Page 26 of Bad at Love

“There’s nothing to get.” I take another bite and wash it down with my water.

“Okay, sure.” Marta’s pager beeps, and she picks it from the table to look at it. “Crap. I gotta go.” She hurries out of her seat but doubles back before getting too far, and rambles off, “Maybe you should consider being friends with him, Gabriel. You could use more friends. It’ll be good for you.”

She jogs off. How anyone can live like that, I’ll never understand.

My brothers work in offices, all of them different types of doctors, so their schedules are decent. But they go into on-call rotations for their offices, and there is no way I could be on call for anything. What if I’m in the middle of a shower and get a call that is emergent? Or one in the middle of the night? I needmy sleep. I can’t handle that sort of nonsense. Nor do I want to. I’m perfectly content with my job. It’s the right amount of fast-paced, so I can do things at my own speed. And the hours are set. The worst that happens is I get stuck a little late when someone doesn’t show up, but when that happens they always pull from the other labs, so it isn’t long.

Finishing up my lunch, I clean my mess and head back to the lab. Marta’s last words to me keep ringing through my head, distracting me from work.

Why do I need more friends? Why will it be good for me? I’m fine with only her as a friend. I don’t need more. I’m not the kind of person who needs a lot of friends or has to go out and do things. What if I try being friends with him, and he makes me do things I don’t want to do? I don’t need to be guilted into things. What’s good about Marta is she doesn’t do that. She’s busy being an ER doctor, a wife, and a mother. She doesn’t have time to pester me for more than what I’m comfortable with. No, friends are not what I need. Not at all.

The rest of my shift goes by quickly, and when I get home, I find the strangest thing.

Storm is sitting on a porch swing that most certainly wasn’t there when I left for work this morning, reading a book.

Chapter Twelve

Storm

The sound of Gabriel’s car pulling into the driveway has me looking up from my book. It’s a beautiful day, and I wanted to spend time outside, but realized there was no outside furniture. Which made it clear that Gabe spends all his free time in the house, locked away from… Well, everything. So I bought some furniture and had it delivered immediately. Cost a pretty penny, but whatever. I’ve got enough money.

I have to say, sitting here on the porch like an old man, reading a book, isn’t as boring as I thought it may be. I can’t remember the last time I read a book. High school, maybe? But while I was browsing furniture online to be sent here, I also had some food sent, and was trying to think of things to do. For whatever reason, I went with a book.

When I was in Boston, my free time was spent partying or recovering from partying. I was hardly home at all. I was outside a lot, especially during the summer when we’d go to the beach or concerts around the city.

“Hey, Gabe,” I say with a smile, closing my book and putting it on my lap.

“Gabriel,” he corrects, and I just keep smiling. “You lost your place.”

“What?”

He gestures to the book. “You don’t have a bookmark.”

“Oh, right.” I pick up the book and shrug. “I should get one of those.”

“I have some. I don’t mind you using one.”

“Yeah, that would be great.”

He nods, then moves to the door, but something feels off. I get up and follow after him.

“I hope the swing is okay?”

“Sure, it looks nice.”

“Good, because I bought other stuff too.” He stops just inside the door, and I can picture the concerned look on his face before I see it. “Don’t worry,” I continue, moving in front of him so he can see me. “It’s nothing for inside the house, and I didn’t move or touch any of your stuff. It’s some furniture for the backyard—oh, and a grill.”

“A grill?” he blurts.

“Hell yeah, a grill. You don’t like grilling?”

“I don’t like the idea of a propane tank exploding in my vicinity.”

I start laughing, but quickly stop myself because he isn’t joking. He’s never joking.

“That is unlikely,” I say.

“But not impossible.”

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