Page 151 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
But this wasn’t really about Maya.
It was about us.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Gabriel
“How doyou think it’s going, Otis?” I asked on Monday afternoon when we moved out to the front porch as the wind picked up.
He cocked his head to the left and to the right, studying my face, then lay down and covered his eyes with his paws.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Never underestimate a dog’s ability to read a room.
Thunder rumbled and a flash of lightning split the sky in two. I watched the storm clouds rolling in while I played the new song I was working on.
With Cleo here, the words and the music were flowing. Even when she disappeared into her studio for hours and gave me the brushoff, the music still flowed.
And so did the memories. They didn’t come flooding back, but they trickled in.
On Saturday when I was kissing Cleo in the pool, I remembered when we were on a tour bus. Not sure where we were headed. Not even sure when it was, but she was makingcoffee in the kitchenette, and I came up behind her, wrapped my arms around her middle and kissed the side of her neck.
She leaned her back against my chest and wrapped her arms around my neck and I whispered into her ear, “You are an entire universe.”
No real context because it was just a flash of memory, but at the time, she seemed to understand. And maybe somewhere deep in my subconscious, that was what compelled me to have the teardrop mandala tattooed on my back.
It symbolized the interconnectedness of all things. A visual map of the universe.
It was just a hunch, but I got the feeling that she drew it when we were on that tour bus.
I grabbed my notebook and scribbled more words on the page.Teardrops inked on my skin. We’re only here for this moment in time. My soul cries out for yours.
Lame. Lame. Lame.
That’s the best you’ve got?
I crossed out the words and chewed on the cap of my pen, trying to figure out what I wanted to say, but all I could see was Cleo’s face when she breezed past me earlier. Last night at dinner, she barely spoke to me. She wasn’t rude. Just distant and withdrawn.
Polite, I guess. The kiss of death.
I knew she was pissed off about something, and a wild guess told me it had to do with Maya, but when I asked if she was okay, she said, “I’m fine.”
I hated that word. Fine never meant good.
Rain drummed on the tin roof over the porch and pummelled the ground, flattening the tall grasses that flanked the driveway.
I threw down my pen, zipped up my hoodie, and carried my guitar inside. I didn’t own an umbrella or a waterproof jacket soI pulled the hood over my head, ran through the rain and sloshed through the puddles.
By the time I reached the studio, I was soaked to the skin and my sneakers squelched. I pushed my hair off my face and knocked three times before stepping inside and shutting the door behind me.
Radiohead’s “(Nice Dream)” was playing on the stereo, the sound muffled by the driving rain as I kicked off my shoes and tossed my wet hoodie on the floor.
Cleo looked over from her canvas. “What are you doing? You’re soaking wet.”
“A little rain never hurt anyone.” I wiped a hand down my face. “Besides, we used to love to dance in the rain.”
She shook her head and faced forward again. “I’m busy.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” I crossed the studio and stood next to her while she continued gluing pieces of paper to the thick paint on the canvas. “But since you won’t tell me what’s wrong, I had to come and find you.”
