“Daddy said so.”
I breathe deeply through my nose and Arturo chuckles.
“Hey, who wants to try a traditional Mexican breakfast?”
“What’s in it?”
“Eggs, chorizo, beans, potato, salsa, and tortillas. You’ll love it.”
Axl nods enthusiastically. “I will.”
I laugh at my son and turn to face Art with a sympathetic look. “You don’t have to cook for us.”
“It would be my pleasure, mi amor.”
“Okay.” I take his hand and let him lead me from the room as Axl races to the bathroom, apparently unperturbed by his new injury.
“Do you mind watching Axl while I go across the road and talk to Gabe?”
“Not at all.”
“You really are an angel, Arturo.”
“That is not what you said last night when I was buried el coño.”
I laugh and relish the tightening in my core as I pull away from him. “No, it wasn’t.”
I get dressed and head across the road, dreading the idea of interrupting whatever midmorning sex-fest Gabe might be partaking in, because I can’t think of a single reason that he might have to avoid my calls.
I raise my fist and bang on the door. “Gabe!”
Nothing. I glance at his car haphazardly parked on the street and stare back at the curtains in the window that are drawn tight. “Open up, you bastard!”
I pound my fist again, but he doesn’t answer so I turn the knob. I don’t expect it to open, but it creaks as it swings wide. The acrid scent of booze and vomit assaults me, and I swallow hard as I enter the tiny two-bedroom apartment. “Gabe?”
He doesn’t respond. I walk deeper into the small space, switching on the light. Gabe is naked, face down on the rug in a pool of vomit. An empty bottle of tequila and two crushed six packs of beer litter the floor. Little white pills lay scattered in the shag pile carpet, glittering like diamonds.
“Gabe! Oh my god!” I gasp, and sink to my knees, trying to feel for a pulse. I attempt to roll him over, but the couch prevents me from moving him, so I shove at the scarred oak coffee table and scramble for his phone. I didn’t bring mine with me. His has sunk into the seam between the couch and I turn it on andenter his pin. It dings with the missed calls and messages from Arturo’s phone, but that’s not what has me staring in confusion at his lock screen. It’s a nude picture of me, taken in his old apartment above the shop, when we first started fucking.
I navigate through the home screen and pull up the keypad, dialing 911.
“Come on, Gabe.”
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”
“My husband, he’s not breathing.”
“Okay, honey, what’s your name?”
“Lo. Harlow Laurier.”
“Okay, Harlow, can you tell me where you and your husband are?”
“439 Howland Canal Venice.”
I tap Gabe’s cheek, silently praying that this is all some terrible joke. He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t so much as flinch. “He’s an alcoholic. He was clean. He drank, and there’s sleeping pills on the floor.”
“Harlow, can you get him on his back?”