by Brooks, Anna
Regretting Gabriel—© Anna Brooks
Copyright © 2020 Anna Brooks
Published by Anna Brooks
Cover design by Passion Creations by Mary Ruth
Editing by Editing4Indies
Proofreading by Kimberly Holm
Formatting by Champagne Book Design
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form without written permission except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/ use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
Title Page
Copyright
About This Book
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Preview of Surface
Notes and stuff
Playlist
Other Books by Anna
About the Author
He was the bad boy of rock-n-roll; cocky, short-tempered, and the sexiest man I’d ever seen. I was just a librarian in a small town. He had no clue who I was, but I knew everything about him. After all, he was the reason I moved across the country.
I never thought he’d know my name, let alone whisper it while he held me tight and made me forget about the agony of my past. He was my protector, my reason, my calm before the storm… but nothing good lasts forever, and Gabriel Hunter was no exception.
To Stacey. Thank you for always making my babies look pretty and for being so freaking awesome to work with. You’re the absolute best!
10 years ago
Cady
16 years old
“That’s perfect, Cady. Beautiful.”
I catch my father’s warm smile over the grand piano I’m playing, so lost in what I’m doing that I didn’t even notice him walk in. He has his eyes closed and is gently swaying back and forth as I play a stripped-down version of my favorite song ever. Our favorite song.
As I get further into the melody, he begins harmonizing. His voice is smooth and cultured after years and years of practice and performances. It doesn’t matter how many times I hear him sing or how many concerts I watch while sitting backstage, listening to him never gets old. He was gifted with the most amazing voice, and I’m beyond blessed to have the best father in the history of all history.
My heart swells when I hear the emotion he reserves for me. His little girl. My father is a tough man on the outside—tattoos, long hair, silver rings, and leather bracelets—but on the inside, for me, he’s nothing but a big teddy bear. I get a side of him nobody else does. I love him with everything in me and hate the fact that he’s gearing up to leave again soon.
I already have abandonment issues because my mother left when I was a newborn. So even though I know my dad will always come back, I hate it when he’s gone.
When the last notes of the song echo in the music room, I take my hand off the keys and slowly release my foot from the pedal.
“You’re just amazing,” he whispers in awe, but I don’t know why since he’s the one who taught me everything I know. My talents are inherited from him.
I swallow and tuck some hair behind my ears, not using my long locks to hide my face like I used to. I’m shy, almost painfully, and often wear my hair down to use as a shield in uncertain or uncomfortable situations… which is pretty much all the time.
Everyone around me is loud and boisterous. For a long time, I felt as if I didn’t fit in and would try to make myself smaller and unnoticeable. I’m more comfortable with an instrument in my hands or by myself reading a book.
But when my dad is around, he always pushes my long brown strands back, holds my face in his calloused fingers, looks me in my green eyes, and says, “Don’t hide yourself from the world, Cady. Show the world who you are and be proud of that. I know I am. You, my beautiful girl, are my proudest accomplishment.”
He tells me that often. Brags about me to his friends. He shows me off by having them pick any song and any instrument and then stands next to me with a know-it-all smile as I play it for them after only listening to it once. He built my confidence and taught me to embrace my shy personality.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“More talent in your pinky than anyone I’ve ever met before. I’m so damn excited to see what your future holds because it’s going to be so bright, Cady.” He chuckles. “Still can’t believe you’ve almost got your license. Gonna graduate in two years.” He swallows as he clears his throat, and tears fill behind my lids. “No matter what, no matter when, no matter where, you’ll always be my Cady Bear.”
Then he leans down and kisses the top of my head. “I wanna take my girl out to dinner. I’ll pick the restaurant, but…” He pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and jiggles them. “You can drive.”
My face lights up, and I hop off the padded piano bench. “Really?” He never lets anybody else drive his car. I’ve begged and pleaded, and he always just raises an eyebrow as an answer.
“Yes, really. You take your test next week, so you should get all the practice you can get.”
I grab the keys to his ’69 Mustang and hug him tight but fast. “Awesome, let’s go.”
He chuckles as he trails me, and I rush down the winding staircase with a twisting wrought-iron railing, through the living room that houses a projection TV and a huge black leather couch that almost circles the enormous space, then past the kitchen that has nothing but top of the line stainless steel appliances, and finally to the door leading to the six-car garage.
