Page 20
Chapter 20
Like A Salve to My Ache
Gabe
“I think I’m in love with Wade.”
I choke on my mimosa and use the napkin as a face shield. “You’re what now?”
“He’s uh-maz-ing.”
“Landon’s gonna lose his shit.”
“Seriously, Gabe .” A whiny faux sob pairs with Indi’s pained expression. She pulls something from her purse. “Your boyfriend got Derrick to crochet this matching beanie and sweater— look at this freaking tiny sweater! —for the baby. And the little booties?” Her first two fingers make them march on her side of the table in sync with a series of boops . “I cannot. They’re too cute.”
“Cute? What is happening to you?”
Her hand dismisses the question. “And how precious is this garnet color? Did you tell him it was my favorite?”
“I had nothing to do with this.”
“See? This is what I mean. I knew he was sweet, but the man might be perfect. For you, I mean.” A waiter interrupts to refill her water glass. She passes a polite smile before continuing. “He worships the ground you stand on, makes you food, does all the things crusty, dusty Vaughn couldn’t handle in bed…”
My breath hitches, asshole clenching at the memory of how we kept our promises post-Halloween party.
Wade spent hours between eating me out and using Mr. Darcy on my pussy until I relaxed enough to let him in the back door. Copious amounts of lube helped accept his size. And after? I almost passed out from the tenderness.
Our skin clung at the hips, my ass to his groin. Amidst a deluge of sweat and cum, Wade growled out an orgasm while buried halfway in my ass. It was all I could take.
He didn’t pull out right away, simply panting through groans, cock still hard and twitching inside me. Kisses from his swollen lips trailed behind callused fingers over every ridge of my spine until he neared my nape. Pinpricks tightened my skin further from his hot breath in my ear.
“I can’t stand how gorgeous you are.” The praise and degradation combo was definitely going into regular rotation. “You’re a fucking wet dream come true.”
Later, I admired him through the steam from the shower. There was no denying Wade was beautiful. Cheeks puffed from swishing mouthwash, he spit neon blue foam into the sink.
While I began to dry off, he pulled me into a relentless, open-mouthed kiss, tossing my towel to the floor before lifting me to bed.
I may never get over the way he moans. From deep in his chest. Pure agony and want.
“Wade.”
“Do you know how insane you make me feel? I want you” —the noisy, sloppy kisses moved to my neck— “so badly. All the time.”
He worked a sensitive spot under my ear, and my pussy cried, raw and sore from earlier.
“For sex?” I asked, knowing any answer would hurt.
Frozen otherwise, his Adam’s apple tensed and bobbed while he hovered over me. “Yeah, yeah. For sex.”
The longing didn’t disappear from his gaze. He fell away from me in a heap.
I shove my fingers into my hairline, baffled at how this-this-this thing snowballed. “How did we get here? We hate each other.”
Wade broke the tension with a dry chuckle. “Do we?”
“Ahem.”
I blink three times, giving my best impression of a deer in headlights at Indi’s interruption.
“Adorable. ‘ We’re just having fun ,’ she says while having a dirty fantasy in the middle of Sunday brunch.”
A shrug is attempted, but Indi doesn’t buy it. “We are having fun.”
Fun with toys and kinks.
“Ma’am, if you don’t put a ring on that boy’s finger…” Her voice weakens, tears emerging and streaking down her cheeks.
“Indi? Are you okay?” I switch my seat to the one next to her. She topples over and sobs into my shoulder.
My finger swirling into the air signals the waiter to wrap it up and grab the check. I offer my friend a napkin.
“Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” She blows a honk. “I have no control over my emotions these days.”
“It’s the hormones,” I comfort her. “But to be honest, you’re generally much softer since?—”
Another round of wailing ensues.
“I know ! You’re so right.” Her hand points to her lower belly, frustration lacing the raised tone. “It’s Landon Radek’s fault for putting his cinnamon roll baby inside me!”
And we’ve got an ugly crier.
I cringe and massage her arm. “Oh, honey.”
“I used to be a smartass, Gabe! Now I’m all gooey and… nice . Ugh . Who am I?”
Using a folded part of the napkin to dab away the clotting mascara at the edges of her eyes, I give another shot at consolation. “I ask myself that every day.”
“Please. You’re a badass.”
“This is true.” I accept the compliment with a seated curtsy. “But you know what else is true?”
