Page 23 of Total Dreamboat

It’s the small part of me that wants to stay because I’ve missed him.

I know. I know .

But I can’t help it. I loved him so much that his physical nearness is causing a strange, contradictory reaction in my body. I’m both repelled and attracted at once.

So I stay.

Of course I stay.

“Yes, it’s a bizarre coincidence,” I say to Nuala with a smile. “Gabe, Nuala and Clayton are from New York as well. They live in Fort Greene.”

I know this will cause him to hold forth on how much he loves Brooklyn. He does, but in the way of a man with a palatial apartment on the Upper West Side who finds the outer boroughs quaint.

Our tour guide comes in to greet us, then leads us to the pier. Gabe falls into step beside me as we walk to our van.

“How have you been?” he asks. “You look stunning, as always.”

I don’t know how to react. His manner is so off. He’s treating me like an old flame he’s pleased to have run into, not like an ex-girlfriend whose heart he broke last fall.

It occurs to me that I could take this opportunity to eviscerate him for what he did to me. To tell him I was exhausted and incoherent with despair. That I had to crash with Lauren for months because, as he knew, I gave up my rent-stabilized apartment and sold all my stuff when I moved in with him.

But that would show weakness. I want to radiate strength.

“I’m fantastic,” I say. “How are you?”

“Fabulous, now that I know you’re here. How’s Lauren? Has she snared a billionaire yet?”

“Still working on it.”

“I should introduce her to Alfred Khan, the curator. He just divorced and he’s very much her type.”

I’m sure any curator friend of Gabe’s is very much Lauren’s type—she once wrangled an internship as a gallery girl at Art Basel to meet men. But Lauren hates Gabe, and by association anyone in his orbit, so I’ll pass on her behalf.

“She’s got her eye on a handsome Irishman, so I think she’s good.”

“Are you still working on your collection?” he asks me.

He’s referring to the short stories he encouraged me to write when we were together. The ones he said would dazzle the literati and put me on the map as a writer to watch.

I haven’t touched them since we broke up.

“Yep,” I lie. “Going great.”

“I’d love to read them when you’re ready.”

“Thanks, that’s kind of you. How is your work going?”

“We’re publishing the new Alex Lho book next month. Incredible novel—I think it’s going to win prizes. I’ll send you an advance copy if you like.”

I hate how small and insecure this conversation is making me feel. Gabe’s world was always intimidating, but I felt differently when he assured me so confidently that I was meant to be part of it. That I too was destined for great things.

I feel every bit the broke thirty-one-year-old publicity peon still struggling to get on my feet.

I’m grateful that the van stops, ending this excruciating life update.

We step out onto a beautiful, if crowded, beach occupied by line after line of umbrella-shaded lounge chairs.

Our guide leads us to a surf shop and introduces us to our instructors for the day.

They divide us into groups according to our experience levels.

My level—unathletic with no core strength—is politely called “beginner.”

I assume this means Gabe and I will part ways, and I can get some time to collect myself.

Unfortunately, he tells the instructor he’s never surfed before. Even more unfortunately, everyone else has some experience, so the two of us are paired off to learn the basics on the shore while the rest of the group starts off in the shallows.

We’re given boards and coached on paddling, popping up, and catching a wave.

We practice on the sand. Neither of us can master the popping up part.

I’m too top-heavy and keep instinctively using my hands.

Gabe, who is lithe and strong and always moves athletically, for some reason keeps falling over.

It makes me a little suspicious that he’s just doing this to make me feel better about my own clumsiness.

The instructor, Rufio, is patient, but it’s clear that our inability to master the fundamentals frustrates him.

He suggests we take our boards out into the water to practice paddling, then come back to try standing again.

I look longingly past Rufio’s shoulders to the people sunning themselves on the lounge chairs.

“Or,” Gabe says to me, “we could admit we’re terrible at this and catch up at the restaurant.”

I follow his gaze past the chairs to a covered patio with a circular bar. Blenders buzz, glasses sweat, ceiling fans whir.

My entire soul aches to be there and not here.

