When Gabriel’s gone, it feels so empty. His presence takes up a lot of space.
I wander until I end up in the living room.
The giant tree we picked out stands in the corner and I bite my lip when I remember what happened when we decorated it.
It’s almost flawless.
It belongs in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton.
My arms wrap around my waist as I stare at it.
It’s beautiful, sure. But it has no soul. No memories hang from these branches. No ornaments made of macaroni and glitter. No mismatched bulbs. It’s a display piece.
My hand moves to my stomach.
"It’ll be different when you’re here," I whisper to the cluster of cells growing inside me.
Next year we’ll build our own traditions as a family—Gabriel, me and our baby. There’ll be color and chaos.
My phone captures the image of the sterile perfection to keep as a reminder of where we started.
It’s latewhen Gabriel comes home.
I’m in the kitchen, sitting at the island with a cup of tea, reviewing the final proofs for the shelter.
He walks in, carrying the scent of the cold and the city with him. Fatigue lines his face. Deep grooves around his eyes and tension in his jaw tell me the day was heavy.
But when he spots me, the tension melts off him.
"You're awake," he says, loosening his tie.
"Obviously."
He crosses the room, stepping between my knees as I swivel the stool to face him. One of his hands slides up my thigh and the other wraps around my throat, his forehead pressing against mine.
He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, just holds me the way he wants to as we breathe each other in. Even after a full day, he still smells edible.
"Did you get it?" he finally asks.
"The dress?" I nod. "It’s... aggressive."
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, vibrating against the hand I’ve got curled into his shirt, wrinkling it even more. "Good."
He pulls back, reaching into his briefcase where he set it on the counter.
"I have something for you."
I straighten. "You already gave me a black card and a diamond the size of a skating rink."
"Those were necessities," he dismisses. "This is a gift."
He pulls out a rectangular package wrapped in pretty silver paper.
The package is solid but I have no idea what it could be. Both his hands are on my thighs now and he hasn’t moved back at all while I tear the paper off. He chuckles at the mess I make, but I’ve never been one of thosesave the paper because it’s prettykind of people.
When the last bit of paper falls to the floor, I look at what’s in my hands.
It’s a book, an old one. The cover's worn, the fabric a faded blue. Gold lettering stamps the spine.
