Page 156 of When She Falls (The Fallen)
People crowd around me. I’ve learned in the past few days that Midtown traffic at rush hour behaves more like a liquid than a mass of discrete parts. I clench my fist when someone bumps their shoulder against mine. By the time the light turns green, I’m actually excited to get back to my shoebox apartment, if only to get a bit of personal space.
The studio apartment on 32ndStreet is about the size of my closet back in Ibiza. It was the best Orrin could arrange on short notice. A week ago, I called him from Crete as I watched Gemma’s plane take off and told him I needed him to get me back to New York.
He asked me why.
I told him it was none of his business.
He didn’t press it further. He just sighed, told me that at this point I owed him my firstborn, and picked me up on the same cargo plane.
The truth is the location of the shoe box is convenient.
It’s a block away from Gemma’s Pilates studio.
I walk past my building and keep going until I see the familiar neon sign with the nameMove On.
I drag my palm over my overgrown beard.
Touché.
I park myself by the window inside the coffee shop across the street and order a cappuccino.
Around ten fifty, the studio’s traffic picks up as women and some men arrive for the eleven a.m. class, but I’m waiting for the black SUV. Gemma’s always surrounded by at least two guards these days, and I know they’ll stay in the car just outside the studio while she does the class. Pietra goes with her to her classes now. They’ve got her on a tight leash.
The car pulls up at ten fifty-five. The door opens, and Gemma emerges in a puffy coat, hair pulled back in a short ponytail, light-green leggings, and a white pair of athletic shoes.
My breath catches. I don’t blink.
I only catch a flash of her face before she turns and quickly disappears inside the studio.
That’s it. Fifteen seconds that are the highlight of my day. It’s all downhill from here.
Since that thought is far too fucking depressing, I get myself a sandwich and decided to wait to see her leave. Drag it out a bit.
I’m like an addict searching for that next hit.
When I got back, my plan was to keep an eye on her in New Jersey, but every time I drove by her house, there were a bunch of cars there, and at least a few guys on lookout.
I couldn’t risk getting caught.
I don’t know what Dem told Messero or Garzolo. Gemma said he was covering for me, but at the time, I wasn’t in any state to clarify what she meant by that. If Dem hasn’t publicly announced that I’m no longer his underboss, and I got caught watching Gemma, he would have another problem to deal with. I don’t want to do that to him.
So I do this instead. I come to this place to catch a glimpse of her.
It’s nothing more than a crumb for a man who wants the whole damn cake. She comes from her house and goes straight back there after she’s done.
She’s been back for a week.
There are four days left till the wedding.
And I have no fucking clue what I’m doing, why I’m stalking her instead of trying to forget her.
I throw my garbage in the bin by the cafe door and start walking back to the apartment.
My phone feels like a heavy weight inside my pocket. I pull it out and check the screen. No messages.
Dem’s silence is particularly loud. There were a dozen missed calls from the day Gemma and I left New York, but nothing since then. I haven’t dared to contact him, not even after Gemma returned, but he must know I’m here. My phone’s been on since I came back. Napoletano could track me down in minutes.
I’m embarrassed, I guess. I went against my oldest friend for a woman who left me after a week. She walked away from me, just like Sara did. I was so focused on making sure she knew she was enough for me, I never thought I might not be enough for her.