I know that hunkering down with Gabe at a bar is, on the surface, a bad move. But having one cold drink in the blissful shade after hauling myself up and down on a hard, sandy surfboard under the glaring sun feels like a justifiable tradeoff.

“You know what, Rufio?” I say. “You’ve been great but I think we’re going to call it a day.”

“Thanks, man,” Gabe says, handing him a couple of twenties.

Rufio shrugs and tells us to have a good trip.

“And now,” Gabe says. “Margaritas.”

We perch on high-backed stools and order drinks. Under the shade, I can actually appreciate the beautiful day and idyllic surroundings. The bartender puts two drinks in front of us. Gabe lifts his glass to mine.

“To not surfing,” he says.

This, at least, I don’t feel conflicted about. “To not fucking surfing,” I say, clinking.

My drink is amazing—icy and citric in a way that perfectly cuts the humidity. I decide this was the right move.

Until Gabe takes my hand.

I freeze at his touch.

“I’ve missed you terribly,” he says. “I’ve tried calling you, but I couldn’t get through.”

“That would be because I blocked you,” I say. “Everywhere.”

Though not immediately. There were months when the only thing in the world I wanted was for him to say he was sorry and ask to try again.

But after an entire fiscal quarter of radio silence, Lauren finally succeeded in convincing me that any shred of hope was counterproductive. It was better not to know.

“I also stopped by Lauren’s, but she wouldn’t tell me where you were.”

I didn’t know that. I’m sure she did it to protect me, but it feels like information I was entitled to.

Not that I would say that to him .

“That’s because you fucked up my life. You get that, right?”

“I do,” he says, looking into my eyes. “I understand. I know that I hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

Right. He’s sorry. Just like he said he was when he did it in the first place. Doesn’t change anything.

“It’s just… us both being here,” he says. “Doesn’t it feel like fate?”

The sentiment is so overblown that it knocks some coherence back into me.

“It feels like a coincidence,” I say, slipping my hand out from under his.

“A wild coincidence. I wonder if it’s a cosmic sign telling us there’s a chance for repair.”

Repair?

What would that mean, exactly? Are we going to be friends? Gallivant around at book parties and run into each other in the Hamptons?

Unlikely.

“If by repair you mean in the sense that we can talk civilly over a drink, sure,” I say. “Beyond that, I’ve moved on.”

His eyes crinkle with disappointment.

“You mean to someone else?” he asks.

“I mean with my life.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“I’m not going to discuss that with you.”

He holds up his hands. “Oh, right. Of course. I’m sorry for asking. It’s only—” He closes his eyes tightly, then rubs his temple. “I made a big mistake, Hope.”

My heart clenches.

I don’t want it to, but I have longed for these words.

“I’d never been so in love with someone before. It terrified me, and I shut down. It was childish and shortsighted, and I’m so ashamed of what I did—how I left you in the lurch. And regretful. Because the thing is—I did want it. Everything we dreamed about, everything we planned.”

I will my heart not to beat faster at this pronouncement.

“You say that,” I say, “but it’s only because you can’t have it anymore. You romanticized the idea of it. You hated the reality.”

“No,” he says. “That’s not true. I’ve done extensive therapy since we broke up—”

“Since you left me,” I interrupt.

He winces. “Yeah. And what I’ve realized is that I have a block around giving and receiving real love. You know how cold my family is. I want something better for myself, something like you have with your parents. Like I had with you. I was just too frightened to take it.”

I’m trying so hard not to be drawn in. So hard. But when someone who has shattered your heart comes and lies down at your feet, it’s very difficult to be entirely unmoved.

“I’m not sure why we’re having this conversation,” I say, straining not to reveal that this is softening me. “Or why you’re having it.”

“You know why I’m saying this to you, Hope,” Gabe says softly. “Of course you know.”

“I honestly don’t.”

He leans forward and traces his thumb over the line of my jaw.

“Because—” he begins to say.

But he’s interrupted by a posh British woman saying, “Is that Hope?”

I dart my eyes toward the voice to see Pear and Prue Segrave looking straight at us. Behind them is Felix. And his eyes are trained on Gabe’s hand cradling my face.