And then, suddenly, it’s November 21. The anniversary of Zach’s death. Three hundred and sixty-five days. The day blooms with an epic thunderstorm, low-hanging clouds that dump rain from the skies in thick sheets, battering the roof and swallowing up all light and sound. It’s like a greater power is marking the day with the gravity it deserves. Dark. Wet. Depressing.
I wake up early, far too early to start the day, and lie there for an eternity, listening to the steady downpour batter the roof’s shingles above my bedroom ceiling. Today marks both an end and a beginning for Gabe and his family, and I wonder which is harder for them: closing the book on Zach’s first year gone, or facing a new blank page without him on it.
I linger in bed until my bladder can’t wait another second, and then I trudge down the hallway, freshen up in my brand-new bathroom. I’m brushing my teeth when I hear it, my doorbell, followed by a heavy pounding on the door that spikes my heart. I fling my toothbrush in the sink and hurry down the stairs.
It’s Gabe, clean-shaven and bleary-eyed in his favorite jeans and a black puffy coat. He takes in my bare feet and rumpled pajamas, my bed-head hair, the sheet marks slashing up a cheek. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I was brushing my teeth,” I say rather inanely, though I’m happy to hear my voice sounds halfway normal. The sight of Gabe’s familiar figure after all this time has wound a rope around my chest and pulled it tight, and I’m surprised I can talk at all.
Gabe nods as if he knows, and I’m confused for a moment until he reaches up, brushing something off the corner of my mouth. Toothpaste. He wipes it on his jeans. “I don’t know if you heard, but we dropped the charges.”
“I saw the press conference.”
“It was the right thing to do. Mom needed closure. I needed closure. It’s better this way.”
“Good. I’m happy for you.” I mean it, too. If dropping the charges gave him the closure he needed, then I am happy for him.
Vaguely, I’m aware of a car idling on the street, of the rain beating down in sheets, of the tips of my bare toes tingling in the freezing November air. It’s a strange feeling, standing so close to him again, and I think back to the first time he stood on my doormat, the night he came over to apologize. I didn’t let him in then, either, though for totally different reasons. I’m dying to reach out and touch him, to wrap myself around him and not let go, and I can’t be one hundred percent sure I won’t try the minute he steps across my threshold.
“It’s cold as balls out here,” he says with a little smile, resurrecting the same words he used that night, and I know he’s remembering it, too.
Still. I don’t step back.
He gives a resigned nod, doesn’t push it any further. “Mom still has no idea about Nick. Though…I don’t know how we can keep it a secret forever. My therapist tells me Nick will have to tell her in order to fully heal.” He draws a deep breath, blows it out. “I don’t see how that can go well.”
“She’s already lost one son. I can’t imagine she would push another one away because of a tragic accident. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but he’ll need her forgiveness in order to forgive himself.”
“You sound just like my therapist.” His smile, sincere and warm, makes my chest ache.
I drop my head, and we fall silent for an awkward moment. As interested as I am in his family, I can’t help but wonder what brought him to my doorstep this morning, today of all days, but I don’t know how to ask without coming across as unsympathetic or, even worse, hopeful. So I ask the question that’s been piling up on my tongue since I opened my door a few minutes ago.
“How are you, Gabe?”
“A mess, obviously.” He swipes a palm across the back of his neck. “I’m sure you know what today is.”
I nod, the words sticking in my throat. Of course I know.
“I meant what I said at the press conference. Zach would have hated the investigation. No, that’s not right. He would have been furious at me for taking on the country he died serving. He would have said it made his death pointless and took my scope off the people who needed me most. Mom. Nick. You.” He pauses to shake his head ruefully. “Not that you ever needed me, but, Jesus, Abigail, I need you. I can’t breathe I need you so bad.”
And I can’t breathe with him standing here. Because no matter how either of us feels, the fact remains that he didn’t believe in me. He doesn’t. Is this it? Is this how we end? With Gabe’s admission that he needs me but not enough to believe I won’t hurt him in the worst possible way? The idea of it breaks my heart, and I feel myself start to crumble.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I hate myself for letting you drive away from me like that at Nick’s. I wish I’d stopped you and said—” he takes a deep breath, blows it out “—well, pretty much anything other than the words I did say. I wish I’d told you I knew you weren’t writing a story, that I knew you wouldn’t.”
“But then you would have been lying.”
He starts to shake his head, and then he freezes, gives me the tiniest of shrugs. “Yeah, maybe. Maybe I would have been lying. But just so you know, I wanted to believe in you, but every single thing that’s happened this past year has taught me not to. It’s taught me to think the worst of everyone. That’s not an excuse, only an explanation for why I’ve become such an ass-hat. I didn’t used to be.”
His face is so open, his expression so boyishly repentant, that I forgive him pretty much immediately. After everything that happened between me and Dad, how could I not? I thought the worst of my own father, and what’s my excuse? Gabe was only trying to protect his family, while I was willing to betray mine.
“It’s fine. I get it. I didn’t exactly give you reason to trust me.”
“It’s not fine. It wasn’t fair to you, especially after everything you did for me and my family.” He looks at me, struggling for words. “I think… I think… I don’t know, I think I was so traumatized I couldn’t think. I couldn’t concentrate on anything but my terror that Nick would hurt himself, that Mom would find out, that I would lose another person I loved. Please, tell me I didn’t lose you, too.”
“I can’t be with someone who doesn’t believe in me, Gabe.” It’s not an accusation, simply a statement. I know I could fall into his arms and feel better for an hour or two, but the relief would only be temporary. He would still resent me, and I would hate myself later for it. I choose long-term self-respect over short-lived pleasure.
“If Zach were here, he’d tell me action over words. Show over tell. He’d say go for the grand gesture, Hollywood style.” He spreads his arms wide, more a resigned gesture than a come-and-get-me one. “But I’m not Zach. I don’t do Hollywood style, and I have nothing to offer but me. Just…me.” His mouth twitches in a teasing grin, and his hands fall to his sides. “Honestly, if I were you, I wouldn’t take it. It’s a pretty shitty deal. I’m damaged goods.”
“You’re not.” I bite down on a smile. “You’re a work in progress.”
“I am. And part of what I’m working on is putting myself out there again. Learning to let go and to trust. Which brings me to why I’m here. To ask you—no, to beg you to please come with me.” He steps forward, takes both of my hands in his freezing ones. “Mom and I are spending the day with Nick. She’s waiting for us in the car.”
I close my eyes, savoring the moment, feeling it puff and inflate in my chest. Gabe wants me to spend this day—this most momentous, private, heartbreaking day—with him and his family. He didn’t fall to his knees or fill my house with flowers or write his request across the sky, he just asked, without bargains or contracts or terms.
“Abigail, please,” he whispers, and I open my eyes to watch his face contort into an openly repentant expression that’s completely unnecessary. I’ve already forgiven him, and I’ve already made up my mind. “Please, come.”
I think about my father, who left the career he loved out of principle, on account of a family he had never really met. About Zach, who walked away from millions of dollars to do the right thing for his country, only to make the ultimate sacrifice. And about Gabe, whose proffered sacrifice is no less significant: his family’s vulnerability for our future together.
I gesture to my pajamas, to my bare feet poking out of the bottom, but I’m smiling. “I’m not dressed.”
“I’ll wait.”
“What about your mom?”
“She’ll wait, too.”
“No, I mean…what do you want me to say to her?”
The corners of his mouth lift in my favorite Gabe smile. “You’ll think of something.”