by Tawna Fenske
“You mean we don’t get to stay here forever?” he asks as he nuzzles my neck.
“Maybe not here.” I choose my words carefully, not sure we’re on the same page. “But I’m game for continuing this back in the real world.”
Is it my imagination, or does he stiffen? It’s only for an instant, then he goes back to nuzzling my neck. “I’m game.”
“Yeah?” We haven’t really talked about this.
“Definitely.”
“Okay then.” Part of me feels giddy. A smaller part—a tiny, minuscule corner—worries we haven’t spent enough time talking about this. “Okay, so I’ll get help.” I groan as he massages my breast through the thick flannel shirt. “And once we’re settled, we’ll talk about what the future looks like.”
“Deal.” Gabe straightens and sighs. “You sure about leaving?”
“It’s safe, I promise.”
His brow furrows, but he almost looks convinced. “I guess it’s easy to see where the road is. And we’re not that far from town.”
“I’m a pro.” I grin and set my mug on the railing. “I’ll call my brother from town and have him get someone out here with chainsaws and a plow truck. We’ll be free by afternoon.”
Gabe kisses me again, brown eyes searching mine. “What if I don’t want to be free?”
“I can always tie you up,” I tease. “I’ll use the sock puppets if we can’t find rope.”
He laughs and hugs me tighter. I bury my face in his chest and wrap my arms around his waist, breathing him in. How is it possible to feel this close to someone I’ve known just a few days?
“All right,” he says at last. “If you’re not back in three hours, I’m setting out on foot to find you.”
“Four hours.” I draw back, planting a kiss on his jaw before turning to head inside for my gear. “I need time to find a signal and make calls, plus I’ll want to restock some groceries.” And condoms. A girl’s gotta plan ahead.
Gabe follows me inside, supervising as I stuff supplies in my day pack. “Please be careful.”
“I’m always careful.” With my body, my heart, my well-being.
“Four hours,” he says as he hands me a bag of trail mix. “I mean it, don’t take any unnecessary risks.”
“It’s not risky,” I assure him. “Just flat road from here to the highway.”
He sighs and pulls me to him again. I feel his heart thudding through my parka, feel the heat of his body rising off his arms. When he draws back and looks deep in my eyes, I can see he wants to say something. To confess something, maybe.
I’ve seen this look countless times over the last couple days, but he always seems to stop himself. A ripple of nerves moves through me. I tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop. What’s happening here?
Gabe looks deep into my eyes. I don’t think he’s breathing. “I love you.”
I blink, pretty sure I’ve heard wrong. Or maybe it just slipped out. I wait for him to backtrack, to tell me he misspoke.
“I love you,” he repeats, smiling a little. “I know it’s dumb, but—”
“No way is that dumb.” I set my pack down and lace my fingers through his. My heart thunders in my ears as I hear the words echoing through my brain.
I love you.
I love you.
He really just said that.
“I love you, too.” I breathe the words like a prayer, dumbfounded by how fast this is happening. “I can’t believe it, but it’s true. I’m so glad.”
“Me, too.” He squeezes my fingers. “Best damn dinner invitation I ever accepted.”
I laugh and stretch up to kiss him one more time. “Best outcome I’ve had from pulling a gun on someone.”
“Come back soon,” he says. “Then we’ll figure out where we go from here.”
“Deal.” Grabbing my gear, I head out onto the porch to put on my snowshoes. He waves goodbye from the front door as I set out down the snow-covered road at a steady clip.
I think about his words all the way back to town. Not just the L-word, but the comment about where we go from here. My limbs burn with the first non-sexual exercise they’ve had in days, but my heart is warm for other reasons. I don’t know what sort of future Gabe and I might have together, but I know I want one.
Is that what he meant about figuring out where we go from here? Maybe I’m naïve, but I can’t help thinking he wants the same thing I do.
