Page 80 of Every Broken Piece
I scoff and he tosses another grin at me.
“What’re you making?”
“Breakfast for dinner. Eggs, bacon, toast.”
“You’re quite the cook.”
He pulls plates out of the cabinet like he’s always lived here. Never once has he wrinkled his nose at my apartment. He just moved in like it was no big deal and now he knows where I keep my plates and silverware. He’s filled my refrigerator with food and bougie water. He’s taken over my office space. He fills this lonely apartment with his music and his personality and I love every bit of it. Sharing space with Gabe is effortless and comforting. I could get used to this, but I can’t. I have to remember that this is very temporary.
He slides a plate filled with fluffy scrambled eggs and two pieces of bacon in front of me along with a glass of orange juice.
“I can’t possibly eat all this,” I say, eyeing the food that could feed both of us.
“You need fuel to heal.”
Two slices of perfectly browned and buttered toast appears before he sits on the stool next to me and dives into his own mound of eggs and bacon.
“There was about a year out of Pax’s life when all he’d eat was eggs,” he says between bites. “He was three.” He pauses and stares into the distance. “Maybe he was four. Hell, I can’t remember. I just remember that he wouldn’t eat anything but scrambled eggs. Not fried, poached, or sunny side up, just scrambled. His doctor said it was fine, so I learned how to make the best scrambled eggs ever. They’re my specialty. Actually,besides chicken parmesan, they’re the only thing I know how to cook.”
I picture a younger Gabe discussing his worry over his son’s eating habits with the pediatrician. Anyone can see that the sun rises and sets on his boy. That’s the way it should be between a parent and child. This small look into his life shines a glaring light on how messed up my own childhood was. I was lucky to have any kind of food in the house, let alone breakfast food.
“Is Pax short for something?” I ask.
“Paxton. It was Cara’s maiden name.”
There’s a hint of sadness in his voice and I worry that I brought something up that’s still painful to him. It’s clear he loved his wife, even after all these years.
He’s devoured his dinner before I’ve eaten half of mine. They really are the best eggs I’ve ever had, but I haven’t regained my appetite since the attack, and I’m stuffed. I slide my plate to him.
“You need to eat more.” He pushes the plate back to me.
I shake my head. “I’m full.”
He gives me a dubious look but starts in on my plate as I nibble on a piece of toast.
When he’s finished, he stacks our plates and takes them to the sink before returning to my side. “We need to talk.”
His serious tone makes my heart plummet.Come on, Tess. You knew it couldn’t last. He’s not going to stick around for your messy.
He gently pulls me off the stool and leads us to the couch where we sit in opposite corners facing each other, then frowns and scoots closer. I’m curled in the corner, one leg tucked under me. He’s so close that his knee is pressed against mine.
“I have to go home,” he says. “I have a big meeting on Monday that I need to be prepared for. It’s not something I can get out of.”
This is a good thing. Now I can focus on getting the hell out of Cincinnati before that makes comes back for me. So why is my heart sinking?
“I understand. And of course you have to get back to your life. When, um...” I lick my lips and look at my bookcases filled with all my books because I can’t look at him. I don’t want to see relief that he’s finally done with me, or pity because he knows he’s leaving me all alone. “When are you leaving?”
“The plane takes off at noon tomorrow.”
So soon.
One more day. We have one more day together. Not even. More like fifteen hours.
“Tess. Look at me.”
I blink rapidly to clear my thoughts because I can’t have him see that his leaving is breaking me in ways I didn’t think could break. How many times can a person be broken? Apparently, more than I thought.
With his thumb to my chin, he turns my head until I’m forced to look at him.
