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And as much as that worries me, I can’t help but admit…
…it excites me, too.
chapter fifteen
Bishop
When I arrive at Gabi’s house on Sunday evening, I pull to a stop at the end of the long dirt path that leads to the cabin she shares with her aunt. They’re kind of tucked back into the wooded area on a large lot, which is great for privacy but shit during the winter when there’s a heavy snow.
It suits them, though, Gabi and Leah, being so far out of the way and hidden from the world. It’s the vibe they put out there, that they don’t want to be disturbed. They like their space and their quiet.
As I get farther down the road, their house comes into view. It looks mostly the same as I remember, though I think they might have repainted the window shutters and planted some new bushes next to the driveway. Memories from the past assault me as I park, get out, and make my way toward the front door…
Lying on the grass in the yard on a blanket during the summer and staring up at the trees. All the times I’d drop Gabi off after school and we’d sit in the car making out until Leah had to rap on the window to get our attention. The first time I kissed her, right there in the doorway, after bringing her home from one of the summer bonfires before junior year started.
Before I even make it to the door, it opens, and Leah is standing in the doorway with her arms crossed.
“Never thought I’d see you walking up the drive again,” she says, leaning against the jamb wearing a nice blue dress.
“Evening, Ms. Ventura. You look lovely this evening.”
She snorts, then gives me a ghost of a smile. “You always were a kiss-ass.”
I can’t help grinning wide at her comment.
“She’s in the shed working.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
“And Bishop?”
I look back at where Leah still stands at the entry, her expression much more serious.
“Don’t break her heart again.”
My smile dims at her words, and she nods once before stepping back inside and shutting the door. Clearing my throat, I turn and begin walking around the side of the house to the shed in the back, a detached garage Leah has always used for storage. Light from the three small windows just under the roof provides direction in the dimming evening light, and when I come to the shed, I stop at the door, listening intently for any indication of what Gabi’s doing inside. All I can hear is the faint sound of Maggie Rogers playing, and I turn the handle, opening the door and peeking through. Then I open it wider in surprise.
“Wow,” I say, stepping inside, taking it all in, my eyes tracking over all the art supplies and shelves filled with Gabi’s work before finally landing on the woman herself. She smiles at me from where she sits at her wheel, working on a bowl, or possibly something else. Everything she makes seems to change shape so quickly.
“This place looks so different.”
The last time I was in here, it was filled with old furniture and boxes. Now, it looks like Gabi has set up an art studio. There were a handful of times, back when we had just started dating, that we would sneak to the shed to make out, away from Leah’s watchful eyes.
Gabi glances around, possibly remembering what it used to look like, maybe thinking about those stolen moments as well.
“I’m just finishing up. I’ll only be a few minutes,” she tells me.
I shake my head. “Take your time. This gives me a chance to snoop, see all this incredible work you’ve been doing.”
“I don’t know about incredible, but feel free,” she replies, a smile still lingering in her voice.
I spent some time the other day looking at the stuff Gabi shares online, the videos and photos of her artwork. She has a huge following, with some of her videos racking up millions of views and thousands of comments.
I can see her talent in the items she’s been working on in her classroom, and I’ve made a habit of observing it each week when we have our meetings. But seeing it up close like this—the items she’s selling, not just creating as part of her class—makes it so clear why she’s so sought after.
“Your stuff is really good,” I say, staring at a tower of shelves in the corner, where Gabi’s projects are all laid out in various stages of completion. Vases and mugs and plates and bowls, all with slightly different patterns, but each feeling like a part of the same collection.
“Thanks,” she says, crossing the room behind me and moving to the sink.
