Page 12 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me

He jerked his chin at me, smiling like he anticipated a good joke. “What’s so funny?”

I took another hit off the joint and laughed again, shaking my head.Nothing. Everything.

A ribbon of smoke from the incense curled up to the ceiling and our gazes locked and held through the gray haze.

His eyes told a story of loss and regret, mine asked a million and one questions.

Did you, by any chance, lose a notebook in the spring of 1990? Please, please, please say it wasn’t you.

The music changed and the threadbare kilim rug captured my undivided attention.

“I fucking love this album,” Gabriel said, holding up his hand as if to say,wait, you need to listen to this.

Van Morrison was singing about wandering through gardens wet with rain and vowing to never grow so old again.

The lyrics that always hit me hardest though were the ones about driving a chariot down your streets and crying…and then you’ll take me in your arms again…and I won’t remember that I ever felt any pain.

God. Why does that hurt so much?

I looked over my shoulder at the CD tower, mostly to avoid eye contact. “My mom left most of her CDs for me.”

“She’s a writerandshe knows good music.”

“Well, yeah, she used to be a music journalist,” I said with a laugh, passing the joint back to him.

“Do you think she’d like me?” His gaze lowered, suddenly bashful, openly vulnerable. The kind of guy you wanted to protect from the big, bad world.

I wasn’t sure if he was asking if she’d like him as a person or if she’d like his music, but either way I said yes, she would. My mother would love Gabriel.

“So how’s the songwriting coming?”

“It’s not.” He rubbed the back of his neck, took a final hit off the joint and tossed it into the metal incense holder. “How wasyourday?”

“I don’t know.” I sighed. “I feel conflicted.”

“About what?”

I’d been hoping to discuss this with Annika but clearly that wasn’t going to happen tonight. Blame it on the weed and lack of inhibitions, but I ended up telling Gabriel about the job offer and my qualms about accepting it.

Gabriel was one of those people who really listened when you talked. Even in a noisy bar or a crowded restaurant, he gave you his undivided attention and made you feel like you were the only person in the room, and he found you so fascinating that he would happily listen for hours.

Maybe that’s what made him such a good performer. He had that extra special something that made everyone in the audience feel like he was singing just for them. Charisma, I guess.

“So I don’t know. I guess I feel like I’m selling out,” I said in conclusion.

Gabriel nodded like he understood. “I feel the same about music. Everyone’s always saying that I need to get a record deal. Blah, blah, blah. But do I really want some corporate suits telling me what I can and cannot play?”

He leaned his head against the back of the sofa and folded his hands under it.

While he stared at the ceiling, I stared at his throat, so open and exposed, and played with the chunky sandalwood beads tied around my neck like a choker.

I wanted to bury my face in his neck and breathe him in.

Bad Cleo, you don’t want that.

I looked away and stared out the window at the rooftops under a violet sky.

“I don’t even know what my own sound is yet,” Gabriel said a few minutes later.