Page 32

Chapter 32

GAbrIEL

W hile April showered, I got started on dinner. I had this inexplicable need to take care of her after taking care of her. Starting with dinner—it was all cut up. I just had to cook it.

I’d just added the broccoli steamer to the pot when fingers ran up my back. I shivered.

“Sorry,” April said, tracing my shoulder blades. “I left a mark.”

The girl could fucking brand me for all I cared. That’s how crazy I was about her.

But that sentiment didn’t quite jive with the casual tone we’d agreed upon. So, instead, I said, “A souvenir to remember a great night.”

April laughed and folded herself around my body. I traced her forearm, and she rested her head against my back.

I could get used to this.

The problem was that I couldn’t allow myself to.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, releasing the hug.

“Yeah, actually.” I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water. “Sit on that stool and drink this.” I handed her the cup .

“You know, I have ridden fifty-six miles before,” she answered but sat at the bar as instructed.

“As fast as you did today?”

“Okay, you got me there.” She drank deeply.

“I’ve already updated your training plan. A light walk tomorrow, a swim the next day. We’ll play it by ear from there. We have the century ride in two weeks and want to be completely healed for that.”

“What about you?” she asked. “You hit it hard, too.”

“Don’t worry,” I said with a strained smile. “Coach Rick already has an ice bath with my name on it.”

April’s eyes widened. “That sounds awful.”

I shrugged even though I dreaded the next day. “It’s not my idea of a good time, but it works.”

“Your coach seems like a hard ass.”

“He is. But, I mean, something he’s doing is working.” I gave a smug smile.

April gestured toward my bare torso. “Clearly.”

I winked at her before flipping the chicken. The spices swirled in the air, making my stomach growl. “Were you able to get some rest after the race?”

“I tried, but my mind was busy.”

“That’s normal,” I said. After a particularly hard race, athletes often report playing it over and over again, even after falling asleep.

“I think—” She rubbed her arms absently. “I think we might have a problem.”

I put my tongs down, alarmed by the sudden shift in the air. “What’s wrong?”

“Clay saw us kissing today.”

I released my breath in a relieved laugh. “ And . . . ?”

“And . . . aren’t you worried he might tell someone? I don’t think he’s very happy with our team-up.”

“You think I give a shit if he tattles on us?”

“I just don’t want you to lose A-Team because of me.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll tell the board myself.”

“You will?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll email them Monday morning.” I mimed typing. “I’m getting some one-on-one cardio with one of my athletes. Is that cool?”

“Gabe—” April said, trying to sound stern, but she fought a smile so I kept going.

“Endurance training has never been so hard ,” I said, trying my best to match the seductive tone of the narrator in her audiobook.

“Gabriel Torres!” April shouted, but then she had to slap a hand over her mouth because she’d laughed so loud. She fanned her rosy cheeks and then downed her water. I reached for the glass to fill it back up, but she waved me away. “Focus on cooking. I can refill my own water.”

I smiled to myself as I checked the chicken. However, when it flopped back into the pan, searing grease splashed on my stomach.

I hissed out a breath and backed right into April, knocking the water glass from her hand. It collided against the tile in a deafening shatter.

I braced myself.

Dad’s mad again.

“Gabe?” Hands shook my arms, and I found April staring at me, her head cocked. “Gabriel?”

She took a half-step toward the stove, reaching to turn it off, but she was barefoot—we both were—and glass littered the floor.

“Sorry, I—” With one hand, I grabbed April’s shoulder, stopping her before she could get a shard in her foot. With the other, I reached to turn off the stove. Then, I lifted her to sit on the counter and tiptoed around the glass to get to my shoes and the broom.

I felt April’s eyes as I swept. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Fine,” I said. “It’s just a light burn.”

She sat quietly for a moment before saying, “You don’t like loud noises.”

The tips of my ears warmed. I hated that loud noises bothered me so much. It made me feel like the kid crying over thunder or fireworks. “Does anyone like being startled?” I asked defensively.

“Well, no.” She paused again. “But it seems like we lose you for a second whenever there’s a loud sound.”

I let the clinking of glass shards fill the silence as I plotted where I wanted this conversation to go. The easier path was to deflect—come up with an excuse. We could spend the evening weightless, in laughter. Then, I thought of all the times April had been vulnerable with me about her mom, about her fear. It couldn’t have been easy, but she’d trusted me with her hurt.

I emptied the dustpan into the trash and leaned against the counter across from April. “When I was a kid, if my dad came home quietly, we’d have a good night. Laughter at the dinner table, Mario Kart on bean bag chairs, bedtime stories, and hugs before sleep. But when he didn’t come home quiet—”

It was like a tornado siren. I’d hunker down, cradling myself—hoping just to make it to the other side of the storm.

Already, the conversation felt too raw. The topic was a scraped knee. I didn’t want anyone poking or prodding. The urge to slip out before I could further expose the wound was strong, but April watched me with bated breath. She deserved to know why I could never give her a real relationship, to know she was keeping company with a cracked man.

