by Robin Huber
“Liv, baby, what are you doing?” my dad asks, looking surprised to see me standing over the stove, frying chicken in the middle of the day.
“I’m making lunch.” I keep my eyes on the skillet. “For Gabe.”
“Oh,” he says gently. “Well, all right.” He pours himself a cup of water. “You and Gabe spending some time together now?”
“No, not really.” I shrug. “I just thought it would be a nice gesture.”
He nods and sips his water. “Well, I think that’s a real nice thing to do.”
“I’m still not sure how this is going to help you move on with your life,” my mom says, joining us in the kitchen. “On from Gabe,” she adds with a knowing glance.
She was happy when I told her that Gabe and I made amends last night, but she had hoped we’d leave it at that. Sometimes I think she just needs something to worry about.
“I’m convinced there is no moving on from Gabe, Momma, not if I’m going to stay here. There’s just finding a new normal.”
“So, are you going to stay?” my dad asks, with hopeful eyes.
My mom gives me a subtle grin, and I nod happily in his direction. “Yeah. Momma and I found the perfect little condo this morning and it’s just a few blocks from the beach. But,” I add with a sigh, “it’s being renovated, so I won’t be able to move in for at least another month or two.”
“That’s great news. You can stay here as long as you need. Shoot, stay here for good. You don’t have to move out.”
“Daddy, I’m almost thirty. I need my own place.”
He wraps an arm around my shoulders and kisses my cheek. “You’ll always be welcome here.”
“I know.” I return his warm smile. “Now, all I need to do is find a job to support my new career and I’ll be on my way.” I laugh.
My mom reaches for the tongs in my hand and prompts, “Show him your website.” She minds the chicken for me, so I lead my father over to the kitchen table and take a seat in front of my laptop.
He peers over my shoulder as I show him the various menus and pages I created to showcase my freelance editing skills.
“You did all this?”
“Yeah.”
“You might need to come work for Southern Coastal. Our website could use a new look.”
“It’s really not that hard, once you get the hang of it. Besides, you have a whole marketing team that can do this.”
“It looks great, baby. I bet you’ll start lining up clients in no time.”
“It still needs a lot of work, but thanks. I hope so.”
“Have you given anymore thought to what you want to do in the meantime?” my mom asks.
“Not yet. I think I’m going to use the next few weeks as an overdue vacation, but I’ll start looking soon.”
“Some downtime would probably be good for you,” she agrees, “before you start your next adventure.” She smiles encouragingly.
I close my laptop and return to the stove, where I watch my mother flip the chicken over with ease, barely making a ripple in the hot oil.
“So, have you made any plans for this vacation?” she asks.
“No. I just want to take some time to...reconnect, I guess.”
“With?” She gives me a knowing look.
“Everything,” I answer honestly. “The Island, the beach, you.” I smile at her.
She smiles back, then pushes her lips together and adds, “Gabe?”
“Yes, Gabe too.”
She hands me the tongs and, after a quick assessment of the chicken, I begin pulling the crispy pieces from the pan and placing them on a paper towel.
“I know he’s not the same. And I know things will never go back to the way they were—I don’t expect them to. But I’ll always care about Gabe. And right now, I think we could both use a friend.”
“Gabe could certainly use one,” my dad says, and it makes my heart ache when I think of the way people treated him after the accident, either like he was to blame for what happened or like he was a fragile piece of glass. He became so introverted, he basically cut his remaining friends out of his life, and by the sound of it, he hasn’t made any new ones.
My mom makes herself a cup of tea. “I just don’t want to see you getting hurt again, that’s all.”
“I won’t,” I assure her. “Things are different now, I realize that. But I think we could be friends again. And”—I look into her worried eyes, imploring for her support—“I’d really like that.”
“Friends,” she says cautiously, wrapping her long fingers around her warm cup of tea.
I shrug one shoulder and nod. “Friends.”
