We’d been outside for less than ten minutes but it was enough. Even the winters in New York were never this cold—almost as if there’s an absence of anything beyond the chill in the air. It’s bracing.
“You have a choice,” Gabe says. “I can get you a hotel room. A nice one. For Cooper, that is. Or you can stay with me. I have a guest room. Plenty of space.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I say, practically on autopilot.
Gabe nods.
“Maybe not,” he says. “But you’re already here. What’s one more bad decision?”
Describing Gabe’s home as an apartment is a misnomer. It’s a house on top of a bookshop.
I hear her before I see her. That wonderful, comforting, perfect sound of nails across a hardwood floor. I put my bag down in the entryway of Gabe’s apartment and kneel as she comes around the corner.
“Hey, girl,” I say.
Her muzzle has a lot of white on it, and she’s tall now—so tall—the puppy weight long gone, replaced by a leanness that indicates her age. I can see the knots of her hip bones, but she’s wagging and when she sees us, she barrels toward the door—ten weeks old again.
At first, I think she’s going to fling herself against Gabe—her owner—but she throws her body into mine, knocking me off balance. I hit the floor with my butt, hard, but I don’t care.
Gabe’s dog is alive and licking my face.
I start to cry.
“She remembers you,” Gabe says, not yet noticing my tears.
“Good girl,” I say, burying my face in her side.
I know it’s ridiculous and I’m definitely still a little buzzed from the whisky, but I inhale and convince myself that there’s still the tiniest hint of puppy smell there.
“Hey, hey, hey.” Gabe is kneeling down next to us. “Are you okay?”
I wipe my nose on my sleeve—it’s wet and sloppy and extremely gross but I don’t care.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m just happy to see her.”
“She’s happy to see you too,” Gabe says with the hushed, slightly questioning tone of someone who doesn’t understand why another person is crying but doesn’t want to do anything to set it off again.
“What’s her name?” I ask.
The whole point of this weekend, I’m realizing, is to get answers to unanswered questions. I just never thought this would be one of them.
“Teddy,” Gabe says.
I look at him.
“I never was a very creative adult,” he says.
I wipe my nose again and give Teddy a scratch behind her ears. She leans hard against me and then slowly slides onto her back, showing me her stomach. We sit there in the entryway of Gabe’s apartment for a long time, me rubbing her belly, her tail thumping on the hardwood floor.
“I’ll take your bag to your room,” Gabe says.
He gets up and leaves us alone.
I know the apartment is above the Cozy—the shop that Gabe bought for his mom and sister—but we came in from the back, so I didn’t get to see the building.
I stand—much to Teddy’s chagrin—and brush her hair off my legs.
There’s a little table in the entryway where I’m standing and it’s covered with framed photos.
Most of them are of Gabe’s niece, Lena.
I smile at what must be the most recent one—a thirteen-year-old girl scowling at the camera in a typical thirteen-year-old-girl fashion. I can feel that scowl deep down in my soul.
There’s a family photo on the end—Gabe, his mom, his sister, Lena, and a round-faced guy with Lena’s eyes.
My smile fades.
I’d read about Gabe’s brother-in-law. How he’d died in a car accident a few years ago.
We’d spoken about him, briefly, during that first interview. How they were going to go on a trip together—to Italy. How he—Spencer—had never left the country before. There’d been articles after his death, mostly as an excuse to show grainy photos of Gabe and Jacinda, combined with breathless reporting that they were as strong as ever.
There’s another picture—the oldest one on the table—of Gabe and his sister when they were little. They’re maybe two and three. They’re each on a lap. Lauren is on her mom’s. Gabe on his dad’s.
I’d never seen pictures of Gabe’s dad before but it’s clear that he got a lot of his looks from him. The thing I appreciate the most, though, is the enormous bushy mustache turned upward above his smile.
I step into the living room, Teddy following me on her big, fluffy feet.
Gabe’s apartment is huge. Two bedrooms, at least, a big, beautiful kitchen, and a living room with the largest TV I’ve ever seen. Still, despite the size of the place, it’s cozy. The vintage-looking metal fireplace in the corner, painted a lovely rust red, makes the place look like a cabin from the sixties.
On the coffee table is a half-completed puzzle.
“You puzzle?” I ask as Gabe comes out of what I presume is the guest room.
“I do,” he says. “It’s become a part of my recovery.”
I check out his choice in puzzles.
“Mammals of Yellowstone.”
He’s gotten about forty percent of it done.
“You start from the edges,” I observe.
“Uh-huh,” he says, folding his arms.
He leans up against the kitchen wall, looking gorgeous and comfortable. Teddy settles into her bed next to the couch. The whole thing veers in and out of normality. Am I really in Montana in Gabe Parker’s apartment?
What is going on here?
In order to ignore the cognitive dissonance that keeps threatening to unmoor me, I lean over the puzzle board, searching for pieces.
“I thought we’d established that I read your work,” Gabe says.
I straighten. I’d forgotten. Or, hadn’t made the connection.
“You started puzzling because of me?” I ask.
“In a sense,” he says, pushing away from the wall. “Tried a bunch of things, but this one stuck.”
The look he gives me is so intense that I have to glance away. It makes me feel vulnerable. Exposed.
“Are you cold?” Gabe asks.
I realize I’ve wrapped my arms around myself.
“I’m always cold,” I say.