Losing Gabriel (30 page)

He remembered too. Every cell in his body remembered. It would be easy, so very easy, like falling backward into deep familiar water. In his mind's eye, he saw Gabe's face, and from other shadows, the incandescent smile of a brown-eyed girl who mattered to him. He gulped air, reached up, and untangled Sloan's arms, catching her wrists but keeping her close. “No.”

His refusal rocked her. Desperation to escape loneliness drove her to try again. “Just for a little while. I need you. It…doesn't have to
mean
anything.”

Still holding her wrists, he dipped his forehead down to touch hers. “And that's the point, isn't it? It
should
mean something.” He released her gently and stepped away.

Sloan watched him pick up the monitor, step through the doorway, and recede into the dark.

T
he next morning, Dawson stared bleary-eyed into his shaving mirror. He hadn't slept much. Even the needle-fine cold water spray of the shower had done little to clear his mind of the fiery moments he'd spent with Sloan on the patio the night before. It wasn't as if he hadn't wanted to take her to bed. His body had wanted her, and there had been a time in his life when he'd never have walked away. But in the deciding moment, the images that popped into his mind had stopped him.
Gabe. Lani.
Two people who mattered more than sex with Sloan.

“Way to go, Berke,” he grumbled to his reflection. He swept the razor down his cheek, along his jaw, and over his chin. “You have two women around you day and night and you can't touch either one.” The razor nicked and blood appeared.
Great,
he groused. He snatched a square of toilet paper from the roll and stuck it on the cut.

A glance at the digital clock on the bathroom counter showed that he was running late. Where was Gabe? Typically the boy was sitting on the side of the tub watching Dawson's shaving ritual, but not this morning. “Gabe! Are you up?”

No answer. Dawson shook his razor under running water, wiped the remaining lather off his face, and went down the hall to Gabe's room, where he found his son sitting on the floor, playing with his collection of dinosaurs. “What are you doing, buddy? Get dressed. You're going to be late for school.”

Gabe ignored him. “No want school. Gabe stay home.”

His uncharacteristic reluctance surprised Dawson. After the first few days of adjustment, Gabe eagerly went into the classroom. He talked constantly about his teacher, the other kids, the games, and endless art projects. Wearily, Dawson crouched in front of his son. “You like school. Pick out a shirt and get dressed.”

Gabe continued fiddling with the plastic animals. Dawson stood, went to the bureau, and pulled out a long-sleeved Titans football jersey, one of Gabe's favorites, and a pair of pull-on jeans, and tossed them into the boy's lap. “How about wearing this?”

Gabe wadded up the shirt and threw it across the room. “No like.”

Patience ran out. Dawson lifted his son and set him on his feet. “Get dressed now, son.” Gabe stuck out his lip. “What's your problem? Get. Dressed. Now.”

Gabe refused to look at his dad, but he shimmed out of his pj's and retrieved his shirt, all the while acting like a rebellious prisoner with a hateful warden. Baffled, Dawson shook his head. He'd thought the “terrible twos” were behind them. With a sigh, he held out a peace offering. “How about we go through the drive-through and get you a special breakfast before school?”

Gabe shrugged halfheartedly, but he continued to dress.

Sloan hustled around the playroom gathering up clothes for a load of laundry, her mind full of what had happened last night between her and Dawson. Or more accurately, what hadn't happened. What had she been
thinking
? What had gotten into her? The beer. Obviously. But more than that—harsh memories of growing up, of her now total dependence on Dawson's generosity, of a little boy she was becoming far too attached to, of her in-the-toilet life so removed from dreams of a singing career she couldn't recover—all had turned into a perfect storm, and she'd tripped and fallen into its vortex. She had screwed up. Dawson hadn't wanted her. He could throw her out. She wouldn't be surprised if he did.

She slammed down the lid of the washer, turned the dial, and heard the machine hum into service. She didn't have to be at work until four, but she knew she couldn't hang around the house until then. The walls were closing in. She needed to get out and wanted to leave before Lani showed up with Gabe from school.

Sloan showered and dressed quickly, considered her options. The holidays were coming. Maybe she could use today to apply for a third job. Stores hired extra employees for the holidays and the extra money could put her over the top and toward locating her own place sooner. She pulled up her phone calendar, entered a reminder for December:
Must move before Christmas.

Once upstairs, she saw that it was raining. A perfect match for her mood. She scrambled for an umbrella, looking around the quiet kitchen, knowing that Gabe would come bounding through the front door with Lani soon. She needed to leave before the imagined noise of smothering normalcy drowned her, and hurriedly jogged to the car parked in the driveway.

“How you doing, Gabe?” Lani asked cheerfully. The boy was in a weird mood, withdrawn and quiet, not at all his usual self. He'd hardly said a word on the drive home and only picked at his lunch.

“Okay.”

“How was school today? What did you do?”

She saw his shoulders rise and fall in a shrug.

She went to the kitchen banquette, where he rested on his knees, hunched over the tabletop, coloring. “I didn't know Spidey wore black. When did he start wearing black?”

Gabe ignored her question, kept a heavy hand on his black crayon. Maybe Gabe was getting sick. The thought galvanized her. “How about we do a check on your peak flow meter.” She hurried to grab the unit that measured airflow in his lungs. He did the test three times and each time his flow registered well. He returned to coloring, his mood unimproved. She put the meter away, went to the fridge and cupboards, and started pulling out baking supplies. “How about we make a batch of chocolate chip cookies? I'll get the batter mixed up and you can dump in the chips.” The ritual was familiar, one Gabe loved. Today he only shrugged.

Totally baffled by his lack of interest, Lani started the process.

“I see Daddy kissing Sing Lady,” Gabe said.

Lani froze. She slid Gabe a look. He was bent over the coloring book, his black crayon moving over another page. “When?” She hated herself for asking.

“Last nighttime.”

“You mean you saw them in a dream.” Her heart was hammering now.

“No dream. I wake up. Can't find Woof-Woof. I say, ‘Daddy. Daaaddy!' But Daddy not come.” Gabe looked at Lani, his blue eyes wide and serious. “I go look for Woof-Woof.”

She pictured him padding down the stairs, thinking that if Dawson had been in his bedroom down the hall from Gabe's, he would have heard Gabe calling. “Did you find Woof-Woof?”

“I find him by cars.” He smiled finally, pleased with his successful hunt.

Lani realized that if he'd found the dog in the living room, he would have passed the patio doors on his journey. Is that where Sloan and Dawson had been together? She felt her knees go weak with images of them holding each other and kissing. Gabe couldn't have made it up. “Does your dad know you got up to look for your doggie?”

Gabe shook his head furiously. “Gabe very quiet. No one sees me and Woof-Woof.”

Lani continued through the motions of preparing the cookies—turn on the oven, cream the butter and sugar, measure out flour and baking soda. She worked by rote, her mind numb. Last night a corner must have been turned between Dawson and Sloan. A corner Lani couldn't turn with them. Tears jammed the back of her throat.

From the table, Gabe started humming, as if telling his nighttime adventure to Lani had unburdened him. Which was the way it was with secrets, she told herself. Sometimes a person just
had
to share, and someone else
must
listen and hold on to the secret, no matter how bad it hurt the hearer's heart.