* * *
When I get to Gabe’s apartment, I park my car next to his truck and grab the picnic basket off the seat, which I filled with fried chicken, biscuits, and chocolate chip cookies. I carry it into his garage where I hear him working, glancing down at my outfit—a tank top, linen shorts, and sandals. The warm, humid day also necessitated a ponytail.
I find Gabe in the back of the garage bent over a giant piece of unfinished wood, rubbing it down with a block of sand paper. He’s wearing a pair of worn-out jeans, work boots, and nothing else, besides a golden tan. The muscles in his shoulders and back flex each time he runs the sand paper over the wood, and I stare shamelessly for several long seconds before I finally call his name, “Gabe.”
He glances over his shoulder and turns his music down. “Hey,” he says, wiping his forehead. He pulls his gloves off and tosses them on his workbench.
“I brought you lunch,” I say, holding up the picnic basket. “I hope that’s okay. I just thought that maybe...”
“Lunch sounds good.” The corners of his mouth turn up into a soft smile that touches his eyes just a little and I have to remind myself to breathe, especially when I take in the view of his chest and—sweet baby Jesus—his abs. I’ve never seen an eight pack before, but there it is, right in front of me, rippling away in all of its tanned, sweaty glory.
I force my eyes up to his face again. “O-Okay.”
He reaches for his shirt and pulls it on over his head, and I take the opportunity to appreciate his new muscles once more before they’re hidden from view. “Gabe, you’re kind of ripped,” I blurt out, unable to contain my astonishment.
He drops his head bashfully.
“Seriously,” I laugh softly, “what have you been doing?”
He rubs his hand over the back of his neck and shrugs. “I don’t know, I just got so skinny after the accident. I felt weak all the time and didn’t have any energy. You remember?”
I press my lips together and nod over the difficult memory.
“I didn’t want to look or feel like that ever again. So, I decided to do something about it.”
I nod with understanding and hold up the picnic basket. “I made chocolate chip cookies. And fried chicken, some biscuits, and iced tea.”
He gifts me with a smile that warms me like an old, familiar blanket.
“I thought we could both use some comfort food.” I smile softly, but then I wonder if he even eats the high caloric food we grew up on anymore. By the looks of him, maybe he doesn’t. “Is that okay? I mean, do you still like that?”
He gazes at me just long enough for my heart to slow down to a leisurely pace. “Contrary to popular belief, I haven’t changed that much, Liv.”
I press my lips together over a tight smile as my heart stirs and stammers in my chest.
“We can eat around back, if you want.”
“Okay.”
“Come on, I know a good spot.” The glint in his eyes tells me exactly which spot. Behind the barn, under the old oak tree that he carved our initials in. We used to sneak off there to fool around when we were kids. We also used to sit there and talk for hours.
I nod, unable to find my voice, and follow him out of the garage.
“Gabe”—I pause as he weaves through the stacks of furniture—“did you make all this?”
He stops and looks around
. “Yeah.”
I wrap my hand around the post of an ornately carved headboard. “This is incredible.”
He watches me trace the intricate grooves in the wood with my fingers.
“How did you learn to do this?”
“I’ve had a lot of time on my hands.”
“Yeah”—I raise my eyebrows—“I guess so.”
“I don’t know...it started out as something to keep my mind off everything. My therapist thought it would be a good idea,” he admits. “But over the years I grew to love it.” He rubs his hand over the headboard thoughtfully.
“Really, it’s beautiful.”
“Thanks.” He gazes at me long enough to make my skin flush and I feel the dewy sheen on my face. I tell myself it’s the Georgia heat and proceed to follow him outside.
“I think I’ve got a blanket in my truck.” He lets out a short, sharp whistle and Roxy comes running across the sprawling property to greet us. I didn’t pay that much attention to her at the beach, because I was busy trying not to die. She circles Gabe’s legs, happily panting and wagging her tail. He rubs her head and squats down to let her lick his face. “Rox, this is Liv.”
