42. Gabriel
Gabriel
“No, seriously. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Ivy’s lecture is now entering its fifteenth minute. She’s been berating me for fifteen minutes, uninterrupted. My head is starting to pound.
The worst part is that she’s completely right.
“She’s probably feeling like shit,” Ivy says, her tone accusing. “And we haven’t been able to get in touch with her.”
“We’ve been trying for days,” Chloe adds. “She never answers our calls.”
My brothers, Jackson, and Ivy are over at my place for dinner. I wanted to invite them to have some company. Make things feel a little more normal at my house.
Unfortunately, there’s no avoiding reality, and my divorce is family business. I should’ve known they wouldn’t just let it lie. Especially Chloe and Ivy, who have started to get close with Alexis over the past few months.
Beckett, Dominic, Jackson, and Tristan, all of whom are in the living room with us, make no effort to defend me. They’re all silent, which feels like a condemnation of its own.
“She was really sweet.” Ivy scowls at me, folding her arms. “She was good for you, you dick. And you had to go and ruin it.”
She’s right. Her words feel like knives.
I’ve been keeping tabs on Alexis, trying to make sure she’s doing okay.
But I haven’t seen her since I ran into her near the Fashion For All warehouse the other day.
She told me to leave her alone, and I intend to honor that request. I could tell that it upset her to see me, and the last thing I want is to cause her even more anguish than I already have.
Still, not seeing her, not knowing how she’s doing, is like a kind of torture on its own. Even though Ivy’s rant is entirely justified, it’s not necessary. I don’t need the lecture to know how irreparable the situation is.
“I just can’t believe you!” Ivy continues. Apparently, she’s still got some fuel left. “Everyone wanted this to go well for you. Everyone. And wouldn’t you know it, you’re still your own worst enemy?”
“Ivy,” Beckett interjects in a low voice, sitting forward on the couch, “go easy on the guy, huh? He knows he fucked up.”
Chloe places a hand on Ivy’s forearm. “Hey, why don’t we go track down Reid? Make sure Peyton hasn’t trained that kitten to maul him yet.”
Ivy sniffs, glaring at me in the way that only an honorary sister can manage. Then she rises to her feet. “Fine.”
The two of them leave the room. I can hear muffled voices from down the hallway.
Somewhere in this house, Peyton is showing Reid all of the “tricks” she’s taught Pepper so far.
Most of these tricks just involve getting the kitten worked up with a laser pointer until she sprints around the basement and backflips off a wall.
Once Ivy and Chloe are gone, silence descends on the living room, broken only by the warm roar of the gas fireplace. After a few moments, Beckett clears his throat.
“Okay. I’ll be honest. The ladies did have a point.”
“Beck,” Tristan mutters, a half-hearted attempt to spare me.
“I mean, come on, man. It seemed like everything was going great. Better than you thought it would.” Beckett narrows his eyes at me. “So what the fuck were you thinking? Did something happen, or…”
A grimace crosses my face, unbidden. “It’s complicated.”
Beckett lets out a frustrated huff. “Oh, ‘it’s complicated,’ he says. Listen, do you love her?”
I feel like a hand is reaching into my ribcage, squeezing my heart. I clench my jaw and remain silent.
“Yeah,” Beckett mutters. “That’s what I thought.” Shaking his head, he leans back on the couch.
“It’s not as simple as—”
“Sure it is,” he interrupts. “Why not? I mean, you won. These arranged marriages are a pain in the ass, don’t get me wrong.
” Something flits across his face, a shadow of irritation.
“I’ve been dreading mine. The woman they’ve got lined up for me?
Fucking hell, we have absolutely nothing in common.
She’s the least interesting person I’ve ever met in my entire life.
There’s no way I’m ever going to love her. ”
He meets my gaze, his eyes blazing.
“But you hit the jackpot. Alexis is perfect for you. She made you so much happier, and literally everyone can see it.”
Next to him, Dominic shuffles uncomfortably. I give Dom a long look, and I can see the same sentiment echoed in his eyes, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.
