The Great Gatsby.
My thumb flips the cover open. The copyright page confirms what I suspect. It’s a first edition.
All the air leaves my lungs and my eyes sting. "I can’t believe you remembered."
Months ago—back when he was just my boyfriend’s super hot dad I’d see sometimes at Sunday dinners—I mentioned it. Ryder had been bragging about some new car, and I'd said I’d trade a Ferrari for a first edition Gatsby any day.
Ryder had laughed and called me a nerd.
Gabriel hadn't said anything.
But helistened.
"I've had it for six months," Gabriel says, watching my face. "I was waiting for the right time."
That stinging in my eyes has turned into full on tears as a couple of them run down my cheek. Gabriel brushes them awaywith the back of his fingers. It’s not the value of the book—though a small fortune sits in my lap. But because he heard me. He didn’t dismiss me or judge me the way Ryder always did.
"Gabriel..."
"Read the inscription."
I turn to the front flyleaf.
There, in Gabriel’s sharp, angular handwriting, is a note.
For Blair.
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
But not us. We make our own future.
—G
Another tear slips free, and he catches it.
"You didn't have to do this," I say, looking up at him.
"Did it make you happy?”
I nod.
“Then I did have to." He brushes more tears away with his thumb. The stupid things won’t stop. "I wanted you to know that this isn’t fast for me. I know you. I’ve been waiting for you."
I set the book down to wrap my arms around his neck, burying my face in the crook of his shoulder. Sandalwood and winter air and safety fill my senses.
"I love it," I mumble into his shirt. "Thank you."
He holds me tight, hand stroking my hair.
"Hungry?" he asks after a moment.
"Starving."
We eat at the counter.
The chef prepared seared scallops and risotto, but we eat it straight from the glass storage container, sharing a fork because neither of us wants to move to get another one.
It’s domestic and quiet and I love it.