I reach for her nose and she licks my hand. “Hi, Roxy,” I say, rubbing her auburn head and silky ears. “So, how does it work?”
Gabe looks at me curiously.
“How does she help if you have a seizure?”
“Oh, um, she can usually tell if I’m going to have one a few minutes before it happens and she lets me know.”
“That’s pretty amazing.” God, that makes me feel so much better. I was worried about him around all those power tools in the garage.
He opens the passenger door to his truck and Roxy jumps in. “Not this time,” he says to her. “Get in the back.”
She jumps down and runs around to the tailgate. She waits for Gabe to lower it and when he does, she jumps up into the back.
“She’s really good.”
“The best,” he says, rubbing her head.
I climb up into the truck, put the picnic basket on the bench seat beside me, and reach for the seatbelt, even though I doubt we’ll top ten miles per hour. It’s a deep-seated habit that became even more ingrained in me after the accident. Gabe gets in and slides open the little window in the back for Roxy. She props her nose on the edge of the window and watches him put the key in the ignition.
“Sit down, girl,” he says to her, and she immediately does.
I reach for the door to roll my window down and see the old manual crank. “Gabe, how old is this truck?” I ask, laughing, turning the crank around and around until the window is lowered all the way down.
“Ninety-one.”
“Geez, it’s as old as us.”
“All right now, don’t hate on my truck,” he says, looking over the hood as he navigates off the gravel road that runs through the Norths’ land onto a worn place in the sparse grass where tires have made a path to the back of the property.
I watch him, remembering how nervous he was to get behind the wheel for the first time after the accident. Now, he seems as comfortable as ever. I smile softly. “I’m not hating. It’s actually kind of cool. Very retro.”
“Okay, we’re not that old.”
I laugh softly. “Maybe you’ve lost track, but we’ll be thirty next year.... Thirty! How the hell did that happen?” I murmur.
“You don’t look a day over twenty-two,” he says, glancing over at me, and my heart flutters wildly.
I try to will the blush from my cheeks and say coolly, “I’d say the same, but you definitely don’t look like you did when you were twenty-two.”
“Thank God,” he says lightly, and I allow myself to laugh about it.
“You look great, Gabe. You look healthy,” I say sincerely. “I’m so glad.”
He nods softly. “Me too.”
He pulls around to the back of the barn and I feel like I’m seventeen again. Nothing has changed. It looks exactly the same. Weathered wooden planks cover the outside and the tin roof shines under the midday sun. The tall golden grass in the pasture beyond the barn waves gently in the wind and the giant oak tree that we carved our initials in covers the beaten ground with shadows.
Gabe puts the truck in park and Roxy dances around in a circle in the back, waiting for him to let the tailgate down. But she grows impatient and jumps down over the side of the truck before he gets to her.
I unbuckle, grab the picnic basket, and ungracefully stumble out of the truck. But Gabe catches my elbow before I fall. “Thanks,” I say, glancing up at him, but his eyes stay fixed on my arm. He turns it over and inspects the scar on my elbow, tracing it with his long fingers, and the warmth of his skin travels up my arm all the way to my heart, making it ache and rejoice at once.
“It’s fine now,” I manage, answering the question in his eyes. It used to bother me a lot after the accident. I stretch my arm out, bending it and moving it around in an exaggerated circle. “See, fine.” I drop my head, but he catches my chin and turns my face to the side. “Gabe.” I try to move his hand away, but he finds the almost non-existent scar on my cheek in the sunlight and runs his thumb over it, sending a soft jolt of electricity to my bones that turns them all to jelly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“You can barely see it now,” I breathe.
He pulls his eyebrows together and pushes his full lips into a small pout, reminding me that what he’s feeling isn’t desire. The bright pink line that once stretched across my cheek used to torture him after the accident. But it’s almost invisible now.
Roxy takes off running across the grassy pasture.
“Doesn’t she need to stay close to you?” I ask, finding my voice again.