It’s barely ten-thirty when I reach the highway. The asphalt’s dotted with hunks of melting snow, and there’s a berm of brownish slush on both sides. I sit down on a concrete barrier to take off my snowshoes and watch cars whiz past, wondering if I should flag one down. A glance at my watch tells me I’ve made good time, so I stuff the shoes in my pack and set out walking toward the grocery store.
I reach the parking lot in less than ten minutes, weaving through dirty piles of snow and the beeping, growling plow trucks. Slipping my phone out of my pocket, I use my teeth to pull off a glove. There’s a picnic table near the store entrance, a throwback to sunnier days in this Central Oregon desert town. I park myself there and hit speed-dial for Jonathan.
My brother picks up on the first ring. “Gretchen. God, are you okay? I know you grew up in this crap, but I’ve been worried.”
“I’m fine, I’m great.” And grateful my brother knows me well enough not to send out a search party at the first sign of snow. “Actually, I’m pretty fantastic.”
There’s a long pause before he responds. “Why do I get the feeling this has nothing to do with your dissertation?”
Because cupid nabbed your ass a few months ago, big brother.
I don’t say this out loud, but I can’t hold back completely. “Um, well…I might not have been out there in the woods alone.”
And I might have found creative ways to stay warm.
Jon gives a low whistle. “I knew you were seeing some guy from school, but I didn’t realize he went with you.”
Alastair? “How did you know about that?”
“Just a hunch,” Jon says. “You never introduced us, so I figured it wasn’t serious.”
“Oh. Um, well, thank you for not going all aggro big brother and demanding to meet him.”
He laughs, and the sound fills me with home. “Please. You’re a smart, independent woman who makes good choices. You don’t need me to barge in beating my chest like some caveman douchebag.” There’s a quick pause. “I will, though, if you need me to.”
I close my eyes, unsure how we got going down this path. You’re a smart, independent woman who makes good choices.
If he only knew the shame I’ve carried these last few months.
But that’s not what this call is about. I open my eyes and try to steer the conversation back to present tense. “No, not the guy from the college,” I tell him. “We broke up a while ago. This is actually a friend of James.”
“Who is?”
“Gabe. The guy I’ve been snowed in with at the cabin. Have you not talked to James?”
Call me crazy, but I assumed they’d have put the pieces together by now.
“Our flights got delayed,” Jon says. “I called Lily to feed the cats since I knew you were already gone. Blanka and I only got home this morning.”
Oh.
I hear Blanka’s voice in the background asking what this is about. “Put me on speaker.” A flutter of giddiness moves through me at the prospect of sharing my mushy Valentine story. “You might as well both hear this.”
“I’m so confused,” Jon says but hits the speaker button anyway as Blanka makes a smart-ass comment about his perpetual state of confusion.
God, I love these two together. Is this where Gabe and I are headed?
“Hi, Gretchen,” Blanka says. “Have you gotten a lot done on your dissertation?”
“She’s gotten way more than that,” Jon says before I can answer. “Who is this Gabe guy? Come on, I want to hear about this dude you’ve been holed up with in the woods.”
�
�What?” Blanka laughs. “Good for you, Gretchen.”
“Thank you.” I shouldn’t love this so much. But it’s the first time in ages I’ve had a romance worth sharing. I want to draw it out. “So while you were giving me the keys to the cabin and assuring me no one ever uses it, James was doing the same exact thing with his old college buddy.”
“Who?” Jon demands. “I know a lot of James’s friends, but I don’t remember a Gabe.”
“Forget the who,” Blanka says. “Is this a fling or more?”
“More,” I say carefully. “A lot more, I think. I know it’s crazy since we just met, but—”
“Not crazy at all,” Blanka insists. “There’s a lot of interesting science behind attraction. Like this phenomenon known as the Proximity Effect, that refers to how physical and psychological nearness tends to increase interpersonal liking.”
“Right, yes.” God bless my science geek sister-in-law. “That’s it exactly.”
