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Curiosity gets the better of me. “Is this your girlfriend?” I ask, picking up the photo and turning to him.
“Leave that,” he snaps at me.
I startle.
Gabe’s expression softens almost immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that,” he apologizes, rubbing the back of his neck.
I can’t hide my annoyance, though, and I glare at him briefly before turning to head toward my brother’s room. As I pass through the living room, the couple from earlier is still putting on what indeed looks uncomfortably close to a live porn show.
Gabriel, following closely behind, calls out to them with a mix of annoyance and authority. “John, take it to your room, man,” he says, his voice firm but controlled.
I don’t stick around to hear any more of their exchange. Quickly, I make my way to Cedric’s room, my mind spinning. This place, these people—it’s all too bizarre. Next time Dad goes out of town, I’m seriously considering just staying in my own room.
Chapter Five
Ameline
The next morning, I shuffle into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes, with the thought of breakfast nudging me awake. Opening the fridge, I expect to find the usual suspects—maybe some eggs, bread, or at least milk to pour in some cereal. But what greets me is a sight I wasn’t prepared for. The fridge has everything, though each and every single item is labeled with a sticky note, and none of them have my brother’s name. John’s salami: hands off; Gabe’s property—do not eat or you’ll die, the notes read, one after another. My favorite: Mine: fuck off my food, Cedric!
I laugh, but it only lasts a few seconds before my stomach knots with hunger as my shoulders slump. I close the fridge gently, realizing I can’t eat any of it. With just twenty dollars in my pocket and a reluctance to call Dad—I can’t let Cedric get into trouble—my options are limited.
As I stand, lost in thought and hunger, the sound of approaching footsteps catches my attention. I just hope it’s not Johnathan semi-naked with his girlfriend clinging to his dick. Turning around, I see Gabe walking in, his hair tousled from sleep and slight concern in his eyes as he notices me by the fridge.
“Morning, Ameline. Is everything okay?” His voice low and husky.
I force a small smile, not wanting to burden him with my problems. “Yeah, just figuring out breakfast,” I reply, trying to sound casual. “Seems like Cee didn’t make it home, and, just like my stepmother, he forgot to buy groceries. I’m just wondering if maybe there’s a coffee shop nearby?”
Gabe frowns, his gaze thoughtful as he opens the fridge. “We could whip up some scrambled eggs. I make a mean frittata. There’s also pancakes or . . .” He shuts the door then gestures toward the cabinets. “Cereal.”
I point out, a bit awkwardly, “But none of those sticky notes have Cedric’s name.”
He casually lifts his shoulder. “It’s okay. This is just for your brother who doesn’t believe in contributing to the groceries but likes to drink and eat everything John and I buy.”
“Sounds like Cee,” I acknowledge with a wry smile. “Also like my stepmother.”
Gabe pulls out ingredients from the fridge and even washes grapes and apples for me to snack on. As Gabe starts preparing breakfast, I share how Helen has a very peculiar grocery shopping habit and her own sticky note system. I offer up how I think those notes should be used for something more productive.
He looks over, a playful glint in his eyes. “Let me get this straight. You want me to use them for reminders and school notes? No harassing your roommates, huh?”
“Or you could leave love notes,” I suggest, a touch of whimsy in my voice. “I don’t like my stepmother much, but I’d give her points for leaving Dad sweet notes instead of just bossy ones.”
Gabe chuckles. “I don’t think I want to leave any love notes for my roommates. They’re not my type.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Well, obviously not to them. I’m just saying don’t waste them on groceries.”
“Once your brother learns how to contribute I’ll follow your advice.” He winks at me and starts mixing ingredients in a bowl. I assume he’s making pancakes. We never agreed to anything, did we?
After eating an entire apple, I finally say, “Men can start using those sticky notes to flirt or remind the ones they love that they’re thinking of them, you know?”
Gabe, with a skilled hand, turns a pancake in the air. “Dad usually composes love songs for Mom. But maybe you’re right and sticky notes are more practical,” he says, focusing on the stove.
“Really?” I ask.
The idea of a man composing songs for his wife strikes me as incredibly romantic. I wouldn’t want to change that. In fact, for a moment I imagine a life filled with music and lyrics—not to confuse it with a musical though.
But wouldn’t it be amazing to wake up to someone serenading me just because they love me?
“Yeah, that’s their thing,” Gabe says, bringing me back from my romantic cloud. “I guess when the only thing you do is breathe music, that’s the best way to express what you feel. He wrote pretty dark stuff when they were separated.”