Indi pushes out a leaden sigh. “What?”
“Soft looks good on you.”
The Uber drops Indi home first.
Pretty Boy
Come over
Me
Now?
Pretty Boy
Please
Me
You’re so desperate.
Me
It’s hot.
Me
Be there in 10.
I should question my sanity. I don’t have feelings for Wade Boehner; my vagina does. Let’s not get the two confused.
A lean woman stands in Wade’s kitchen in classic black leather boots to her knees and a fitted black dress. An emerald shawl gathers over her shoulders.
She gasps, uttering something French, causing Wade to straighten from the counter.
Of course.
Same brown tone of her hair. Same angle of her nose. Her chocolate-colored eyes light up the same way.
Any unease disappears when Wade rushes over to clasp my hand, weaving our fingers together. His thumb draws into my palm as he leads me to her.
O-K-?
I trace a shaky Y in reply.
“Maman. This is Gabe Finch, my girlfriend.”
Every time he says it tastes more and more like the truth.
“Gabe, this is my mother, Naomie.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Enchanté.”
“Wow,” I gush, awestruck. I’ve seen pictures, but they don’t do justice, not even the ones from her competitive rowing or modeling days. “You’re beautiful.”
Every subtle move she makes— the way her shoulders lift, hand drawn to her mouth, eyes crinkling and fluttering shut with the praise— is full of grace and control.
She waves a finger at Wade, and I can’t tell if she’s scolding him or what.
He returns a sly smile and a shake of his head.
Nerves manifest in titters. She understands the confusion in my smile.
“Oh my, pardon us.”
Her accent is like a sweet melody.
“Sorry, I barely passed French class.”
“No, no. My apologies. I sometimes don’t notice when I’ve switched. Walt, where are your manners? Please, let’s sit.”
We head over to the sofa. Wade swings our hands, the hold loose and playful but unwilling to part. “Surprise visit?” I whisper.
“Quick stopover.”
Naomie motions to the spot across. “Walt talks about you constantly.”
“Does he?”
“C’est toi, évidemment!”
I look to Wade for translation. “She said, ‘of course, it’s you.’”
“Well, that’s sweet.”
“He’s a sweet boy.”
He is.
“And he’s so proud of you.”
“He is?”
“Oui, he sends me clips of your interviews and links to your articles online almost daily.”
“I had no idea.” I glance over at Wade, and he’s blushing. The hand he’s not holding reaches for his thigh and squeezes.
“Bin oui! It’s the same with hobbies. When Walt finds something he enjoys, it turns to obsession. I took him along for a library story time I attended after the Olympics, and look” —her arm draws a circle toward the bookshelves— “he can’t stop reading. Reading led to children’s theater, but he was teased a bit, so he took up rollerblading to combat the neighborhood kids. Rollerblading became ice skating, and now he’s a professional athlete.”
“All because of reading?”
Naomie nods. “At least it’s a good habit. It led him to Harvard.”
“Wasn’t he on an athletic scholarship?”
“That happened after. He had early admission.”
I didn’t know that.
“ Really ? How interesting.” One knee crosses over the other, my chin in my hand as I peek at Wade. “I don’t think that’s public information.”
“You didn’t tell her?”
“ Maman .”
Is he actually a genius masquerading as a dopey fuckboy?
“I’d only read he was drafted sophomore year.”
“Oh, yes. He did finish his degree— English literature with a minor in theater— what do they call it? Ah yes, distance learning.”
“Impressive.”
“My boy doesn’t like to brag, except in the ways it doesn’t matter.”
“ Maman !” His embarrassment deepens.
“What? You are! You’re cocky about the way you look, but it’s simply genetic.” She sweeps a delicate wave of hair behind her ear. “It doesn’t take any effort.”
Wade’s hands move up and down over his torso. “ This takes effort.”
“Okay, Monsieur Hotshot. You’re a professional athlete who has been honing his skills since you sprouted your first chest hair. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t have a decent physique.”
“Decent? I’m in top-notch shape?—”
Their animated squabble quickly converts from mixed French and English to French and I’m relishing every second. There’s palpable love and pride in her criticism.
Reclining into the couch cushion, I cross my arms. “I’m learning so much about you, Walt .”
“Oof, he loathes the name. But I can’t help it.” Her hands lift in surrender. “Sorry, mon bébé.”