By the time I hit the garage door opener and have my butt in the white leather driver’s seat that I have to move up in order to reach the pedal, my dad is just coming through the door. He has a natural swagger about him, and the silver chain bouncing on his thigh with every step makes him that much more of a rock star. I’m so lucky that I have the best dad in the world. So much that it bears repeating.
“Ready?” He gets in and scoots the seat back to accommodate his long legs. The last time we were in this car, he drove me to the movies, so since he is almost a foot taller than me, it’s almost comical how much he has to slide back.
“I’m ready.”
“Then let’s roll.”
Giddy with excitement, I check the mirrors and back out slowly. Once I drive around the U-shaped driveway and through the quiet street of our gated neighborhood, I’m bouncing in my seat. “This car is so cool.”
“It is. Not as cool as the girl driving it, though.”
I stop at the gate, and the security guard sticks his head out of the small security building’s window. “Would you look at that?” He points at us with a grin. “Never thought I’d see the day when anyone but you sat in the driver’s seat, Mr. Holiday.”
He shrugs and then rubs the top of my head, making my ha
ir all frizzy. “There’s a first time for everything.”
“Guess so. Have a safe drive, you two.” He winks at me, and I wave back with an easy smile. He’s such a nice man.
“We will. Thanks, Leo.”
He nods as the gate swings open silently, and then we’re on the road. “Will music distract you?” Dad asks once we’re on an open road.
I feign shock and gasp theatrically. “Music could never be a distraction.”
“That’s my girl.” He cranks on the radio, and once he finds a classic rock station, he turns the volume up. I bob my head along, and he belts out the lyrics.
The sun shines on my face, the wind whips my hair around, and my father’s voice makes it a perfect moment. One of those that I know I’ll look back on and remember for the rest of my life. Nothing can ruin it.
I blink into the blinding sun, and when I open my eyes, all I see is black. The music isn’t playing anymore, but there’s a weird buzzing noise. I don’t hear my dad’s voice either. Why isn’t he singing? Ringing. So loud. God. My head is pounding. “Dad?” What’s going on?
Black turns to gray, and gray turns white. The white begins to sparkle, and stars are dancing behind my lids as I search for my father. “Dad!”
I blink and blink and finally get a semi-clear view of my surroundings. Trees and dirt. What happened? I glance over and notice I’m not even in the car anymore. It’s right next to me, but I squint because I’m not sure that’s the Mustang. The seats aren’t white leather. They’re red. And half the car is crushed.
I’m so confused. What’s happening? “Dad?”
A quiet but gut-wrenching groan makes me whip my head to the other side, and finally, I see him. He’s lying on the ground with his back to me, so close but so far away. “Dad.” Crawling through the mud, I still don’t know how either of us got outside the car. I get over to him as fast as I can on all fours. I don’t know why my body feels like it’s packed with sand. I don’t know why he’s not answering me. I don’t understand what’s happening. “Dad!” He’s not responding, and he’s not moving. “Dad!” I reach him, and when my hand touches his shoulder, he flops to his back. “Dad!”
His head bobbles as if he has no control over it, and his eyes roll painfully slow to mine. “Daddy.”
I lift my hands and see red. More freaking red. Oh, no. Oh, my God. Oh, God. I grab my father’s shoulders and shake him. “Daddy!” Blood drips from the corner of his mouth, and his lips move, but nothing comes out. “Oh, God. Oh my God. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
“Lo…” His body jerks when he coughs, and red spit bubbles pop. “Love my Ca…” He smiles, sparkling white teeth now crimson. “Cady girl.” And then he coughs again, his chest stops moving, and his head rolls to the side.
“No. No! No!” I pull his head into my lap and bend at the waist to get closer to him. “Dad!” I rest my forehead on the top of my father’s head, pulling in breaths deep enough to drown out the copper so all I can smell is his shampoo. His cologne. Him. “Daddy, no.” I wrap my arms around him, limp and falling to his side, the tips of his fingers grazing the ground where they rest in his own blood.
Lifting them back up, I force his hands into mine and mold them together.
His dead eyes stare back at me.
His pink lips turn blue.
I kiss his forehead.
Then I begin to sing because if anything can save him, it’ll be music.
I rock us back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I hum the chorus.
