Blaine launches into a story about their villa, about the renovations they had done last year, about the contractor who overcharged them. Vanessa adds details, and Marshall nods in all the right places, playing the part of the interested host.
I can’t look at Blaine. Every time I try, my stomach churns, and I have to look away before I do something stupid, like cry or scream or both.
Marshall’s gaze flickers to me again, and this time concern deepens in his eyes.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Marshall says, cutting Blaine off mid-sentence. He stands and crosses to my side of the table, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I think Gabriel should go lie down for a bit. He’s not feeling well.”
Blaine frowns. “Oh, I’m sure he’s fine. It’s just the heat.”
Marshall’s hand tightens on my shoulder. “I really think he needs to rest.”
I look up at him, and the gratitude I feel is so overwhelming it nearly undoes me. “Yeah,” I manage. “I should lie down.”
Marshall’s eyes search mine. “Do you need help getting upstairs?” he asks quietly.
“No.” I stand, my legs shaky but functional. “I’m fine.”
I don’t look at Blaine or Vanessa as I leave. I can feel their eyes on me, can hear Blaine starting to protest, but Marshall’s voice cuts him off, smooth and polite and final.
I make it to the stairs and climb them one at a time, gripping the banister. My heart is pounding in my chest, my hands still shaking, and all I can think is that I need to get to my room, close the door, and lock the world out for a while.
Just a little while.
Just long enough to remember how to breathe.
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.