“She called you a baby,” I tease, tapping my knee to his. I’m tickled by his wry expression.
“ That , you understand.”
“This is fun. I want more stories about bébé Walt.”
“There’s so much more. Happy to share over lunch. Will you join us?”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t impose.”
“You wouldn’t be. We have reservations, but I’m sure they can add a chair?—”
“No, please. Thank you, but no. I came from brunch. And I should be preparing some things for work.”
“ Ah , that’s too bad.”
“So, what brings you to town? Wade mentioned you live in Lac St. Anne.”
“I travel often, mostly consulting for coach training. This time I’m going to the English countryside. Devon.”
“What’s there?”
“Mom’s been coaching world-class rowers for the past ten years,” Wade explains, straightening his shoulders. “I’ve been trying to get her to slow down after her knee surgery?—”
“Ouf, you’re not my boss.”
“See what I mean?” He looks to me, then the ceiling, as if addressing the universe. “What have I done to deserve being surrounded by stubborn women?”
“ Anyway .” Naomie intones, ignoring his dramatics. “I’m upset you won’t be joining us for lunch. I don’t know if I’ll survive two hours alone with this one.”
I hum my agreement. “It’s a shame, really. Maybe next time you’re in town, we can have dinner without him?”
Wade rolls his eyes.
“Sounds perfect.”
When I get home, he texts me.
Pretty Boy
Can I take you on a date tomorrow?
Pretty Boy
And do filthy, unspeakable things to you afterward?
The second message unleashes a witchy cackle from deep within me.
Me
Can’t wait.
Grief is a strange animal.
One day I’m fine, happily distracted by Wade’s phenomenal dick, and proud of myself for not being jealous of his relationship with his mother, and the next, the most precious picture of them posted on his Instagram serves as a trigger and sends me swiftly spiraling.
I can’t stop crying. Running a hot bath to calm down presents a new problem. Now that I’m in, I can’t find the will to get out.
The mentally stable would contact their therapist, but I haven’t seen one since I was sixteen. Mel understood and supported the need for a mental health day, luckily, and got Adrienne to cover the game.
I hesitated to text Indi, not wanting to have her shoulder my burden while in anticipation of motherhood. A simple message does the trick.
Me
Feeling super down today.
Indi
I’m sorry, girl. What do you need?
Me
Nothing, wanted to say it somewhere.
Indi
Want me to come over? I can bring India House.
Me
No, thanks. I’m taking a bath.
Indi
Well, let me know if you change your mind. I’m a text away.
Since uni, Indi knew to give me the space to sort out any complicated emotions, but it was much easier to pretend. Pretend that the anger washed away instead of being too tired to harbor it, while internally holding a candle to it, letting it burn and burn within until it got too much.
It’s been hours, I think. I’ve lost all sense of time. The hot water has been refreshed four times. And gone cold since.
I’m not even sure if it’s still the same day or sometime past midnight.
The skin on my fingertips separates from the layers underneath.
Cracking wood follows a thud. Uneven stomping traipses through my condo. Door after door is opened and slammed shut.
I’m defenseless against any sort of violent burglar. Maybe if I hide under the surface of the water, they’ll take whatever they want and leave.
My nose reaches the water just as Wade throws the washroom door open, nearly tearing it off its hinges. Wearing a dark suit and tie, no less.
“What the fuck, Gabe?”
Where’d he come from?
“You stood me up?” He unbuttons the perspiration-soaked collar and loosens the knot of his tie.
Oops.
I don’t respond.
Soft blubs from my fingers splashing the surface of the cold bath water fill the silence.
“I’ve been losing my shit, Gabe.”
A vein bulges on his forehead. More of them snake down the sinews of his neck.
“Called you at least thirty times, texted you even more—without answer. I scoured the city—thinking you were dead in a ditch somewhere. And you? You’re here— at home —leisurely taking a…a…” His hands fly around, searching for the word.
“Bath,” I provide.
A sarcastic laugh of disbelief comes out. “Bath. Your friends were practically no help, by the way. Telling me not to fucking disturb my fucking girlfriend. Actually, it was only one. I don’t even know any of your friends besides Indi. What is she, your only friend?”
“Yep.”
Salt, meet wound. But I’m too numb for it to burn. I let him keep ranting. I deserve nothing less.
“What’s the point of getting attached?” My knees curl to my chest, seeking warmth but finding none. “People always leave.”
