Page 76 of Five
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask him, seeing there’s no plate for him anywhere.
“Already did.” He makes an encouraging gesture toward my plate while taking a sip of his coffee. I get hypnotized by him for a second. His whole presence demands attention, but it’s more the fact that he is letting me stay with him in his apartment that holds my curiosity. It's such a surreal situation, never in a million years would I have imagined Gabe coming to my rescue…twice. Or me accepting his help.
I move the ham and scrambled eggs onto the toast with my fork and take a bite. I can’t stop the moan slipping out of my mouth. This is the good stuff. When I open my eyes, Gabe’s slate gaze is zeroed in on my lips, and I can't resist licking the upper one. My coquettish nature can’t be helped.
His eyes move to mine, and I gasp at the heated look he gives me. Then Wednesday makes one of her screeching sounds, and I lower my gaze to her. She’s under my stool pecking on the ground looking for breadcrumbs. I absently crush a corner of my toast and drop it on the floor, snapping my eyes to Gabe to see if he minds the mess. He’s staring at her with what I can only decipher as a scrutinizing look, since it's kind of hard to read him.
A previous thought suddenly comes back to me.
“The guest room bathroom is filled with beauty products,” I start, spearing a few leaves of the salad with my fork aggressively. Fucking amazing products, which I’d die to use. And are not Gabe’s. He has his own bathroom. So does he keep them for one of those escorts? Do they stay the night?
“Will you receive…visitors while I’m here?” It’s evident that I’m prying. Because I don’t like the idea of him with someone else. I feel a bit I’ll-disfigure-whoever-touches-him jealous.
“No,” he replies in his monotone voice, but then he adds, “They’re for you.”
“For me?” I mutter, almost choking on the last piece of toast.
“My housekeeper bought what you need yesterday. Let me know if you want more.”
I blink rapidly, trying to clear the excessive questions filling my head. “How did you know what I’d need?”
“Ollie.”
“You…you asked Ollie.” I sound incredulous. Because fuck, a caring Gabe ignites an atomic bomb inside my head.
“Yes. Ollie told me a few things you’d enjoy, and I bought them.”
“For Wednesday as well?” I tilt my head toward the roosting bars and all the other new things he bought her.
“After a quick research on hens, I got a few things on the internet; they arrived thirty minutes ago.”
Wow. Just wow. He researched hens. Did I misjudge him all this time? Nah. I look at his emotionless face.
I take his answer at face value because who am I to question it? My life is a mess, and he’s shown me only kindness lately. Benefit of the doubt it is. So lawyer-y of me.
His insistent dark stare makes me bite down hard on my full bottom lip. He’s looking at me like he wants to rescue my mauled mouth. But after a few seconds, he takes a step back as he checks his watch and walks to the sink to leave his mug. He moves around, gathering what he needs for the office: briefcase, phone, etc… I try not to stare at him and make my way over to the leather couch on a rug that is softer than a cloud. As I let myself fall down onto it, Wednesday, with a vigorous flap of her wings, jumps down next to me. Her red eyes take me in for a moment before she gives me her back.
She only has three toes on one foot, and some of her feathers are missing on one side. Don’t know what she went through, but she’s still affectionate—for a hen—allowing me to stroke her feathers briefly before squawking and scurrying a few feet away with an indignant flap of her wings.
I see Gabe making his way to the entrance, hovering when he gets to the door.
“Is your gran in that urn?” Gabe’s sudden question makes my alarm bells ring like an ambulance on a call.
“Yes,” I say, gritting my teeth against the ugly sensation that always overwhelms me when I think about her last days on earth.
“Where does the money I pay you go, Lori?” His questions are like getting whiplash, they jerk me from left to right.
“Expenses,” I reply defensively, and pout my lips, feeling uneasy. I buy my clothes at thrift shops and rent my designer bags from a fabulous app, don’t spend much on food or rent. The largest portion of my salary goes to hospital bills and my gran’s house. She left it to me, and although I don’t live there, I still have to pay when something breaks.
The neighbor, Miss Pool, goes once a month to check that everything is fine, and this winter, a small part of the roof collapsed just before the deck railing fell down and the asphalt in the driveway cracked. Then there’s the property taxes. In short, cheerio salary.
I see questions twirling in Gabe’s eyes, but he doesn’t ask them. Instead, he utters, “Your hen looks restless.”
Wednesday is near the balcony door, pacing left and right. “She needs to do her rat patrol.” I move to the door and open it, letting her out. The stone railing is really high, she can’t jump off.
“There are no rats on my balcony,” he states.So literal.
“She wants to share spicy gossip with a passing pigeon, then.” I shrug.
