Page 54 of Boiling Point
“Gabrielle,” he said—urgent, panicked. He looked over, eyes wide with the awful clarity of realization. “Oh God, no.”
I tried to smile, but it felt borrowed—flimsy and ill-fitting.
“You’ve got it all wrong.” His words tumbled out, tripping over each other to reach me. “You’re not—Christ, Gabrielle, you’re so much more than that.”
The car flew down the dark highway, but my pulse dragged slow and heavy beneath my skin.
“Listen to me,” he said, voice low and insistent. “I’ve never let anyone in like this. Not like you.”
A sharp, needy ache bloomed under my ribs. I wanted to believe him.
“I thought that part of my life was over,” he went on, voice fraying at the edges. “Romance. Love. A future with someone…” His eyes cut to me then back to the road. “Until you.” The words landed softly, but they echoed.
My pulse quickened as his hand found mine again—this time with an intensity that burned through every layer of doubt.
“I should have left that question on the shelf,” I mumbled, cheeks burning. “I’m sorry.”
He let out a small, incredulous laugh, his grip tightening like he thought I might slip away again. “What could you possibly have to be sorry for?”
“For…” I hesitated, then took a breath. “For making it about me. For being insecure.” I looked down at our joined hands, his warmth slowly seeping back into me. “And…I’m sorry she died.”
The highway stretched ahead—dark and endless—but tension bled from his shoulders as though my words had lifted some invisible weight. He brought my knuckles to his lips, slow and soft, and warmth bloomed under my skin.
“Thank you,” he said softly. The tenderness in his voice made my chest tighten.
The lights of Dallas shimmered on the horizon—a soft band of brightness encroaching on the night.
“Your turn,” I said, nudging his arm with my elbow.
“For?”
“You get to ask me something deeply personal.”
He chuckled. “I didn’t realize we were still playing.” He kissed my hand again. “I won’t hold you to that.”
“No, no. Rules are rules. Go ahead.”
He inhaled slowly. “You speak often of your father. It’s clear he meant a great deal to you. Still does. But you’ve never mentioned your mother. Where does she fit in your story?”
Of all the questions he could have asked.
I stayed silent too long, the words stuck on my tongue, unfamiliar. It wasn’t something I talked about. Ever.
Cal’s voice was gentle, careful. “Did she die as well?”
I scoffed—bitter, even to my ears. “No,” I said. The word landed hard. “At least I don’t think so. Though that would’ve been kinder.”
He let out a slow breath, saying nothing. He traced soft, deliberate circles over the back of my hand.
“She walked out on us when I was three,” I said finally, struggling to keep my voice steady. The Dallas lights blurred like smudged constellations across the windshield. I stared at them, hoping they’d explain what came next. “Said she couldn’t take being a wife and mother.” My throat cinched tight around that last word. “That she wanted a different life.” My voice wavered, paper-thin against the hush inside the car. “Aunt Suzy says she was heavy into alcohol, drugs, men—anything she could get her hands on.” I let out a breath. “I have no idea where she is now. And I couldn’t care less.”
Cal tightened his grip—a small, solid anchor. He didn’t speak, didn’t press. The quiet thickened—less like silence, more like space he’d cleared for me to breathe.
He inhaled like he was about to say something, then let the breath go. Whatever words he might have offered, he folded them away and held my hand tighter instead.
Eventually, Cal took the exit onto Mockingbird Lane.
“Wait,” I said after a minute, eyeing his sport coat and open collar. “You never told me where we’re going.”
