Page 167 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
Gabe pulls out a carton of eggs, a hunk of cheese, and the last of the cherry tomatoes. His movements are slow and uncertain, like he’s navigating a minefield of memory with every cupboard he opens.
He cracks eggs into a bowl, whisking with more intensity than necessary.
I lean my elbows on the counter, watching him from the same stool I sat on that first night—the night when everything shifted between us.
When laughter turned to heat, and Hank telling Gabe to fuck me like he was orchestrating a symphony.
Gabe’s hands on my thighs. Hank’s voice in my ear. My body caught between theirs, gasping for more.
My breath catches.
Gabe stiffens, sensing it.
“You thinking about it too?” His gaze flicks to mine.
“It was the first time you touched me.” I nod. No point pretending.
A beat of silence.
“I was so damn nervous.” His mouth twists. “And so hard I thought I was going to die.”
“You hid it well.” I huff a broken laugh.
“Hank knew,” he says, softer now. “He always knew what I needed—even before I did.”
My chest aches. “He gave us that moment.”
“And a hundred more after.”
We fall quiet again. Gabe turns back to the skillet, but his hands tremble as he pours in the eggs. The scent of butter and garlic fills the kitchen. It should smell like comfort, like home. But tonight it’s laced with longing, with all the things we’ve lost.
He slides scrambled eggs and toast onto two mismatched plates and sets them on the dining table, where three chairs still sit. One untouched.
I hesitate.
So does he.
Then, wordlessly, he pulls out the chair opposite mine and lowers himself slowly, like his body’s made of grief.
We eat.
Chew. Swallow. Pretend the food doesn’t taste like absence.
At one point, I look up and catch him watching the empty seat between us.
“I keep expecting to hear him tease me for overcooking the eggs.” Gabe’s jaw tightens.
Silence stretches again.
Gabe reaches for his water, then freezes halfway. “He should be here.”
“I know.”
He rubs the heel of his hand across his chest like it hurts to breathe.
“We were always three,” he says. “It’s like trying to balance on a broken leg now. Nothing feels steady.”
I push my plate away. Stand. Walk around the table and drop to my knees beside his chair. He turns toward me instinctively, hands falling to my shoulders.