He shakes his head. “She can sense it from half a mile away. She has before.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She won’t go too far, though. She just likes running through the tall grass.”
“Do you take her everywhere?”
“Usually. Man’s best friend. Man’s only friend,” he says, shaking his head.
“Gabe, that’s not true.”
He shrugs, like it doesn’t bother him. “Well, most days I’m content just working in my garage by myself. Roxy’s a good companion.”
“I didn’t see her with you that day at the cemetery.”
“Oh. No, I don’t usually take her there.” He creases his eyebrows and explains, “She gets kind of confused when I get upset.”
My heart squeezes. “O-Oh.”
I look up at the giant twisted branches of the oak tree that curve all the way to the ground. They’re covered in Spanish moss and shiny green leaves. “God, I love this tree.”
“You always did,” Gabe says, spreading the blanket out under it.
“I forgot how beautiful it is.” I press my hand to its wide trunk and let it drag behind me as I circle it, until I find our weathered initials carved deep into the grooves of the bark...and the compass Gabe carved above them. I touch the simple cross that’s flanked only with an N on top.
What’s the compass for?
In case you ever get lost.
You’re missing south, west and east.
It points north, so you’ll always find your way back to me.
My true north.
“Liv,” Gabe says, pulling me from the memory. “You want to sit down?”
“Yeah.”
We sit on the blanket beneath the sweeping branches and I set out our lunch. I hand Gabe a small tumbler of iced tea and watch his Adam’s apple bounce up and down as he empties the cup with just a few gulps.
“Thirsty?”
He wipes his mouth and exhales. “Yeah.”
Over the next ten minutes, I watch, astonished, as he cleans off a breast, a thigh, and both legs of the chicken I prepared, followed by two biscuits.
“Gabe, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone eat that much so quickly. Doesn’t your mother feed you?”
“That might ha
ve been the best meal I’ve had in months,” he groans, placing his hand flat against his stomach. “My mother’s not much of a cook, if you don’t remember. And besides, I don’t usually eat at my parents’ house. There’s a kitchen in my apartment.”
“Right, of course. I didn’t mean—”
“I’m a terrible cook.” He smirks and shakes his head. “I don’t normally sit down to homemade fried chicken and biscuits.”
“Oh.” I laugh softly.
“It was really good. Thank you for making it for me.”
“You’re welcome.”
He glances at the picnic basket behind me. “Now, didn’t you say something about cookies?”
“Chocolate chip,” I say, reaching for the canister that I stacked them in. I hand it to him and he grabs a few off the top, eating each cookie in two bites, moaning quietly over each mouthful.
When he finally seems to be full, he lies back on the blanket, laces his fingers over his chest, and looks up at the tree.
I stretch my legs out beside him and lean back on my hands. “Have you ever thought about selling your furniture?”
“The furniture in my garage?”
“Yeah. People would pay a lot of money for that kind of craftsmanship. Believe me. My girlfriend, Trisha, is an interior designer and her clients spend boatloads on custom-made furniture. And now that you have an in with my dad’s company...”
He turns his head and looks at me. “You mean the furniture I’m making for Southern Coastal?”
My dad’s company.
“Wait. What? That’s what you’ve been helping my dad with? He’s using your furniture in the new line he’s working on?”
The corners of his mouth turn up slightly and he exhales an amused breath through his nostrils. “I am the new line he’s been working on.”
“What?” I squeal, clasping my hand over my mouth. “Oh my God, Gabe. You have your own line?”
He laughs quietly at my excitement and nods, and I have to fight back tears when I think of how far he’s come.
“That’s really amazing.”
He looks up at the tree again. “I needed to earn a living somehow. No degree, remember?”
I sigh, because I know better than anyone how important school was to him before the accident. “No school could teach you how to do that, Gabe. That’s God-given talent.” I stare at him with complete and utter awe, but he doesn’t look at me. “Gabriel,” I say, demanding his attention. When he turns his head, I smile at him. “I’m really proud of you.”