“There’s also something called the Love Effect,” Blanka continues, forever the human encyclopedia. “When you fall for someone, you become immune to his or her flaws. All the negative traits don’t matter.”
A chilly rush of trepidation moves up my arms, but Jon doesn’t let me dwell. “Who, goddamn it? Can we get back to the story, please? Have I met this guy?”
“You have.” I bite my lip, hoping this is okay to share. Gabe and I never discussed it, which is dumb in retrospect.
Typical Gretchen. Kiss first, ask questions later.
“Gabe Judson,” I say, pushing aside my annoying inner voice. “He and James went to prep school together and also college, but they’ve kept in touch over the years even though Gabe’s in California and—”
“Wait.” Jon’s voice breaks through like an axe. “You’ve been trapped in a mountain cabin with Gable Fucking Judson?”
Even Blanka gasps. Then a sound like she slugged Jon in the arm. “How did you never mention your family knows the Judsons?” she demands.
There’s a buzzing in my ears getting louder and louder. Something’s off here. Some piece of the story missing, something no one’s telling me.
It takes every ounce of strength not to let my voice shake. “Why do you say it like that?” I ask. “Like he’s someone I should know.”
“Babe, everyone knows Gable Judson,” my brother chides. “Unless they’ve been living under a rock.”
“Or working on a dissertation.” There’s a sharpness in Blanka’s voice that says she’s poised to come to my defense. “Not everyone lives life tied to the television.”
Not everyone lives life with their head buried in the sand, either, but I’m beginning to think that’s what I’ve done.
Again.
I grip the phone tighter, steeling myself for whatever comes next. Whatever’s about to unravel my carefully constructed love story.
“Start at the beginning,” I say. “I need to hear this.”
My brother takes a deep breath. “Oh, Gretchen.”
The kindness in his voice tells me all I need to know. This isn’t going to be good, whatever it is.
“There are things you should know about Gable Judson.”
I barely register my trek back to the cabin. My heart thunders like a kettle drum, and my breath is coming in fast, cloudy bursts. I took off my gloves a mile back because my palms wouldn’t stop sweating, and I know all these physiological responses have nothing to do with running four miles on snowshoes.
“He’s one of the most legendary directors in Hollywood, Gretchen.” The memory of Jon’s voice rings in my ears as puffs of crystal white powder spray my face. “Sort of like Quentin Tarantino—”
“Who?”
“Jesus, Gretchen.” Jon should patent the big brother sigh. “He doesn’t just direct, but also acts in a lot of his movies. How could you not recognize his face?”
Good question. It’s one of dozens flying through my mind as the cabin comes into sight, and I brace myself for the confrontation. To demand answers from the man I was dumb enough to think I knew.
I know plenty now. Ten minutes with Google was enough to fill in the gaps. Ten minutes, that’s all it took. Why the hell didn’t I do that the first night? Why didn’t I ask Lily for his last name and spend just a few minutes learning about the guy I’d just kissed?
Because you’re an idiot.
Because you didn’t want to know.
Because you’re the master of burying your head in the sand.
All of that is true and makes me hate myself infinitely more than I could ever hate Gabe.
Tossing my snowshoes on the porch, I clomp through the front door without bothering to kick snow off my boots. I need to see Gabe. I need him to look me in the eye and explain why he lied to me.
He jumps off the couch and starts toward me. “Gretchen, you’re back!”
In slow motion, the joy on his face dissolves. He sees my face and his eyes go blank. His shoulders sag. He freezes mid-step and stares.
“You know.” Even his voice is flat.
He stands there looking at me, hands loose at his sides. The look of resignation in his eyes would be enough to break my heart if I weren’t so damned mad.
“Gable Judson.” My hands clench into fists as I will myself not to cry. “Two-time Academy Award winning director.” The words from his IMDb page are burned into my brain. “Actor, producer, and screenwriter with four BAFTA nominations and six Golden Globes. Newest film Skeleton Dreams has grossed more than two billion in global revenue and is the reigning box office champion.”
