Gabrielle (13 page)

Something had happened.

And we were no longer just friends.

To say that Bradley's visit was seamless was not even skimming the surface of how well tea went...or how much my grandmother loved him.

Not to mention how much I enjoyed being with him, too.

From the first moment there was no awkwardness, just that ease that came so naturally to him. He walked over to our CD collection and my grandmother said, “Did you know that Gabrielle is a songwriter?”

He turned to me. “Really?” Before I could answer, he said, “Actually, I'm not at all surprised. You move like someone who has music in her veins.”

I blushed at his comment, at the fact that he'd noticed the way I moved.

And had heard music in it.

“Can I hear something of yours?”

I felt my face turn even redder. “No.” My grandmother shot me a frown and I said, “I don't have anything that good written yet.”

And yet, a part of me so badly wanted to play him the two songs I'd written this week.

And the truth was I might have...only, I didn't want my grandmother to hear them. She'd immediately put the songs in the context of the curse, the
soirée
, and my refusal to join a world she believed I belonged in.

I didn't want her to know how deep my turmoil went. She'd been there for me at every turn in my life so far. And yet, for the first time I couldn't turn to her for help.

All because I was terribly afraid of hurting her. More afraid of that, I was realizing, than of hurting myself.

“Gabrielle is incredibly talented,” my grandmother bragged. “She has already won several songwriting contests.”

Clearly sensing my discomfort, Bradley turned back to the wall of CDs and said, “Which ones inspire you more here? Justin Bieber or Taylor Swift?”

Okay, so I had a thing for bouncy pop music. Sue me. Granted, I hadn't wanted Dylan to know this about me, either. Hopefully he wouldn't look at our music collection when he came over Friday.

“Pop music is very difficult to do well,” I said defensively.

Bradley laughed. “I know. I tried to write a song once. I have nothing but respect for hit makers. Any kind of music impresses me. Especially songs that speak to millions and millions of people.” He reached out, touched my arm with his hand. “I was just teasing you, Gabrielle. I shouldn't have.”

Realizing he was serious, that he wasn't judging me for my decidedly lowbrow musical tastes, I relaxed.

“I shouldn't be so touchy about it,” I said, meeting him halfway.

“Maybe the two of you could write a song together,” my grandmother suggested.

Bradley turned to me with a grin on his gorgeous face, letting me know that this ball was entirely in my court.

I dealt with my grandmother's suggestion by stuffing a berry tart into my mouth whole.

“I believe I know your father and grandfather,” my grandmother said, and I nearly spit out my half-chewed tart.

“They speak very highly of you,” he said.

All I could think was,
Oh God, they're not going to talk about what a famous courtesan
she used to be, are they?

“I understand you are an expert sculptor,” he said to her.

My grandmother glowed at his words. “
Expert
is perhaps a little generous,” she said, “but I have always been very interested in the discipline.”

Inwardly sighing with relief, I sat back on the couch and ate and drank in silence, since neither of them needed me to drive the conversation forward. In fact, I was pretty sure I could leave the room and neither of them would miss me.

At some point, my grandmother got up to answer a telephone call and Bradley turned to me and brushed another lock of hair out of my eyes.

“We're boring you, aren't we?”

My God, the feel of his hands on my skin. It was insane how every cell in my body suddenly leapt to react.

“No,” I said, and honestly, I'd always enjoyed discussing sculptures with my grandmother. So why was I being pissy?

“She's great,” he said.

“She likes you, too,” I said to his mouth, which I suddenly couldn't take my eyes from for some crazy reason.

Just then my grandmother walked back in and I felt like I'd just gotten caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Because I knew she didn't miss anything.

Especially not something as obvious as the sparks jumping between me and Bradley.

A guy who wasn't my boyfriend.

A guy who I could never be with in a million years because he was looking for a courtesan...and I could never, ever become one.

My grandmother gave him a warm hug goodbye and left me to walk him out.

When we were out on the front step, he said, “I found a great Dixieland jazz band on Saturday night,” reminding me how we'd met. Where we'd met.

At the courtesan coming-out ball.

“Are you free?” he asked. “I think you'd really love it.”

I didn't have any plans, but I was still going to say no out of loyalty to Dylan. And because my grandmother was bound to get the wrong impression if I spent an evening with Bradley.

But just as I was opening my mouth to turn him down, I had a thought: What if going to see jazz with him would be a good cover for what I really wanted to do? For what I now realized I needed to do?

Because no matter how I tried, I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that my father had been married.

And that his wife was probably still in New York City.

What if she had answers for me? What if she could tell me something about my father?

Or, best of all, what if she could confirm for me that my mother had never been her husband's mistress? That my grandmother had gotten it all mixed up somehow?

Of course, even as the thoughts flitted one after the other through my head, I think I knew better. I knew my grandmother rarely—if ever—got anything wrong.

Still, what I finally said to Bradley was, “How about this? I'll go with you if you'll go somewhere with me first.”

Rather than being offended that I was making a deal with him, he smiled, looking more than a little relieved.

“Anywhere.”

What was I doing? Bradley was a perfectly nice guy with his own messes to deal with. I shouldn't be dragging him into my mess of a life.

“You know what? Forget it.”

“If you need my help with something, Gabrielle, I want to help.”

Yet again, I had to wonder, could he be any nicer?

“It's my mess to deal with.”

“What if I told you that dealing with your mess helps me forget about my own for a little while?”

Nice
didn't even begin to cut it.

“You're not going to like it.”

“I'll make sure I have my scorecards ready,” he joked, which had the intended effect of setting me more at ease.