“Look at you now,” Beckett adds. “You’re wrecked. You look like a damn zombie.”
I sigh, my shoulders slumping. I try to disguise my reaction to Beckett’s words by leaning forward, fixing my gaze on the floor. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and the quiet is far less comfortable than the silences we usually share.
Finally, Beckett waves a hand, his expression softening. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to twist the knife. If you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to talk about it.”
“I appreciate that,” I say, my voice rougher than I want it to be. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Beckett clicks his tongue. “Done.” He turns to Tristan. “Shop talk time. I heard a rumor you were looking to acquire Zestify.”
“What’s Zestify?” Jackson asks, mystified.
“I don’t even fucking know,” Beckett says, gesturing effusively. “That’s my point. It’s some random social-media-slash-cooking app, and Thorne Enterprises is going to acquire them?”
“We’re not acquiring Zestify.” Tristan rolls his eyes. “They approached me at the Forbes thing, not the other way around.”
“What, are you getting your news from rumors now?” Dominic looks amused. “Beck, you’re at every meeting we have. Don’t you think you’d have heard if—”
“That’s why I was pissed about it!”
My brothers’ conversation fades into the background, my thoughts still lingering on Beckett’s words. The ache in my chest is a constant pressure, something I can’t shake off no matter how much I try to push it away.
I wanted to invite everyone over for dinner for two reasons. The first was to try and make myself feel normal, which isn’t working. The second was to convince them that I’m fine, that they don’t have to worry about me.
I know they’ve been worried about me. My brothers have been texting nonstop.
For the most part, Beckett notwithstanding, they’ve all been good about respecting my privacy.
None of them have pried, even though they have every right to, considering that my divorce will impact the company.
Still, I can tell that they’re concerned. I don’t want them to be.
Based on what Beckett said, though, I haven’t done a great job of hiding my pain. You’re wrecked. You look like a damn zombie. No one argued with him.
All things considered, that’s not surprising.
Since Alexis left, I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep.
Not even close, in fact. I’ve been waking up every few hours like I used to before she moved in.
I’ve been like a shell of myself, focused only on meetings and phone calls.
Margaret has been around every day from morning to night to make sure Peyton isn’t suffering from the tension in the house.
She’s been a godsend, but I still feel like I’m sinking.
Dinner, courtesy of Tristan and Chloe’s private chef, is delicious, but I hardly taste it.
I push the braised duck around my plate, trying to make it look like I’m eating, but my mind is elsewhere, replaying every moment of my last conversation with Alexis.
I catch my family stealing glances at me every so often. Their concern is palpable.
After we eat, everyone retires to the living room for a drink, and I turn my attention to Peyton. She’s starting to look sleepy. It’s half an hour after her usual bedtime. Chloe and Ivy offer to read Peyton her bedtime story, but I insist on doing it myself.
I carry her upstairs to her bedroom, closing the door to seal off the murmurs of my family downstairs. Peyton picks out her pajamas and climbs into bed, and I perch beside her and read her a story, something cute about a lost puppy finding its way home.
As I’m flipping through the watercolor-adorned pages of the storybook, Pepper jumps up onto the bed, purring contentedly.
The little black-and-white kitten kneads the blankets like she’s preparing dough for biscuits, then curls her head on her tiny paws to sleep.
By the time the story is finished, Peyton looks half asleep too, as if lulled by the rising and falling of Pepper’s side as she breathes.
I slip the book back on the shelf and make my way out of the room, careful not to disturb my daughter. Out in the hallway, I can hear my brothers’ conversation drifting up the stairs despite their efforts to keep their voices down.
“You didn’t have to go in on him like that,” Tristan is saying, his tone reproachful.
“I mean, it’s too late now,” Beckett replies. “I said what I said.”
“He’s hurting. Why kick him while he’s down?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe to try and get him back up?”
“What the fuck do you think it’s going to change?” Dominic mutters.
There’s a clink of glasses and a long pause. Then Beckett says, “That’s not my problem. That’s Gabe’s.”
