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1
GABRIEL
As far asSaturday brunches go, this one’s a four out of ten.
A point for each of my siblings, present in Mason’s apartment if not actually at the table.
And a point for the chef, who has attempted to lift the mood by serving individual fruit cups with breakfast. Five ramekins, each with a bed of bright fruit topped with a perfect dollop of whipped cream. A sprinkle of candied lemon peel.
Tension has thoroughly destroyed the rest of the rating.
Mason’s dining area is filled with natural light and forced politeness, as if one stray word might set off a grenade hidden in the tray of waffles. It’s not out of the question. The very first brunch we attempted to have devolved into a fistfight. Jameson is the one who exploded that time.
This time, it’s me. I’m the problem. I announced my revenge plans to my brothers. Then—the whipped cream on the goddamn fruit salad—I broke up with Elise Bettencourt.
Never mind that we weren’t dating. Never mind that I was clear as Mason’s crystal ramekins that I was using her. She didn’t want to see it.
The night we went to that dinner at her parents’ house repeats nonstop in my head.
Elise’s eyes, wide with pain.Your birthday. My dad’s office. Those things were real. What we felt was real. So you’ll just pretend to leave me alone for my dad’s sake, and we can—
The bitter taste of what I said to her overpowers the fruit and the whipped cream.
No, Elise. I’ve hollowed you out. I took everything. And now there’s nothing left you can give me.
She had tears in her eyes.You said I mattered to you. I thought you meant it.
If I cared about Elise Bettencourt, it’s the same way I care about my siblings.
It can never be real. I can never get close.
I’m an island for a reason. Nobody notices when an island sinks beneath the waves. It doesn’t hurt to realize it’s no longer on the map. It can simply disappear.
One day it’s there, the next day it’s gone.
Charlotte, Mason’s wife, dips the tines of her fork into the whipped cream on top of her berries. “I’ve never seen a cuter fruit cup. Look at the color distribution.”
No doubt Elise told her what I said. What I did. That’s what best friends do. They share all the painful, awful details. It would explain Charlotte’s careful politeness this morning.
And the way she won’t quite meet my eyes.
Mason, on the other hand, won’t stop staring. Glowering, really. When he’s pissed like this, his eyes seem several shades darker.
“Is there a range?” Jameson drums his fingertips on the tablecloth. “How much difference is there between the cutest one you’ve ever seen and the ugliest?”
He’s not even looking at the fruit cup, or at Charlotte. He’s watching Mason.
“Mason?” Charlotte nudges him with her elbow. “Have you ever seen a cuter fruit cup?”
“There are more important things than the fruit cup.” Mason’s tone is low and bristling. “We need to have a conversation, Gabriel.”
“Something happen at work?” I meet his eyes with a grin that makes me feel even more hungover and wretched. Poetic justice that I didn’t drink last night. All I did was toss and turn and think of buttercream frosting and pink humiliation on Elise’s cheeks.
“Don’t fuck around with me right now.”
I raise my eyebrows. “I would never dream of fucking around with you at brunch, Mason.”
He lets out a sharp breath, his face reddening. Charlotte puts a hand on his knee under the table. Cute. “Gabriel, if you don’t—”
