That helped, but not totally. Especially not at night, when the darkness casts a greater contrast on our jobs.
Right now it’s halfway between tonight and tomorrow, though technically it’s tomorrow. Four-thirty. Gabriel is two-thirds of the way through a shift, and that means not only do I miss him now, but I’ll miss him again when I leave for work and he still isn’t home. It isn’t ideal, but the reunions are sweet.
Shoving off the covers, I stand and make my way to the kitchen. The coffee brews, and I wait beside it, empty mug in hand. Maybe I can fill an IV bag and insert the strong brown liquid directly into my veins.
When it’s ready, I take my full cup to the living room. I keep a notebook on the side table because I’ve been toying with the idea of writing a book. Fiction, probably romance. With a husband like Gabriel and a meet-cute like ours, how could I not write a romance?
I’m working on an outline, but every time I open this notebook I hate what I wrote the time before, so I scratch it out and start over. At this rate, I’ll never begin actually writing the book.
My yawning begins pretty soon after I’ve drained my cup. I slide down on the couch until I’m lying horizontally, and bring the notebook with me.
My eyes become heavy, my blinks grow lengthier. The words on the pages meld together, an alphabet soup. I don’t fight it when the notebook drops onto my chest.
“Avery?”
My eyes open. Gabriel hovers over me, propping himself up with a hand on the arm of the couch and the other along the back. Rays of sunshine beam around the room, curling around objects and highlighting the dust. Sooty streaks darken Gabriel's cheeks and forehead. His shirt is dirty, pockets of sweat collecting near the collar and underarms.
I push up on my elbows and look around, trying to find the time. There isn’t a clock in the room, and my phone is somewhere else in the house. “Shit. What time is it? I’m late for work.”
Gabriel shakes his head, and suddenly he’s falling into me, an anguished sob escaping on his way down.
“Ryan,” he moans into my chest. His shoulders shake with such force, it ripples through his upper body. I hold tight to him, shocked and confused.
“What happened?”
“He’s dead.”
Gabriel sinks all his weight into me, pushing me down deep into the cushions. His grief renders him incapable of consideration, and even though it hurts to handle his full weight, in this moment the pain is an aside. I barely notice it, because the pain in my heart is too sharp.
“Gabriel,” I whisper, my hands raking through his hair. “Honey, I’m so sorry. So sorry.”
I don’t ask how Ryan died. I don’t need to. Gabriel continues to cry, emptying himself of tears and emotion. Eventually, he is spent. He kisses my forehead and rolls off me. He offers me a hand to stand up, and I take it.
I’m watching him, evaluating, taking stock of the slope in his shoulders, the way they hunch forward, as if protecting his center mass. Too late. His heart is already broken.
“Take a shower with me?” he asks, his voice gritty.
I nod, and lead the way.
I wash myself, and then him. He stands still, his muscles loose. When we get out, I call Joseph and explain what little I know, and tell him I won’t be in today. Gabriel sits at the kitchen table, the breakfast I made him untouched and cold, and tells me about the call they went on last night.
“He was trapped.” Gabriel stares at his scrambled eggs, now hardened on the surface. “The fucking roof fell in. He was trying to reach a kid. A seventeen-year-old kid.” Tears swim in his eyes. “Ryan shouldn’t have kept going. He had orders to pull back. He knew it wasn’t safe. He fucking knew.”
I settle onto Gabriel’s lap and grip his face with my hands. “Ryan died trying to save someone.” My heart twists and I want to sob, but I hold it together.
Gabriel’s features rearrange, settling into a look I’ve never seen on his face before. Hatred. “I keep thinking about Carrie.”
I pause, confused, and ask, “You mean because she’s lost her husband?”
Our double date with Ryan and Carrie was four months ago, and I was hoping no news of a divorce meant they decided to work on their marriage.
“You heard her that night. She asked him in that condescending way if he ever gets sick of being afraid of things. Look at what happened last night. He should have been afraid. He should have known the risks. And he did. I know he did. But he went in further anyway.”
“You don’t know what he was thinking. You can’t blame Carrie. You can’t blame anyone.”
“How about me? Can I blame myself?”
“Why would you do that?”
