Page 45 of Reeling in Love

“Aren’t you the social media influencer and stuff?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Isn’t your life mostly public? Don’t you keep posting pics about where you are, the food you eat, the books you read, the dress you wear, your opinion on topics and God knows what else? Your followers probably know everything that’s going on in your life.”

“I do. But that’s my choice. I choose what part of my life I want to share. But this… what happened today, is weird. Don’t tell me you don’t see it like that?”

“To be honest, I don’t. It’s their choice if they want to bet on something happening without influencing it. I’d be upset if they’d done anything to make it happen. But if they didn’t, what do I care? It’s their opinion. Everyone can have one, right? Like you have opinions about what’s happening around the world and what other people are doing and post about them.”

Putting it like that, it doesn’t seem so bad. And I feel a little ashamed at having such double standards.

“Plus,” Gabs continues after a bit, putting his hand on my thigh and giving it a squeeze. “It’s nice to see that so many people care about us, to actually think about us being good for each other or not. It may or may not be true. Even so, they think about us and for our happiness. Isn’t that nice?”

Shit! Now I feel super awkward. First because of his hand, which is making me all horny, and second his thoughts, which make me feel so small compared to him. I don’t know how he can always see the bigger picture, always see the good in people.

The cityscape of Boston gradually gives way to the quaint charm of Cambridge, and I’m filled with mixed emotions, as always.

Gabriel’s house, of course, had always been my favorite place. I remember the time when I went over to his house and climbed in through his window for the second time in a week.

He shifted a little in bed and made room for me. “Again today?” he asked. I nodded.

“That’s two times this week.”

I nodded again.

My father worked in the admin department of the grad school, a position of authority that did little to conceal the monster he was at home. He used to drink and whenever he drank too much; he came home and fought with Mom. I could still hear the shouting, the crashes, and the sound of my mother crying, her sobs echoing through the walls of our house.

As time went by, the fights got worse and he started slapping her as well. Usually, it happened once every two or three weeks, but this time it was the second in the same week.

Whenever things got bad—and they often did—I would run. I would grab my coat, bolt out the door, and head straight to Gabs’ house. His home was my sanctuary, a place where I found solace and safety. Gabs’ father, George, was a respected professor at the college. He was kind and gentle, everything my father wasn’t. He never questioned my sudden appearance, simply welcoming me with a warm smile and a comforting presence.

I still remember, even then, when I would rant to Gabs about Mom and why she didn’t have the courage to leave Dad, he tried so hard to make me see her point of view. He tried to make even her decisions, or lack of them palatable. I don’t believe she thought like that, though, but he tried to make her seem not half as bad or half a coward as she then was.

Taking Gabs’ advice, I once even tried to get Mom to call the police, but she wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t bear to see her crying and trying to stifle her screams so that neighbors wouldn’t listen. Though I don’t think she was fooling anyone, especially since the hitting started. No one bought the ‘I slipped in the kitchen’ crap anymore.

I hated Dad for doing that to Mom, but I hated Mom even more for putting up with that shit. I spent a large part of my childhood at Gabs’ home. It was almost a second home for me. They usually had an extra plate set for me for dinners.

Going to college was my escape. Leaving home felt like shedding a heavy, oppressive weight. I threw myself into my studies and the new life I was building for myself. I rarely went home. In my sophomore year in college, Mom finally divorced Dad and Gabs forced me to rebuild the bridges I thought I had burned with Mom. He made me see yet again that she needed my strength and support, as did Carla.

Over the years, I’ve come to like Mom again. She’s a different woman now, confident, and happy. But the best part was getting close to Carla. She was a year younger than me, but I spent so little time at home that I barely knew her. As the fights at home got worse, Mom sent her to live with my aunt, Mom’s sister, for a few years. But over the past years, thanks to Gabs’ insistence, I’ve become close to her. We call or Facetime each other at least once a week and she comes and visits me whenever she can. It’s been good.

Gabs’ voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Hey, you okay?” he asks, glancing at me with concern.

I force a smile. “Yeah, just thinking about old times.”

He reaches over and gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. “Yeah, quite some memories we have here. Anyway, we’re almost there. It’ll be good to see everyone.”

I nod, genuinely looking forward to the evening. I loved George, though I don’t think Daphne was ever really fond of me, especially since her return from Paris after her father’s death. She was never the same to anyone after that, especially people who were not as rich as her, and we were far from that standard.

As we turn onto the familiar street, I take a deep breath, letting go of the past for a moment and focussing on the present. Gabriel needs me now and I’ll be there for him, as he has been there for me during my worst years. I’ll do whatever it takes to help him out of the mess Daphne wants to put him in and do it in a way that doesn’t affect our friendship.

Chapter 19

Gabriel: #PenguinInAFlamingoParty

I park the car and open the door for Nora to step out. She takes my arm and for a moment I stand rooted to the spot outside the gate, unsure of the lie. Or is it the truth that we’re spreading?

Nora straightens her back, flicks her hair, and takes a deep breath. “Well, game on,” she says and puts a smile on her face.

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