I shift to look at the Norman Rockwell print of parents tucking two children into bed. A newspaper with war headlines is clutched in the father’s hand, and kept hidden from the sleeping kids.
“Is that what it’s called?” My throat tightens with unexpected emotion. “I didn’t know.”
“Out of all the others he painted, why do you have this one hanging in your room?” he asks.
I consider deflecting, giving some bullshit answerabout liking the colors or the frame. But the way he stares at the painting, almost as if it offends him, pulls the truth from me before I can stop it.
“It shows this perfect family.” The words scrape my throat. “These parents tucking in their kids like nothing bad could ever touch them. But it’s bullshit.”
My fingers curl into the sheets. “The world is fucked, and nothing is safe. These parents think they’re protecting their kids by hiding the newspaper, but the danger still exists whether the kids are aware or not.”
“We have the same print at Rockford Manor.” Gabriel shifts closer, his knee bumping mine beneath the blanket. “Right outside the family wing.”
The confession surprises me. From what I’ve seen of Rockford Manor, the walls are covered in expensive abstract art or oil portraits of their ancestors, not the photorealism of Rockwell’s works.
“My father used to say it represented the family duty to shield the younger generation from the uglier aspects of our legacy.” Gabriel’s mouth twists, bitterness leaking through his usual composure. “Parents keeping secrets from their kids, thinking it protects them. But it’s a lie.”
His venom catches me off guard. This isn’t the pampered club patron or even the capable operativefrom the docks. This is someone damaged in ways I hadn’t considered, harboring resentments that mirror my own.
“What secrets?” I ask, curiosity overriding my usual reluctance to pry.
Gabriel stiffens, and his expression shutters.
“Nothing specific.” The lie falls flat between us. “Just the usual family bullshit.”
He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his back a wall between us. The muscles along his spine tense as he stretches, the moment of intimacy evaporating.
“I’m going to shower.” He stands, not looking back at me as he heads for the bathroom. I expect him to ask me to join him, but the invitation never comes.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the sound of water running follows seconds later. I stay in bed, arm tucked behind my head, staring at the Rockwell print that now connects us in unexpected ways.
The parents in the image stand over their sleeping children, faces creased with worry they hide from innocent eyes. The father clutches a newspaper with war headlines, keeping knowledge of distant violence from touching his family’s peace. Themother bends, adjusting blankets with tender hands that can’t protect her children from the world’s cruelty.
It’s a lie I’ve always recognized. Now I wonder what lies Gabriel grew up believing, what secrets the Rockfords kept hidden from their golden youngest son.
The water shuts off in the bathroom, and minutes pass before the door opens, releasing a cloud of steam filled with the scent of my cheap soap on Gabriel’s expensive skin.
He steps into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets tracking down his chest and darkening the carpet beneath his feet.
His clothes, scattered across the floor, offer an unappealing option for coverage. The button-down shirt lies in pieces, the fabric torn in my haste last night, and the pants and underwear are now three days past their freshest. His nose wrinkles as he picks up the shirt, examining the missing buttons with a grimace.
“You can borrow some of mine.” I push myself up from the bed, crossing to the dresser.
The drawer sticks as I pull it open, requiring the usual jiggle to free it from the track. I grab a plainblack T-shirt, boxer briefs, and the newest pair of jeans I own.
“Thanks.” Gabriel takes the offered clothes, his fingers brushing mine in the exchange. “That shirt cost more than I care to admit.”
I snort, stepping past him toward the bathroom. “Should have thought about that before you let me rip it off you.”
His laugh follows me into the bathroom, the sound warming places inside me that have been cold for years. I close the door before he can see my expression, unsure what truths he’ll read on my face.
With Gabriel having showered first, I scrub myself clean in record time, not willing to risk being doused with cold when the last of the hot water runs out.
The bathroom mirror fogs as I yank a towel from the rack, droplets of water tracking down my spine. My reflection appears distorted and incomplete through the condensation, fitting for how I feel, caught between who I was before and whoever I’m becoming with Gabriel’s presence in my life.
Not wanting to linger, I pull on clean boxers and a faded, long-sleeved shirt that’s seen better days. The damp towel hangs on the door hook as I step into thehallway, expecting to find Gabriel waiting in my bedroom.
The room sits empty, the bed unmade, with the sheets tangled from our bodies moving together. My clothes from yesterday clutter the floor, but Gabriel’s are gone. He must have left while I showered, and my stomach drops with unwelcome disappointment.