“Sometimes, my dad would announce his homecoming with a door slam. Right away, I knew we were in for a bad night.” The memories were a lot, even after so many years. I blew out a long breath through my nose. “It usually started in the kitchen. He’d drink beer after beer, and if he didn’t go into a drunken slumber, we could expect shattered plates and glass—maybe a hole in the drywall.” I shook my head. “We had so many picture frames, most without any family photos, because my mom just wanted to cover the evidence. Cover for him.”

“Gabriel,” April whispered. She ducked her head to get me to look at her, but I couldn’t. “Did he hurt you?”

“Sometimes.” I tipped my head towards the ceiling, wishing I could say the words without summoning the memories. “It was mostly my mom. He’d push her or slam her into the wall. Sometimes, he’d grab her face so tightly, he’d leave finger marks.” My stomach roiled. “And for years, I just let it happen. Because I was too scared.”

“Gabe.” April’s voice cracked on my name. I opened my eyes at her touch. She’d reached across the distance. I let her pull me to her.

I rested my forehead against hers, relishing the coolness of her skin. “I should have done something sooner. We both made excuses for him. ‘He had a really bad day at work,’ or ‘He’s just tired. He does a lot for our family. We should be grateful.’ That sort of thing.” I lifted my head off hers. As hard as it was to say, I needed her to hear me—needed her to understand.

“One night, though, he had his hands around my mom’s throat,” I said, voice hoarse. “It finally got me out of the corner.” I remembered running on shaking legs for the phone. How the receiver slipped in my sweaty hands. “I tried to call 9-1-1, but my dad pushed me into the coffee table, and I blacked out. ”

April’s eyes, now filling with tears, shot to my scar. “You said you fell,” she accused.

“I mean, technically—”

“Gabe,” April covered her mouth with her hand as a sob racked her body.

“Please don’t cry.” I wiped her steadily falling tears with my thumbs. Then I pointed at my scar. “This is one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

April’s eyes searched mine, her brow scrunched.

“I’m serious. My mom saw me lying there, so still.”

Quieta como la muerte.

Still as death.

“She thought I was dead. And all of a sudden, the excuses dried up. My mom pressed charges, and we never went back home after the hospital. We moved cities and started a new life, just the two of us. I don’t know what ever happened to my dad, and I don’t care. When I turned eighteen, I legally changed my last name to my mom’s. It felt like finally cleansing myself of him.”

April pulled me to her, burying her face in my chest. Her arms wrapped around my ribs, constricting so tight it was almost hard to breathe. “I can’t even imagine the hell you went through,” she mumbled. “How old were you when you left?” She lifted her gaze for my answer, and I pushed her hair behind her ears.

“Ten.”

“You were just a kid,” she said, closing her eyes tight, only for them to pop open in horror. “I called him romantic.”

“That’s the problem, though, April. He was. And there were times when he’d put me on his shoulders, and I thought I was flying. He’d bring me fishing or to the park to ride our bikes, and I felt like the luckiest kid in the world, but my mom said it best, ‘ El siente demasiado .’ He feels too much.”

I watched my words click into place. “He’s the reason you don’t do relationships.”

I held her gaze. “If I keep my distance, I can manage my emotions.”

“Gabriel—” The tears were back. Instead of wiping them away, she grabbed my face. “You deserve love—to be happy.”

Just like with Beck, I felt the need to defend myself. I grabbed her wrists. “I am happy.”

“It’s not your fault your dad was abusive, Gabe. You are a victim.” She sniffed. “You are the gentlest person I’ve ever met. You would never hurt someone.”

This is where her argument and everyone else’s fell apart.

“Do you think when my dad learned a whole new language for my mom, he imagined slamming her face into the frame of their wedding picture?” April’s mouth opened, but I wasn’t finished. “Do you think when he held me in his arms for the first time, he pictured shoving me off the porch and breaking my wrist?”

“God, Gabriel.” April sobbed.

I wiped away her tears. Then, with a lowered voice, said, “No one dreams of becoming a monster, April.”

“People break the cycle all the time.”

“I know. I broke the cycle the minute I decided not to have a serious relationship.”

“Have you ever hit anyone?” I just looked at her. I knew where this was going, but my answers didn’t matter. “Ever pushed someone?” She was satisfied with my silence. “I haven’t even heard you raise your voice unless it was to encourage someone.”

“You’re right. I’m a pretty calm person. But that’s easy to do when emotions aren’t running high.”

“You’ve been angry before. Have you beat the shit out of anyone because of it?”

“My grandma—my dad’s mom—said he’d never had a violent streak before my mom. Love will make you crazy, April. It’s just not worth the risk. I can’t imagine reaching my breaking point and hurting you because of it.”

“Listen to yourself. You can’t imagine hurting me because you would never do something like that.”

She was probably right, but that little bit of doubt made me hold my ground. It was for the same reason we replace the batteries in our fire alarms when they chirp instead of ripping them out of the ceiling like we all want to. It’s not that any of us expect a fire, but it’s a precaution. Better safe than sorry.

It had been so easy with women in the past—to call it quits when things started getting heavy. I knew the right thing to do was to stop seeing April. If I’d been a good man, I would have done it long before. If I was a decent man, I’d have done it right there in the kitchen.

I apparently wasn’t either of those because I hugged April and rested my head on hers.

Eventually, I’d find the strength to do the right thing, but it wouldn’t be that night.