“I want to go talk to my father's wife and ask her some questions. I need to find out if my mother really was a courtesan or not.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him further down the steps, away from the front door. “My grandmother says she was, but I want proof.” Or, rather, I was desperate for proof that she wasn't.

“That's not something you should have to do alone.”

God, he was great.

Why did he have to be so great?

And why did I want him to pull me closer again, like he had outside the flower shop?

“Thanks for asking me over. Your grandmother is amazing. And she loves you so much, Gabrielle. I can see why you turned out so beautiful. So sweet.”

I had to make myself step back, away from him. “I'll see you Saturday. I was hoping we could catch my father's wife at home at around five p.m., before she goes anywhere for the evening.”

“I'll be there.”

His
for you
was left unspoken.

But I heard it anyway.

I had to tear my eyes away from his back as I went inside. As we were cleaning up the tea service, my grandmother said, “Bradley is a very charming young man.”

I couldn't argue with her. “I know.”

But as long as he had to be the sacrificial lamb for his family and form a union with another girl's family, there couldn't be anything between us.

And I already had a boyfriend.

Dylan was late to first period English the next day, but at least he was there. He waited for me after class. He looked like he hadn't gotten much sleep.

“Is everything okay?”

“It's good to see you,” he said instead of answering my question. “You're so pretty.”

He stroked my hair with his hands, then cupped my jaw and gently kissed me. I could feel how much he needed me and it was easy to lose myself in his need. Plus, he was such a great kisser. Especially when he was being gentle like this.

The final bell for the start of second period rang, but we kept kissing. I would have stood there in the hallway with him forever, but finally he pulled away.

“I'll meet you after school,” he said, his eyes dark with the same desire that I knew had to be mirrored in my own.

“After school,” I murmured, unable in that moment to think why.

“To go see your grandmother.”

“Right,” I said, still feeling like I was waiting for my eyes to refocus after that kiss.

* * *

To say that things went badly with Dylan at tea was a pathetic understatement.

First off, he didn't stop to buy any flowers beforehand.

And then there was the way he drank—or rather, didn't drink—his tea.

He simply stared at the cup of Earl Grey my grandmother poured him, the bridge of his nose scrunching up like he was smelling something bad.

“I could make coffee, if you'd like,” my grandmother offered, but he said, “No, this is great, thanks,” without any of us believing it.

Where Bradley had fit into the room perfectly, Dylan looked like he'd never been more uncomfortable. The teacup looked strange in his hands, the fruit tarts even stranger.

He'd looked at my CD collection as well, but he didn't tease me about it. Instead, the rampant number of pop artists in it clearly confused him enough that I got the sense he was simply going to try and forget what he saw.

And then when my grandmother said, “I understand you're a new student at City School.

Tell me about yourself, Dylan,” he pretty much shut down the rest of the way.

“Me and my mom moved out here a couple of months ago from California,” was all he said. Not exactly a glowing autobiography.

I watched my grandmother's lips pinch slightly where she'd been smiling so easily with Bradley, saw her become even more the perfect hostess in an effort to hide her discontent from her guest.

“You must be very talented to have earned a spot at the school.”

He shrugged and I jumped in with, “You should hear him play the drums,
Grandmaman
.

He's wonderful.”

I waited for her to say the two of us should write a song together sometime, like she had with Bradley.

She didn't.

“Where did you learn to play?” she asked politely.

“I spent a lot of time at my uncle's house as a kid. He had a drum kit. I would play along with songs on the radio.”

At the mention of his uncle, I could immediately see that he felt he'd said too much. My stomach hurt at the thought of a little boy having to stay with an uncle to get away from his crazy, violent father.

“Well, thanks for the invite,” he said, standing up suddenly. “I've got to get back home just in case my mom needs me for anything.”

I wanted him to stay longer in the hopes that he and my grandmother could find common ground somewhere. But maybe something had happened to his mother and that was why he had to get back so soon.

My grandmother stood, formally shook his hand, and left us to walk outside together.

“She hates me,” he said when we were alone on my front steps.

“No, she doesn't. Once you two get to know each other better—”

He cut me off. “She's right. You can do a hell of a lot better than me.”

“Stop saying that,” I told him almost angrily. “I wish all of you would just stop acting like you know what's best for me!”

“You deserve a guy who can give you everything, Gabi. Someone in your world.

Someone your grandmother would approve of.”

Someone like Bradley, I thought before forcefully pushing his face out of my head.

“It's my life,” I said firmly. “I'll choose who I want to be with.”

He stared at me, his eyes dark. “I have no self control around you,” he admitted in a low voice.

“Good.”

I went up on my toes to kiss him, but he held his lips a breath away from mine.

“I don't want to hurt you.”

I wanted to say
You won't,
but I couldn't get the words out. Not when I knew that his hurting me wasn't the only option.

Not when something told me I could hurt him just as easily.

I closed the gap and kissed him to end our discussion...and to remind myself why I was going to fight with my grandmother about him when I went back inside.

When we finally pulled apart, I said, “You never told me how things are with your mom and—” I had to pause before saying, “the police.”

He shook his head. “Just kiss me again, Gabi.”

I wished he would talk to me about his problems. But I knew they were so much bigger than anything I had ever dealt with before. What else could I do to make him feel better but give him the kiss he was asking for?

* * *

“You never told me how you and Dylan became friends at school. I would like to hear the story,” was what my grandmother asked when I went inside to help clean up. Not
He's a lovely
boy
or
Don't worry, honey, I know how much he means to you, and we'll all be more relaxed next
time.