Page 83 of It Couldn't Be You
I could tell talking and brainstorming about his work had been therapeutic for him. His shoulders were relaxed, and he was laughing easily. We both felt like we could catch our breath. A little respite in the middle of it all.
It reminded me of when we were in high school. Gabriel and I had often helped each other with assignments, but there was one particular time when I was fifteen that had been far more dramatic and dire than the rest.
It was a crisp night in November, nearing finals, and Gabriel had been working on this long, taxing essay for one of his classes. I can’t remember exactly which one. I had been around for the weeks of work he’d been putting into it. This essay had been a topic of discussion at his house a lot.
So, when I got this phone call on a school night saying, “Word crashed, and somehow, I lost all of it! I lost all of it, and it’s due tomorrow, Emma!” I knew what a big, gigantic deal it was to him.
“I’ll come help!” I said immediately. I got my mom to drive me over, it was 9 p.m., but she loved Gabe almost as much as I did.
She drank coffee with Mrs. Hernandez in the kitchen while I sat with Gabe on the living room floor. We put his essay back together again using his notes, his books, and our memories.
It was 2 a.m., and our moms were asleep on the couch when Gabe said to me, “I think it’s better than it was before.” We had just hit our final “save document.”
“I’ll give you author credit,” he added seriously.
“Do not! They’ll think you cheated!” I laughed, delirious with exhaustion and a little high on all these hours spent with Gabe.
“In my heart, you have author credit, Emma Brown.” His voice was the sweetest and softest I’d ever heard it.
Then he looked straight into my eyes and said, “I know you’re Katie’s best friend, but you’re also one of my best friends too. And I don’t know anyone else who could’ve helped me like you.”
I was deeply tired, but in that moment, I felt like I could fly. “I actually really liked helping you,” was all I could come up with to say.
He smiled at me like he got what I meant.
“I guess we’re done,” I said. I almost wished we hadn’t finished it yet, that we could’ve kept working together a few more hours.
“Our moms are pretty cool,” he said, looking over at our sleeping mothers.
On the drive home that night, or rather, early that morning, my mom said to me, “You would do anything for that boy, huh?”
“Sort of. He’s one of my best friends, you know. Just as much as Katie,” I said, newly affirmed in this information.
“He’s like a brother then.” I realized now that she’d said gamely.
“No, that’s not what I said,” I snapped. “Gabe is not like my brother.”
All these years later, and I would still sit around with him for hours and hours and try to piece things back together. Just happy to be there.
Thirty
The Hernandez kids were hosting a Taco Bar for Katie’s birthday at their house one night in April, a couple of weeks before Easter. The nights had been cool but the days were sunny. I drove to their place wrapped up in an oversized gray cardigan, the heat in my car on low.
Katie squealed, all wrapped up in Terrence’s arms, when she saw me walk into the kitchen. Her mom had grilled shrimp, pulled pork, and shredded chicken for our taco meat, and I could smell the spices as I joined the group.
“Happy birthday.” I wrapped Katie up in a hug. She held me close, and we swayed like that for a minute.
“How’s your day been?” I asked her, even though we’d spent the morning together at work. She told me about Terrence’s sweet notes, about Gabriel making her blueberry pancakes, and about Tanya visiting her this afternoon and bringing her cherubic baby.
I leaned in close to catch every word. It was loud with almost all the Hernandez crew squeezed into the kitchen, the blender buzzing, and laughter spilling. I spotted Gabriel making the margaritas. He winked at me.
“Oh, you found our mixologist for the night?” Katie snickered, watching us watch each other. “His margaritas are really sour, I warn you. Gabe overdid the lime. You have to go try one.”
I weaved through the kitchen to Gabe. His eyes were on me the entire time.
“You want a drink? I’m in charge of making these, and not to toot my own horn, they’re a hit.” He was using his crutch less and less, so it was leaning against the bar as he balanced on his own but still in a cast.
“Get me a cup full, bartender.” I slapped the bar playfully.
