Page 15 of Bad at Love

“Oh, Gabriel,” my mother scolds, pinching the bridge of her nose. “How many times have I told you about cell phones at the dinner table?”

She shakes her head, scoffing.

I quickly pull it from my pocket and deny the call, noting I don’t recognize the number, but I’m pretty sure it’s a Boston area code. Meaning, it’s Storm. He’ll have to wait. I put it on silent, then put it back in my pocket.

“Sorry, everyone.”

“I don’t understand you, Gabriel. Why is it so hard to just do as you’re told? Ugh, I’m getting a headache.” She finishes her wine, then goes back to eating her food. Because, of course, she isn’t getting a headache from all the wine she drinks. No, that headache has to do with her ridiculous child who can’t be early enough to be on time and uses technology.

“You should respect your mother’s wishes, Gabriel,” my father adds, shoving a piece of chicken into his mouth.

“I will, Father. Sorry.”

My father has dark brown hair, as do all of my brothers and I. My mother has a much lighter tone, but none of us got that from her. Perhaps if we had a sister, she would have taken after her in that sense. Everyone but me has blue eyes. I’m the odd one out with grey. It’s fitting.

My brothers’ wives have similar features as well. All with dark hair and brown eyes—the same as Tara. I’ve never had the gall to ask if they did it on purpose.

My father and brothers are all roughly the same height as me, give or take an inch or two. My mother is a solid 5’7, but stands at 5’9 most times since she lives in heels. I swear she takes those to bed with her. My sisters-in-law are all the same. Pristinely dressed in heels with not a hair out of place.

“Gabriel, have you heard from Tara?” Sterling asks.

He is by far the biggest pain in the ass and gets away with everything because he’s the baby and has no shame in being annoying or shoving things in my face. He knows damn well I haven’t talked to Tara, and won’t, yet he has to ask every single week.

I force a smile, looking up at him. “I haven’t, Sterling. Have you?”

“Gabriel! That was unacceptable. Why in the world would your brother talk to your ex-fiancée? You know he’s happily married!” my mother shouts.

Yeah, happily married and doing vile things to all the women at the country club he visits with Father every weekend. Like father, like son. As if I don’t know what they get up to over there? I’m thankful I was never invited. That isn’t the sort of thing I want to partake in.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

Sterling smirks at me, but I bring my focus back on my food. I try to drown out them listing off all the reasons Tara didn’t show up to our wedding and decided to disappear instead. Some are convinced it was her father that decided he no longer wanted ties to our family. Others think it’s because I’m too much to handle.

“Her father did seem a bit off,” Winston says.

“I think he seemed just fine,” William adds. “Tara just couldn’t manage him. I mean, look at him. He’s unruly.”

Then they get on the topic of all my bad and bothersome habits they had to tolerate through the years, and the consensus is she left because of me. Nothing I haven’t heard before. Nothing I don’t already know. As if I don’t think about this every single night before I fall asleep.

By the time dinner is done, my head is spinning and I’m exhausted. All I want to do is go home. I’m relieved to be on my way, only to remember I have someone waiting for me at my house.

Chapter Eight

Storm

Gabriel scurries away like a rat caught in a kitchen after nearly knocking me down the stairs and slapping a sheet of paper against my chest. I call after him, but he doesn’t answer. The way he ran away, you’d think there was a fire under his ass or the house was about to explode.

What the hell is going on?

I take the crunched up paper and read it. The writing is messy, and after deciphering it, I see it’s an apology, a phone number, and something about underwear?

What the fuck.

I grab my bags and head inside since the door is wide open. I have no idea where he is going or when he’ll come back, but at least I’ll be inside while he’s gone. Looks like it’s about to rain.

The only issue is I don’t know which room is mine, where any of my stuff should go, or what is off limits. And I have a feeling he’s going to be very particular about all of that.

Sighing, I sit on the couch, surprised it isn’t covered in plastic, and twiddle my thumbs. Now and then I look through the blinds, but every time I do, the driveway remains empty. After an hour, I get up.

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