Page 127 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me

Now we were headed for divorce, and I had no idea how to turn things around or fix what was broken.

I wanted to grab her hand, lead her upstairs, and bury myself inside her.

Instead, I asked for a hug.

We held each other on the dirty sidewalk, in front of the apartment building where we used to live together, for minutes or maybe hours.

Cleo was shaking so I gathered her close to my chest and held the back of her head until she stopped shaking and let out a soft sigh.

Holding Cleo again made me feel like I was home.

“Gabriel,” she said, her face pressed against my chest, her voice muffled.

That was all she said. Just my name. But she stayed in my arms, and maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t ready to let go either. So I gave it one more shot.

“Just give us one more chance,” I said, running my hands up and down her back. “I think love is like art…if you want to create something deep and meaningful, you have to take risks. You have to just say, fuck it, win or lose, I’m putting it all out there. There are no guarantees in life or in love so I can’t make you any promises. But if we don’t try, we’ll never know. And do you reallywant to spend the rest of your life wondering what if? Come to Montauk. Spend the summer with me.”

She took a step back. “You’re infuriating.”

I smiled. “You’re devastating.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll think about it.” Cleo pushed through the front door and looked over her shoulder. “I’ll call you.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

Cleo

In the sixdays since our coffee date, I’d thought of little else.

Gabriel seemed so much like his old self, right down to the way he talked and the things he said that it was clear that his personality had remained intact.

If we’d just met for the first time at that coffee shop, I would have wanted to get to know him better.

I would have looked out that window and thought:you look like my kind of person with your disheveled hair and clothes, and those big, stupid boots on your feet. You look like an artist and a dreamer with a wildly romantic heart.

And when he walked into the coffee shop and sat across from me, I would have thought:if anyone else said those things, it would have sounded cheesy, but coming from you, I’m intrigued and already half in love and desperate to hear more.

But it wasn’t the first time we’d met, and I wasn’t twenty-one anymore. I was twenty-nine years old and had fire-proofed my heart so he couldn’t burn me again.

Now I had no idea what to do about any of this.

So I went for an early morning run, jogging down the streets of SoHo to Annika’s dance fitness studio where I suffered through a gruelling hip-hop class led by my bionic best friend.

“I thought this was supposed to be fun.” I leaned over and rested my hands on my thighs, wheezing and gasping for breath.

“Put some energy into it!” She clapped her hands. “Come on! Keep up!”

If looks could kill.

After a quick shower, I shouldered my tote bag, closed the door on the mess in my apartment, and walked to my mom and Sean’s.

A few years ago, they bought a condo in a pre-war building on a pretty, leafy street in the West Village. Their love story began while my relationship was unravelling, but I was happy they’d found each other and proud of my mom for taking another chance on love.

She greeted me with a bright smile and a hug and pulled me inside.

“There’s our girl.” Sean beamed at me as if I’d done something remarkable simply by walking into their sunny yellow kitchen where he was manning the waffle iron.

“Do you need any help?” I plucked a strawberry from the bowl on the counter and popped it into my mouth then pilfered a crispy strip of bacon draining on a paper towel.