“Eat,” he says, and goes back to his seat.
I pick up the spoon and dip it into the soup. It’s still warm, creamy and rich. The first sip hits my tongue and I realize how hungry I actually am. I eat in silence, spooning soup into my mouth and chasing it with bites of salad.
Marshall returns to his laptop, the quiet click of the keys filling the silence between us. He’s giving me space, letting me eat without pressure. I appreciate it more than I can say.
I finish the soup and half the salad before I push the plate away.
Marshall closes the laptop again and leans back in his chair, his eyes on me. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah.” I don’t look at him. “It was probably some weird heatstroke or something.”
“Gabriel.”
I glance up. His expression is open, patient, and completely unconvinced.
“Even though we haven’t seen each other for a while,” he says slowly, “I can still tell when you’re lying.”
I look away. “I’m not lying.”
“You are.” His voice is calm, no accusation in it, just fact. “Your whole demeanor changed the second the Ashfords showed up. You went from fine to barely functional in under a minute.”
I don’t respond because I don’t know what to say that won’t make this worse.
Marshall leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “It’s him, isn’t it? The older married man you were seeing.”
My mouth opens, wanting to deflect, but Marshall’s eyes are on mine, steady and knowing, and the words die in my throat.
“Don’t lie to me, Gabriel. I’m not an idiot. I saw how he looked at you. Is he still trying to get back with you?”
I feel something crack inside me, a wall I’ve been holding up for too long. I shrug, the movement small and defeated. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in weeks. I came here to avoid him. I didn’t know he’d show up. I never told him where I was.”
Marshall’s jaw tightens. “He’s Philip’s friend. Either Philip or Mom probably let it slip.”
“Maybe.” I rub a hand over my face. “I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”
There’s a beat of silence, heavy and thick. Then Marshall asks, “Do you still have feelings for him?”
I look up, and something in his eyes catches me off guard. There’s tension there, something wound tight and coiled.
“No, I don’t have feelings for him anymore. He’s a scumbag who likes playing mind games.”
Marshall doesn’t say anything. He just watches me, waiting, giving me space to fill the silence if I want to.
“I’m not sure I ever had real feelings for him,” I admit. “I just liked the thrill of it. Being with an older guy. Feeling wanted.”
What I don’t say out loud is that I think I was trying to fill a gap inside me with that relationship. A gap that’s been there for years, deep and aching, that I don’t know how to name or fix. A gap that Blaine never came close to filling, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise.
Marshall studies me for a long moment, his eyes scanning my face as if he’s reading a map. Then he slaps his palms on the table, and I jump.
“Okay,” he says, standing. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”
I blink at him. “Out? Where?”
He shrugs, and there’s a determined grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “To town. You need a distraction.”
“Marshall—”
“Let me be your wingman tonight.” His grin widens, like he thinks this is the best idea he’s ever had. “We’ll find you someone to hook up with and help you forget about that cheating bastard.”
