Page 171 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
“I know. I’ll get it changed on Monday. I only got five crank calls, so it wasn’t too bad.” He swapped plates with me when it was clear that I preferred his dish over the linguine I’d ordered. “But this kid and his dad restored my faith in humanity. Imagine finding a ring and turning it in at the police station.”
“Except that he didn’t,” I pointed out, ever the cynic. “He called you for the reward.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t evenwantthe reward. He just wanted to ensure that the ring ended up in the right hands. I had to force him to take the check. I told him to use it for his college fund or buy his mom a nice gift or donate it to charity.”
“What was his name? The boy who found my ring?”
“Auden,” Gabriel said.
“Auden,” I repeated. “I love that name. Like the poet.” I held out my left hand and admired the rubies and pearls.
This ring had stories to tell, and even though not all of them were happy, they were still a part of its history.
I loved my ring all the more for it.
“Dessert?” Gabriel asked after I’d finished all his lobster ravioli.
I shook my head. “We already have dessert. Take me home and feed me a mango.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Cleo
We decidedto go to the beach.
I changed into shorts and Gabriel’s Jimi Hendrix T-shirt, and we met up on the front porch. Gabriel was wearing board shorts, a faded T-shirt, and Vans.
He had a blanket and one of his hoodies bundled under his arm in case I got cold.
Armed with provisions, we walked to the beach and laid the blanket on the sand in front of the dunes.
The beach was mostly empty, except for a few surfers out beyond the breakers silhouetted against the deep blue sky. A narrow strip of vibrant yellow and orange streaked the horizon. Soon the darkness would swallow it up, but there was still enough light for Gabriel to wield the knife without losing a finger.
Unlike me, he’d mastered the art of cutting a mango. I never knew fruit could be so sexy until I met Gabriel. I leaned back on my elbows and watched his magic hands.
While he worked, he told me about today’s meeting. “The suits were kissing my ass. It was a little embarrassing, to be honest.”
By now, he should have been used to that treatment. It had happened the first time, too, but of course he didn’t remember that.
“Do you really think my new music isgood?” he asked, biting his lip.
He wasn’t fishing for compliments. Gabriel was plagued with self-doubt. It used to keep him up at night, worrying and obsessing over his music, questioning whether his next album would be as good as he’d envisioned.
“Yes. I really think it’s good.”
“But if it wasn’t, would you tell me?”
I laughed to myself, reminded of the time I told him to write a song that didn’t suck. “I would tell you. I might be biased, but you can always count on me to be honest,” I assured him.
He glanced over. “Your opinion is the only one I trust. I think you’re the only person who really knows me.”
With privilege comes great responsibility. We’d always sought each other’s opinion. His used to be the only one that mattered to me too.
“But if your music wasn’t good,youwould know it,” I said.
He nodded. “I know. But when you sit through a meeting with people blowing smoke up your ass, you start questioning if it’s even about the music anymore. To them, I’m just a cash cow,” he said, snorting in disgust. “They look at me and see dollar signs.”
This had always been a major dilemma for Gabriel. For him, it was his artistic integrity versus greed and capitalism.
