks. “I mean, I don’t know what it’ll look like yet, obviously. Um. Maybe a clothing line, or something like that. I’m going to start small, just sketching ideas.”
Gabriel’s fingers continue their work in my hair. He’s almost finished with the braid. “Sure. Get the foundation in place, figure out what works, and then grow it from there. But seriously—I think this is a fantastic idea. You’ve got the vision, and you’ve definitely got the passion.”
I’m taken aback by his encouragement. It’s incredible, but at the same time, I don’t really know what to do with it, how to respond. I’m not exactly used to this sort of support.
“There. Done.” Gabriel drops my hair, satisfaction in his voice. I reach back to feel the braid, surprised at how smooth and neat it is.
I turn toward him, a feeling of warmth in my chest as I meet his gaze.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
He looks at me, his expression unreadable. “You’re more than welcome, Alexis.”
For a long moment, we just sit there, the silence stretching between us in a way that sends a flutter through my chest, both comforting and unsettling.
His warmth is so close that I feel like I could simply lean forward, allow myself to be drawn to him.
If I pressed my body into his, would he hold me? Would he want it?
Then Gabriel clears his throat, and the spell breaks. He stands, his movements deliberate, like he’s forcing himself up off the couch.
“I should get to bed,” he says.
I swallow, then nod. “Okay.”
“Feel free to stay up as late as you’d like. Don’t worry about waking me.”
“Okay.”
With that, he turns toward the stairs. For several minutes, I just sit there, my mind racing with thoughts I’m not ready to confront. Then I force myself to pick up my book and open it. I try to focus on the words, but the text blurs.
I glance toward the stairs, where Gabriel disappeared moments ago. The silence in the house feels oppressive now, too much space between us. Even though we’re both under the same roof, it feels like we’re on opposite sides of a vast chasm that I can’t cross.
That I shouldn’t try to cross. Not if I want to keep things simple, fulfill my role, and come out of this without permanent damage—both emotional and social.
It is what it is, I tell myself, reaching back to run my fingers over the curves of the braid Gabriel put in my hair. He won’t love you. You can’t expect him to. That was never the point.