Wade rubs an oval into his forehead. “Fucking hell. Did Vaughn do something?”
“Good guess, but not today. Today’s depressive episode is compliments of my mother.”
“Gabe.”
I have nothing to lose.
“I was four. Remember that picture on my birthday? I had just turned four.” A resurgence of tears blurs my vision as I gaze past a watery blob-like Wade. “I’m not sure how soon after, but Dad found her cold one morning. She killed herself.”
“Holy fuck.” He drops to a squat, palming the rim of the tub.
Pent-up resentment boils and blisters, spewing onto the wrong person. “How’s that for an answer ?” I yell, shoving my hand through the water, hurling a mini wave onto him, and dousing his shirt. “Now you know why I’m fucked up. Does that make you happy, Wade?” My voice cracks, dry, hoarse, and itchy from the raised tone. “To know I’m such a piece of shit, my own mother couldn’t deal with raising me?”
His mouth downturns before he goes upright and steps into the tub, dress shoes, suit jacket, and all.
“No, God . It fucking breaks my heart.” He kneels and leans forward, trapping my naked body between his limbs and sloshing water onto the tile. “I can’t stand seeing you like this.”
My head lolls to one side, unsure if these tears are old or new. “I needed her. I was a baby and needed my mother.”
Wade pushes his forehead to mine.
My shoulders shake out sob after sob. “I need her now. I’m thirty-two years old—and I don’t have a clue who she was—what parts of me are hers—outside of these fucking freckles . I needed her to be there and share herself with me, and she was so— fucking — selfish — she couldn’t bear to live for me for another day.”
He peels away his jacket and shirt, standing to rid all of his clothes while the cold water drains away, and sneaks in behind me as hot water replaces it. “It’s not your fault.”
“Then why does it feel like it?”
Our legs stretch in parallel, his outlining mine. Lush lips sit against my temple, one of his strong arms curled across me, keeping my back against his warm front. “I see a lot of myself in her. She lost her family too young. But I loved her. Dad was devoted to her. Why wasn’t it enough?” Slow breaths steady mine, his soothing heartbeat like a salve to my ache. Almost, anyway.
“She didn’t bother to stick around to walk me down the driveway on the first day of school, or watch me develop a passion for basketball or grow six feet tall, graduate uni, or get my dream job. She didn’t congratulate me when I fell in love or wipe my tears when I was forced to fall out of it. She’ll never watch me grow in my career, and I’ll never get to see her grow old…Why did she rob me of that, Wade? Didn’t she love me? Is it so hard to love me?”
“It’s not,” he murmurs.
“No? Then why did Kurt fuck around?”
“Because his tiny prick has bigger issues than you do.”
“Funny. You’re a jerk, but funny.”
“Whatever you say, Freckles, but I’m here. And I’m not leaving.”
His promise acts a salve on these hidden scars, too, so I stay in his arms as long as possible.
Eventually, he goads me out of the water with a warmed robe. He finds himself another and doesn’t seem to mind how ridiculously short and snug the fuzzy purple robe is on him.
“What?” He catches me staring.
“Nothing.” I point to the dryer in the bathroom closet. “Set it to permanent press, or your clothes will be ruined.”
He does. The machine whirs.
“Listen, Freckles. This is a nice laundry room, but you gonna show me around? It’s my first time here.”
My place is nice, but it’s no penthouse. We go through the main living spaces, my lackluster office, the small balcony, and the bedroom, where an embarrassingly large amount of laundry piles on one side of the bed.
The last room has my nerves rattling in my gut. “And this” —I push open the door— “is the indoor greenhouse.”
Balmy, humid air circulates within the plastic-covered framing, imitating tropical weather. Sun lamps hang over the rows and shelves of my plants.
“It’s…incredible. It looks like a mini version of Terra Bella.”
“Just about,” I confirm, picking one yellowed leaf from a pothos. “Dad gardens because that’s where he senses her presence, where he honors her memory, but…”
“But?”
I shake my head, unable to lie to him this time. “I’ve been trying for years, Wade. Years. It doesn’t matter how hard I work or how much my plants thrive. I can’t seem to connect with her. Every year that passes, it seems less and less likely that I ever will.”
A defeated sigh leaves me. He extends a beckoning hand. “Come here.”
Reaching back feels right, so I do.