Harrison

In the end, Gabriella stays all night.

At first, I feel guilty, because the poor girl came here to get screwed senseless—I’m sure the last thing she wants is to have her stud moping about because his father has passed away. So, I ask her if she wants to go, and she says, “Sweetie, if you want me to, that’s absolutely fine. But I’d rather stay.” After that, I don’t mention it again, and neither does she.

We sit out outside on the balcony for hours, drinking coffee and then moving on to whiskey, and for a while I don’t feel like talking, so we just sit and look at the stars. Then a memory rises into my mind—one of the few good memories I have of my father—and I tell Gaby the story about when I got my first bike, and how Dad ran behind me all the way down the street holding the back, and I was fine until I realized he’d let go, at which point I wobbled and fell off into a bush.

She laughs and asks me about where I grew up, and I tell her about the small town where I lived with my parents and two brothers, and then I tell her about my school years, and soon I find I can’t stop talking. I tell her everything—the good and the bad—about the time when we still formed some semblance of a family, with grandparents joining us for Christmas, and holidays to the coast. And then I describe how it started to go wrong, with my father drinking more and then turning to drugs. About the first time I realized he was abusing my mother, and the fury and impotence I felt as a child at being unable to help her. I tell her about the first time he hit me, and how humiliated and hurt and angry I felt—I never did work out what had I done that was so bad he had to take a belt to me. I explain how I worked so hard at school in my early teens, joining all the sports teams I could, to build up my physical strength. And then I tell her about the first time I stood up to him one time when he beat me, and finally hit him back.

I’m not ashamed to say there are tears on my cheeks while I relate the story. I don’t know if they’re tears of sadness or triumph, maybe both. But I’m not ashamed to show my emotions in front of Gaby. By this point, I feel as if I’ve known her forever. I so rarely open up to anyone—life as a single guy, especially a single guy in a city, is hectic and fun and frantic, but it’s rarely heartfelt, and I’ve learned to keep my emotions to myself. But I needed this tonight. I needed to talk, and Gaby is the perfect companion, quiet, attentive, and so fucking beautiful, curled up in her chair with her big violet eyes fixed on my face as she listens to me ramble on.

Around two a.m., I think, I notice that she’s shivering and realize how cold it’s become, so we go inside and get back into bed, and I take her in my arms, and we wrap the duvet tightly around us. We still don’t sleep for a while, talking in the darkness, about memories and growing up and all the dreams we’d had as kids.

I wrangle with feelings of love and hate and regret and bitterness that swirl around inside me like a rhythmic gymnast’s ribbons. When I tell her that I don’t know which emotion is the right one to be feeling, she says, “They’re all valid, Harry. There’s nothing wrong with hating him, or missing him, or feeling triumphant or sad that he’s gone. He was your father, and he died today. Grief is an umbrella term for an untold number of conflicting emotions. Just let the wave wash over you, and it’ll disappear. ‘This too shall pass,’ my grandmother used to say.”

And then, just after three, Gaby finally dozes off.

I lay awake for another hour or so, though, thinking about my father, and the fact that he’s not around anymore. I wonder for the first time if the police have rung my mother. I’ll call her first thing in the morning and find out. I’ll have to call my brothers, too. I suppose I should do it now, but they’re probably asleep, and I’m too warm and cozy here with Gaby molded to my body, her breasts and belly and thighs pressed up against my side, her breath fanning across my shoulder.

Poor Gaby. She didn’t sign up for this. But the odd thing is that I can’t imagine having anyone else with me tonight when I got the news. Not a friend, not Sebastian or Caleb, even though I’ve known them the longest, not a stranger, not Sarah, my ex, or any other girls I’ve known. Gaby was perfect—is perfect.

This too shall pass. I suppose that’s true for all things, including this relationship. In a few weeks, we’ll be moving on, and this night will become one of many memories shoved in a box in my mind.

The thought troubles me, though, and it’s another hour before I finally succumb to sleep.

*

When I wake, I turn over and put out a hand, but find the bed empty. Gaby’s gone, and I feel a pang of disappointment and hurt. Then the memory of the night before hits me, and I almost gasp as I remember about my father. I roll onto my back and sink my hands into my hair. He’s gone. He’ll never have a hold over me or my family again. The wave comes, washes over me, and then vanishes just as quickly. This too shall pass…

I open my eyes, and suddenly realize it’s light. Too light. I push up onto my elbows and reach for my phone, but it’s not where I left it. Did Gaby take it? I slide my tablet out from the shelf by the bed and switch it on—fuck, it’s nine-thirty!

It’s only then that I hear someone moving around in the kitchen.

I get up and pull on a pair of boxers, then walk out. Gaby’s there, wearing my T-shirt and panties, making coffee.

“Oh, hey,” she says when she sees me.

“Did you take my phone?” I ask, puzzled.

“Yes.” Her cheeks flush. “I hope it was okay—I thought you’d probably set your alarm and I didn’t want to wake you. I rang Colette, and Sebastian said there’s not much on today so to let you lie in. He said to take the day off, but that you probably wouldn’t.” She gives me a hesitant smile. “You want me to go?”

She thinks I’m going to be mad at her for making decisions for me.

I walk up to her, remove the mugs from her, and put them on the table. Then I move her so she’s resting against the worktop. I take her face in my hands and study the beautiful violet eyes of this generous, thoughtful, caring, sexy woman. Then I kiss her.

After I’ve kissed her, I lift my head and look into her eyes again. “Stay with me,” I tell her. “Until you go away. Stay with me for the next few weeks.”

Her jaw drops, and her mouth forms a perfect O. For a moment, I think she might refuse. Then her lips stretch into a smile, and she nods. “Okay,” she says.

I kiss her again, and then I take her back to bed.