Page 55 of See You Next Tuesday

“Where’s the car?” he asked tightly.

“That way.” She pointed to the right, toward the visitor lot. “Do you want me to take you home?”

“I’m not going back to that house,” he snapped—but then he sighed, and his shoulders drooped. “Sorry. I’m not— I’ll get my stuff out of the car, okay? And then I’ll get a cab to a hotel or something. I’ve already put you out enough.”

There was a twitch in his jaw. She couldn’t tell if he wanted to scream or break down crying. Maybe both.

“Do you want to just drive for a while?” she asked. “Maybe get some cigarettes? I could really use a cigarette right now.”

Gabe tilted his head slightly. “You’d defy the surgeon general?”

“Only in absolute emergencies.”

He exhaled. It was so good to see him relax, even a little.

“There’s a lookout spot in the hills, off Mulholland,” he said. “I don’t know the address. Is it okay if I just tell you where to go?”

Anya nodded. “Let’s do it.”

They picked up a pack of Parliament Lights and a couple of slushies from a nearby gas station, then Anya started driving. It wasn’t long before they were back in the hills—on a wider road this time, for which Anya was thankful. Still, the curves were sharp as they climbed in elevation, and Anya was tired enough that she drove very slowly. Gabe was smoking a cigarette out the passenger window, and the lights of LA grew hazy and distant beneath them.

“Up here.” Gabe pointed to a turnoff ahead, and Anya pulled into it.

“Oh wow,” she breathed.

The view was dazzling—the entire city basin to the south, mountains climbing into fog and darkness to the east. Gabe got out of the car and walked toward a bench at the edge of the lookout, and Anya followed. It was really cold up here, much colder than it had been down in the city. She started shivering, which Gabe noticed right away.

“Shit, you’re in a dress. Should we stay in the car?”

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted.

“You’re so goddamn stubborn,” he sighed. For once, she liked how it sounded. “Can you pop the trunk?”

She did, and he went over to riffle through his weekend bag. A few seconds later, he shut the trunk and returned with a giant hoodie.

“Here.” He balled it up and tossed it to her. She was hit with a wave of how much like Gabe it smelled, whatever cologne he wore—something leathery and woodsy, like palo santo. She unfurled the hoodie and saw it bore a giant Dodgers logo.

“Dodgers?!” she faux-gasped. “Anathema!”

“Your body, your choice, Met fan,” he said dryly, and she let out a little grunt of displeasure as she pulled on the sweatshirt. It was huge and soft—it covered nearly her entire dress—and she immediately felt so much warmer. She settled onto the bench beside him.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded. “What about you?” she said carefully. “Better? At all?”

He lit another cigarette, took a long inhale and let it out, the smoke dissipating into the twinkling lights of the city.

“My mom didn’t used to be like that,” he said, staring straight ahead.

“What was she like?”

“She was—” Gabe’s voice caught in his throat, and then he swallowed. He looked down, shoulders slumped, like he’d lost a battle. “I had a brother. He died.”

Anya froze, feeling the intensity of the moment, the enormity of it. She’d never seen Gabe look this vulnerable. She was terrified of saying something wrong.

“What was his name?” she asked.

“Danny.” Gabe took another drag, his breath uneven. “He was three years older than me.”