“Still?” Gabe sits down hard on the couch like his legs have stopped working. “How—why—”
“How could you not tell me?” I kick the door closed and storm forward, ready for answers. “We talked about our families and careers and childhoods and hopes and fears. Was it all a big joke to you?”
“Gretchen, no.” He shakes his head, looking sadder than I’ve ever seen him. “I didn’t want you to know.”
Those words, they’re the exact ones Alastair said to me.
I didn’t want you to know I was still married because you never would have gone out with me.
My breath is coming in fast, shaky pants as I will myself not to cry. “I’m so sick of men deciding for me what I’m allowed to know.”
He looks up and I swear I see tears in his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “That first night, I thought you’d google. Or ask James about me or something. When you showed up here, I was sure you already knew.”
A fresh wave of shame ripples through me. “Obviously, I should have done my homework.” The words are clipped and brittle, not my voice at all. “Obviously, a smarter woman would have.”
“That’s not what I m—”
“It doesn’t matter.” I fold my arms over my chest to hide the fact that my hands are trembling. “So you’re hiding out, pretending to be someone you’re not.”
His expression shifts from guilty to guarded. He studies my face a long, long time. “How much do you know?”
“Not nearly enough.” And also, way too much. “I know there was controversy about your new film. Critics said it was too violent.”
“It was too violent. That was the point.” He shakes his head and looks down at his hands. “Never mind.”
“No, tell me. I want to understand.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” he snaps.
I blink like he’s slapped me. Even Gabe looks surprised.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “I just meant—since you don’t watch movies or—”
“Right, I get it. We’re from two different worlds.” Until now, I didn’t think that mattered.
I stare at him, willing him to say something that will make this okay. That will explain why he’s spent the last three days lying to me.
But when he meets my eyes, I know I’ve lost him. His guard is up. His eyes are hollow. There is no coming back from that.
“The film was meant to provoke,” he says
. “To start a conversation about violence. About the way we treat each other as a society. Instead—” He shakes his head, a haunted look flashing in those brown eyes.
“I read about the premiere.” A wave of sympathy splashes over my anger, cooling it some. “I’m sorry.”
He’s staring down at his hands again, a million miles away. “They still don’t know how he got the gun into the theater. Slipped through the metal detectors or something. I’d just finished my speech when the audience started screaming.”
I do my best to picture it, to imagine what that would sound like. Applause mixed with confusion mixed with terror. I watch Gabe’s face and wonder if I’ve ever seen a man more broken.
“You lunged for the gunman.” Details online were sparse—I’m guessing for legal reasons—but I do know that. “You tried to get the gun away.”
Gabe just shakes his head. “For all the good it did. The bullet hit Wienerman right in the chest. He was killed instantly.”
“Wienerman.” Why does that sound familiar?
Gabe buries his face in his hands. “My co-director.” His voice is like gravel, rough and sharp. “Six-time Oscar winner. The only filmmaker to win the Palme d’Or at Cannes three times. Rolling Stone called him the most iconic figure in American film in the eighties and nineties.” His voice hitches like the words burn coming out. “Also accused of sexually assaulting more than two dozen actresses over the last four decades.”
Oh, Jesus.
“That’s how I know the name,” I whisper. “It came up at my last girls’ night.”
Blanka and Bree and Lily raged about career predators. About a fortress of complicit Hollywood bystanders and victims silenced by threats and money and shame. The conversation haunted me for weeks.
I can only imagine what Gabe must feel like being wrapped up in that world.
I try to recall what else I know of the man. “Wasn’t he just on trial?”
Gabe nods but doesn’t look up. “He skated on a technicality. But there were more cases working their way through the system.”
“And—you think he was guilty?”
Gabe pulls his hands from his face, and I’m staggered by the mix of hatred and disgust and gut-wrenching guilt in his eyes. “I fucking know he was. Hollywood’s full of guys who get away with that shit.”
