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But then I see a face that is a surprise, so much so that I come to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, old sensations rushing through me.
Gabriela Ventura.
She’s standing in front of the hardware store, her arms crossed and an irritated expression on her face as she paces in front of the entrance.
A million memories rush through my mind, and a pang of…something hits me as I take her in. I’ve been on the receiving end of that look more times than I can count. I mean, I know Gabi’s facial expressions better than I know baseball, and that’s saying a lot.
Part of me wants to go to her and say hello, wrap her up in a hug and say how much I’ve missed her—a truth I’ve thought about more than a few times over the years. But I’m not sure how she’d respond, especially with the way things ended. Another part of me also knows seeing an ex for the first time in four years can be…awkward.
Before I get a chance to decide one way or another, her eyes connect with mine, and she stops moving. Her arms fall to her sides, her lips parting just slightly. She looks just as surprised to see me as I feel to see her, and for a long moment, we just stare at each other. A decade of memories races through me in an instant, the montage of our history playing like a silent movie in my mind.
Before I can move to say or do anything, the jingle of the bell on the hardware store’s door rings as it opens behind her, startling us both out of whatever frozen moment we’d fallen into.
Gabi spins away, turning her glare on Roy Pulasky, the owner, as he steps outside.
“It’s about time!” she barks, her voice bristling with the irritation that was evident on her body just a moment ago. “You were supposed to open at 7:30.”
She blows past him and storms inside. She doesn’t say a word to me, doesn’t give me a wave or anything like that, just walks away, ignoring me entirely.
Part of me wants to laugh, because it’s such a Gabi thing to do. She was always that way, quick to spin on her heel and dart away from…anything. Awkwardness. Conversations. Things she doesn’t like.
She once told me she’d rather pretend a problem doesn’t exist than face it head on because it means she doesn’t have to deal with it as quickly. “It becomes a future Gabi problem,” she told me, her eyes studiously focused on whatever she was working on in her sketchbook.
It felt funny back then. Maybe I’m reading way too much into our very brief non-interaction, but an uncomfortable feeling slices through me at the idea that I’m the future Gabi problem, one she’ll deal with later. Or never.
Just as quickly as it arrived, that little part of me that wanted to laugh fades away completely, my heart feeling heavy in my chest. No matter what, Gabi was never that way with me. I was her safe place, the person she turned to, first as a friend, then as a boyfriend.
The realization that after all this time, after all our history, she’d rather flee than talk to me…
It hits me harder than I expect.
chapter two
Gabi
The sound of the door slamming behind me announces my arrival before I do.
“I’m home!” I shout, marching through the house and into the kitchen then dumping my bags on the table.
My aunt glances over from where she sits on the couch in the living room, knitting next to the fireplace, and smiles. “Get what you need?”
“Yup.”
The word comes out slightly more forcefully than I intend, and I can feel her eyes on me as I begin tugging my purchases out of the paper bags and placing them on the counter.
We don’t have an art supply store in Cedar Point—a tragedy if you ask me and a missed opportunity, surely—but I’m able to get most of what I need online and a few items locally from the hardware store. My secret assumption is that Roy keeps some of the things I regularly need on hand just because he’s hoping my Aunt Leah will come shopping with me.
Roy’s a nice guy and all, but he should know better than to think he has a chance with my aunt. Nobody has a chance. Leah is a confirmed bachelorette with no intention of changing things up. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. She mostly just keeps to herself, does her own thing, and enjoys being an old cat lady with no cats—a label she bestowed upon herself.
“Everything go okay?”
I sigh, trying to keep my mind focused on putting away a few grocery items I picked up at One Stop after the hardware store. I needed an extra few minutes of wandering around aimlessly to clear my mind after my run-in with Bishop, but when I look at what I grabbed—a half gallon of milk, some tomatoes, and a bottle of shampoo—I realize my mind must have been quite distracted, because I’m pretty sure none of this was even on our grocery list.
“It was fine.”
It was not fine.
What is he doing here?
