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My face lit up, brightened by a string of unanswered text messages that I had sent Alejandro. No responses, no clues, just the single message I received from Ivanna, just hours after Alejandro left.
Ivanna: Ordered to be in L.A., have no idea what’s going on. Phones are being confiscated. Try not to worry. It’s going to be ok.
I leaned against the wall, biting the edge of my thumb, staring out a dark window of a late New York night. I wanted to send Alejandro one more message, one more chance to reach out.
Gemma: Giving you space… Here when you’re ready.
I stopped myself from typing.Here when you’re ready?Was I really going to say that? The phrase felt like an evocative reality of my life thus far with Parker. Was I waiting for another man, sittingherefor his convenience? After all I’d fought to conceal, after dropping my guard and letting him in, I was left here again, alone, and unsure of the man I just spent the night with—anaccusedmurderer.
I looked down at my phone, edging closer to Parker’s front door. I didn’t know if Alejandro would ever be as open as I’d been with him. That hurt me to admit, but also empowered me with one truth; that being there for someone and waiting for someone to come around were two different things; the latter being the bane of my existence.
I erased my message for something new.
Gemma: Giving you space. If you need me, you’ll have to come find me.
It was harsh, but once again I had to protect myself from the world, from an outsider. I sent it, leaning my head against Parker’s door, swallowing the lump that sat in the back of my throat.
Shit.
I rotated my butterfly ring along my finger, having found it earlier under the clawfoot tub in Alejandro’s bathroom.
Now that I was back, what would Parker say about my late-night return? As if he needed any more reason to hate Alejandro, this would surely send him into a spiral. And what about me? After everything he warned me about, would he say those four dreaded words?I. Told. You. So.
I composed myself as I walked inside, greeted with the sound of jazz that came from the kitchen. My fake smile soon turned into a real but timid sigh, as the smell of toasted bread welcomed me at the door.
“Hey Park, I’m home!” I sang out, determined to set the mood of my nonchalant return, my greeting interrupted by the sizzle of butter that sauntered from the kitchen.
“Gemma?” Parker turned the corner, his dimpled cheek creased with a radiant hello. “What are you doing here? I thought—”
“It was just for one night, Parker,” I waved him off, dropping my duffle bag to the floor. “You know how forgetful I am. I misplaced my toothbrush, figured I’d come back.” Yes, a perfect excuse, traveling all the way back with packed bags for a toothbrush. I smiled bigger, as if it were totally plausible, and not totally absurd. A hint of suspicion washed over him but faded so quickly that it almost didn’t matter.
He didn’t judge, he didn’t say what I expected, he only seemed grateful to see me. I couldn’t describe this feeling, this surreal realization as if I were safe at home all along, back in my bed after a particularly torturous nightmare. It was as if he knew what I’d been through, pulling me in for a hug, relaying with touch that no words were needed.
“Can I feed you?” he asked. “I have something here that I know you’ll love.”
“You want to feed me?”
“Of course, baby…” he answered, his single word like a dog whistle to the tingled sparks that erupted above my elbows.
“… Sorry?”
Did he say baby? Even if it was a mistake, it somehow caught my heart on fire, awakening every inch of my body like an unanswered late-night call.
“Maybe…” he overcorrected, “maybeyou can tell me what you think of it?” He looked towards the kitchen. “The dinner that is.” He distinguished his posture, but I could still feel the excitement in his voice as he held me close. I followed his lead as he let me go, taking my seat at the counter as Parker circled over to the stove.
“I hope you’re hungry.” He said, cooling himself by unbuttoning his shirt, his fitted grey slacks still belted but his tie long gone.
Parker tossed a clean dishtowel over his shoulder, cranking the heat below the skillet as music continued to play behind his movements. I absorbed the aesthetic, the array of colors and smells, the steam rising into the light.
“Wait a minute, this isn’t…” I looked around the kitchen, realizing how special the meal really was. Everything I suspected was here: a large loaf of sourdough bread and a small wheel of golden Époisses. “Mama Meg’s grilled cheese?” I asked. This simple sandwich was more than just an American classic, it was culinary porn.
“She brought everything over for her favorite girl. She was going to make it for you, but I insisted.”
“She was here?” I pouted, genuinely sad that I had missed the one person I could truly call a mother. I missed her so much: our inside jokes and recipes, our time drinking sangrias on the dock for Fourth of July. I imagined her arriving in a sparkly St. La Vie dress, scolding Parker on the lack of food in the fridge.
“She was. Actually, she planned to also whisk you away to go thrifting, but she settled on a rain check.” Parker laughed to himself. “I told her you’re busy at work. She’s very proud of you.”
“Well, I have always been her favorite, you know.”