I descend the stairs, making my steps loud on purpose so that they’ll know I’m coming back down.
The conversation dies abruptly, and by the time I return to the living room, they’ve moved back to shop talk.
I settle into an armchair and tune out an argument between Tristan and Reid about that stupid app, nursing a whiskey on the rocks.
Eventually, to my relief, Jackson stands up, stretching. “It’s getting late,” he declares. “I’ve got a charity brunch tomorrow, so I’d better go get some sleep.”
Ivy trails after him, although she seems more reluctant to leave.
The second they’re gone, Beckett follows, and slowly, the rest of my brothers trickle out of the house too.
Tristan and Chloe are the last to go. Tristan hesitates at the door, grimacing as he starts to apologize for what Beckett said, but I wave him away wearily.
He doesn’t need to apologize for Beckett’s words. It’s not his problem, and it’s not his job to make excuses for our youngest brother, who has always had a habit of saying exactly what’s on his mind.
The truth is, nobody needs to apologize for Beckett, because he was right.
Once I’m finally alone in the house, the quiet descends on me like a heavy weight, pressing down on my shoulders. The silence amplifies everything I don’t want to think about. The ache in my chest, the guilt gnawing at the edges of my conscience, the deep exhaustion that I can’t address.
I trudge up the stairs, shed my clothes, and climb into bed. Sleep won’t come. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling. I’m not sure if I wish the last, lingering traces of Alexis’s scent in my sheets were stronger, or if I wish they would fade and leave me in peace.
I’m considering my options for sleep—melatonin or something stronger—when I hear a cry from down the hall. Peyton.
In an instant, I’m out of bed, moving before I can fully process it. My exhaustion vanishes, replaced by a sharp, instinctive urgency.
I push open Peyton’s door to find her sitting up in bed, clutching Pepper to her chest. The kitten protests with a small, sleepy meow, but doesn’t struggle in Peyton’s hold.
“Daddy,” she whimpers, her voice wobbling.
I’m beside her in an instant, brushing her curls away from her damp forehead. “I’m here. What’s wrong?”
Her lower lip trembles. “I had a bad dream.”
“Oh, Bug,” I say, pressing a kiss to her forehead. I exhale slowly, relief and something deeper settling in my chest. A nightmare? I can handle that. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
She sniffles. Tears gather in her eyes, and I hold her to my chest. Pepper nestles between us, purring, enjoying the additional warmth. We struck gold with that cat. I find myself relieved that Peyton had some company the moment she was jolted awake.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” I ask, rocking Peyton back and forth gently.
She’s crying in earnest now, her back shaking. I rub my palm in circles on her spine in an attempt to soothe her, but it doesn’t seem to do much good.
She hiccups between sobs. “Alexis came back.”
My hand goes still on her back.
“In my dream, she came back, and I was so happy,” she whimpers, pressing her wet face into my shirt. “But then I turned around and she was gone again. I couldn’t find her anywhere. And nobody would tell me where she went.”
A sharp ache stabs through my chest.
Fuck. I should have seen this coming. Peyton has never once cried for Melanie. She was too young to remember her, too young to miss what she never had.
When I thought she was ready to hear it and explained—as gently as I could—that her mother had passed away, she didn’t cry. She just looked lost and a little uncertain, grieving something she couldn’t quite grasp.
But Alexis, she knew. Alexis brushed the tangles out of her hair and helped her pick out her kitten and coached her through talking to strangers without hiding behind my leg.
Alexis tucked her in at night and read her stories in all the different voices.
Alexis is real to her in a way Melanie never had the chance to be.
And now Peyton is dreaming about losing her too.
The realization settles like a lump of cement in my gut. I did this. I’m the reason my daughter woke up sobbing, dreaming of a reunion that dissolved the moment she reached for it.
I hold Peyton tighter, my throat constricting. “I’m here,” I murmur into her hair. “I’ve got you.”
But it’s not enough.
Because I’m not the one she needs tonight.
“I’m going to fix this,” I tell her, my voice a hoarse whisper. “I promise, Bug. I’m going to make this right.”