Page 139 of Love What's Left
Gabriel
Ten Months Later
Standing in the living room of our penthouse and wearing the same black dress she had on when she defended her dissertation earlier today, Sydney bumps my bicep with her shoulder. “This place looks like a hurricane hit it.”
“The storm is ongoing. You’re reporting live from the scene.”
She looks over the mingling, chattering, laughing crowd with a smile. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“We wanted to celebrate with you. Finishing your PhD is a big deal. And I didn’t do it myself.”
“Uh-huh,” she says doubtfully.
I indicate the eye-watering hot pink and black banners on the walls. “Bronwyn, Dean, and the kids were in charge of the signs. Clarissa devised the menu. Henry and Franki chose the soundtrack.”
“I’ve never heard half this music before.”
“They like their indie artists.”
Sam squeals and runs on speedy preschooler legs with a bright blue cupcake in his hand. My sister chases after him and scoops him up with a laugh.
James Mellinger sways his sleepy one-year-old slightly to the music playing over the speakers as Clarissa leans against his other shoulder.
My paternal grandmother, Rose, fragile with age, but every bit as regal as she ever was, sits in an armchair talking with Grandma Miller.
When she gave me controlling shares of MPD, Grandmother Rose was the first person who showed unwavering faith that I’d turned a corner all those years ago. She’d handed me a thick manila envelope and said, “I’m too old for this. I trust your days as a directionless hussy are over.”
I’d suppressed a smile at the word “hussy.” Then, I looked at the contents of the envelope. In the initial shocked moment of comprehension, the thought occurred to me that I wasn’t ready and should pass them on to Henry.
But, as my wife likes to say, “Sometimes being ready is just doing it scared,” and I’d needed something to give my life structure and purpose after rehab.
“I’m going to make you proud,” I’d said.
She waved her hand. “I spent too many years as a prisoner of my pride to willingly pass that shackle on to you. I’m far more concerned with your health and happiness. Thrive, Gabriel, and I’ll be content.”
I tug my wife against me, my arms wrapping around her chest. She presses her back to my front. For an instant, a different day and a different kind of disaster in this penthouse flashes in my mind. I’d held her against me while she fought, silently and desperately, to claw her life back.
And she did.
I adjust my wrist to get a look at my watch, then toward our foyer. Sydney rubs my arm. “He’ll show. Doctor’s hours can be unpredictable.”
“I won’t blame him if he doesn’t.” I’ve sent some version of a dumbass, “Really sorry about all my past bullshit. How have you been? I’ve got a thing coming up. Be good to see you” text to Josh’s old number once a year, every year.
Every year, I received no response. This time . . . this time, he texted back:Where? When?
Movement in the foyer catches my eye. Josh steps into the room. Tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a dark blazer over a crisp shirt and trousers, he carries a yellow envelope and scans the crowd as he runs a hand over the cropped black hair he keeps high and tight.
His shoulders lower, dropping some of their tension at the family-friendly sight that greets him. He cracks a full-blown smile when Henry, Ian held in one arm, reaches him and extends his free hand to shake. Then, Henry turns back to point at me.
Josh makes eye contact. I wave. If nothing else comes of this except closure and that we won’t avoid each other in the future, that will have to be enough.
Josh joins us and offers Sydney the card. “Congratulations, Dr. Walsh McRae.”
Sydney accepts. “Thank you. How about you call me Sydney, so I can call you Josh instead of Dr. Granthy the Younger?”
It’s like we share a brain sometimes.
“Sounds good,” Josh says.
