Gabriel curses under his breath, and the gentle hands from the shower are back on me. He pulls me to his side. Strokes my hair.
He holds me until my heart goes back to a normal speed.
“That was so hot,” I whisper into the side of his neck. “You’re hot.”
“Same to you. Stay with me forever.”
“Can I do that to you again?”
He lifts my chin so I have to look at him. “I will divorce you if you don’t.”
A giggle escapes. “We’re not married.”
“Oh.” Gabriel rests again. Kisses my forehead. “That seems like an oversight.”
“It’s okay to be my boyfriend for a little while.”
“Deal.”
We lie there together, falling asleep, until Gabriel sighs. “I’m worried about Lydia.”
“Why?” I did a good job tonight. I nailed it. “She seems fine.”
“I think she has a crush on Nate, and I’m…not sure he’s in a place where he can be with someone. I wasn’t. Not for a long time.”
“It’s different for him. He has us. And love could go a long way to making things better.”
I’m fading when he speaks again. “There are some things love can’t fix.”
He’s wrong, but I don’t get a chance to tell him, because I fall asleep in his arms.
19
JACOB
Doorbells,much like forests, have zero redeeming qualities.
A ringing doorbell is almost always a sign that the person on the other side finds it appropriate to arrive unannounced. I find this unforgivably presumptuous. If you want to walk around rudely ringing doorbells all day, find work as a delivery driver. That, at least, is a useful profession.
Also, the only person in the whole of New York who would show up at my penthouse without texting first is my father.
I pretend not to hear the doorbell and stop at the wet bar in my living room. It’s ten past noon, so instead of a mimosa, I mix a Seven and Seven. My father thinks this particular cocktail is for the homeless and destitute, which is ignorant. A Seven and Seven is a delicious drink regardless of the pedigree of 7-Up and Seagram’s.
He rings the doorbell again.
“Coming.”
I add ice. Swirl in the glass. Dig around in the refrigerated section for a cherry, which I dip in the cocktail.
Then I go to answer the door. I’ll have to have a word with the doorman not to let him up after this.
I open my front door with a flourish and my father shoulders past me, red-faced and scowling.
“Come on in, Daddy-o. I wondered when you’d stop by.”
The door closes with a nudge from my elbow, and I follow my father through to the living room. I suppose he needs more space for his tantrum. He stalks over by the floor-to-ceiling windows, no doubt noticing the view in spite of himself, and turns to face me with a hard expression that would have frightened me if I were four years old.
“You seem upset.” I keep my tone mild and bob the cherry on an ice cube.