“Asher and I had someone buy it for us under their name a few years ago. It’s where we came when we needed a break, but a friend has been living here and keeping an eye on it.” He pauses, looking up at the building, and I can’t read his expression. “The last time I was here was with him.”
Gable can annoy the crap out of me, and then there are moments like this where we share pain, and I feel more connected to him than I do to anyone. If he were anyone else, I’d hold his hand or say something reassuring, but he’d probably hate it or call me creepily sentimental. The moments we shared his first night back won’t be a regular thing, I know that, so I tuck them away and resign myself to not opening up to Gable Flynn again. Instead, I say nothing and grab my purse.
A porch wraps around the property and echoes underfoot as we walk up the steps. Once inside, I admire the home. Ahead is a living area with a deep, overstuffed couch across from a stone chimney. The entire back wall is made up of floor-to-ceiling windows, a large chair set before it, and I wonder if Asher ever sat in that chair. A wide hallway to the right looks like it leads to a kitchen, and to the left are stairs. None of the furniture matches, and the flooring is a mixture of wood that I can’t identify. Everything feels rustic, worn in, homely. I can imagine Asher here.
I can’t imagine Gable here at all.
“Your room is up the stairs, last on the left,” he says. “My room is on the right. The other room is Asher’s.”
“Okay.” I head up the stairs. The hallway is large, and Iglance at the first room on my left, but resist going in. I’m not ready to see that, not yet.
My room is large with a double bed, dresser, television, a wood stove in the corner, and a small en suite—thank God. There is no way I’m sharing a bathroom with Gable for four weeks.
I called my dad when we’d stopped for gas, but he’s already texted me three times since, so I go back downstairs and call him again. In the time it’s taken me to explore my room, decide I don’t have the patience to get my suitcase, and return downstairs, Gable has lit the fire, but is nowhere to be seen.
My dad answers after two rings. “Hey, baby. You good?”
“Yep. All good here. Motor is good, too.”
The dog is sitting in front of the fire, tongue out.
“Your service doesn’t sound great.”
It isn’t. It’s spotty as hell, but it’ll have to do.
“I think it’ll just be where I’m standing,” I say, turning to the sound of footsteps and watching Gable walk down the stairs. “I better go, Dad, I just wanted to check in.”
“Okay.” He sighs. “Just keep in touch, okay?”
“I will. I promise.”
I stare at the phone as the line disconnects and try to calm the guilt. I’m doing this for a reason. I’m doing it for Asher.
“There’s food in the fridge,” Gable says. “Donoteat the Oreos.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re mine.”
“Are they double stuffed?”
“Do not touch them!”
Chapter 30
Gable
I’ve never lived with a woman. I’ve never been in a relationship—this life doesn’t really call for it—and I’ve never settled somewhere long enough to even consider living with anyone but Asher.
And now I will never live with another woman, because if they’re all like Ella Gibson, I’ll avoid them for the rest of my fucking life.
She leaves her stuffeverywhere. Hair ties, half-finished cups of coffee, chargers, socks. Socks. Why is she taking socks off downstairs when it’s fucking freezing outside? She leaves the milk out, never washes her dishes, complains when it’s too cold but never learns how to start the fire. She keeps doing this annoying thing where she taps her temple forty-seven thousand times a day, and she’s eating my fucking Oreos.
If I thought I hated Ella Gibson before, now it’s a fiery loathing.
The only thing she does do that I’m grateful for is cook, but she makes a mess doing that, too. And after living in foster homes with other teenage boys, I thought no onecould top the messy bedrooms I’ve seen. I was wrong. I walked past Ella’s open door once and couldn’t believe how many clothes were sprawling out of her suitcase, especially considering she only ever seems to wear the same leggings and sweatshirt.
And the writing?