As I sing our favorite song, I wait for him to join in and laugh when he sings about troubles melting like lemon drops because he hates lemon with a passion, and we always found humor in that line. I wait for the deep rumble that comes from his soul to lull me to sleep just so I can wake up because this is only a dream. No, it’s not a dream. It’s a nightmare.
But he doesn’t join in, so I sing it again.
And again.
I wait.
And wait.
Then I sing it again.
Vaguely, I hear some type of commotion. Movement around me. Voices, but not the one I want to hear.
So I sing again because he can’t resist joining in when I do. If I keep singing, maybe he’ll wake up. Maybe he’ll start breathing again, and his fingers will squeeze mine. He will. He’ll sing.
He’ll sing again.
“Dammit!” He’ll sing. “Daddy, sing with me.”
But he never does.
Someone tries to take him away, but I hold him tight and continue singing to drown out the voices. Someone tries to pry my fingers off him, but I squeeze tighter and sing louder to silence the noise.
Nobody will ever take him away from me.
I don’t want to move. I want to stay right where I am with my father, forever and ever and ever and forever. And I’m going to. He’d never leave me. Ever. My dad would never leave his Cady Bear. So even though I can feel myself shaking, and my head is dizzy, and my teeth are chattering, I sit here, and I sing. I rock us back and forth, and I sing. I finish the song, but then I start it over so it doesn’t ever end.
I’ll sing until my voice is raw. I’ll hold him until my fingers go numb. And I’ll sit here until my last breath. As long as it’s with him.
Fighting off unfamiliar hands, I curl myself into my father. And I sing. And sing…
It’s not until I feel a small poke in my arm that I finally look up. Through blurry eyes, I take in the numerous faces, all of them strangers and none of them who I want to see looking back at me. I stare down at my father’s handsome features—his sharp jaw, pointed nose, thick eyebrows, his lips now purple, and his green eyes wide open but unblinking.
And as darkness starts to surround me, I realize I stopped singing, and the only sound around me is actually silence. Nobody’s saying a word. Somebody’s crying. But nobody’s singing. I can’t have that. No. Dad won’t want that. There has to be music. Always. “Music isn’t meant to be listened to, Cady. It’s meant to be consumed,” he would say. “Every moment of every day in every way. In life and death and with every breath.” My throat is dry, and my voice is raw, but I open my mouth, and I sing to him one last time.
Cady
Present day
I love my job for many reasons. First, it’s easy. And yes, that makes me sound lazy, but I don’t care. I’m not lazy. I’ve dealt with and am still dealing with enough complicated to last a lifetime. So if I can pick easy, I’m going to.
Second, it’s usually slow so that means I’m alone. I like to be alone, and I actually prefer it that way. Not many people come to the library anymore, and when they do, they typically keep to themselves. Except on song and story days.
I love those days the most because I love books, and I love music. And I love sharing both of those things with the kids, so to see their faces light up as I read them stories and sing to them is the highlight of my week. It’s really the highlight of my life since I don’t have much. I mean, I have a lot, if you’re counting money, but that doesn’t mean happiness. I’d rather be penniless and have my father back. I’d give anything to have him back. Because as far as things that matter, things I hold dear to my heart, I have virtually nothing.
But I’m fine with it. I deserve loneliness, and frankly, I want it. Because when you’re around people, they start talking, and talking leads to questions. I don’t want to answer anybody’s questions or talk about the past and where I’ve been or the things I’ve seen. I just want to survive. After losing the only person who ever truly cared about me, nobody will ever be able to replace the security he gave me and the love I felt from him. So instead of ever searching and trying to find happiness, I just settle for being comfortable.
Which is precisely why I chose a low-key job that requires very little. Is it what I wanted to do with my life? Not by a long shot. I always dreamed of traveling, of going on the road with a band and living my best life. After seeing how many managers and publicists my dad and his band went through, I
always thought I’d grow up and be the one they could all rely on to get shit done with their best interests at heart, not for my own gain.
Life didn’t work out that way, though. So whatever.
Now I’m a librarian in Wisconsin.
Sitting at my desk, I’m going through the next year’s schedule for community activities at the library when the phone rings. I pick it up with my usual greeting.
“Come home, Cadence,” my stepbrother whispers, and his psychotic voice makes my skin clammy.
Immediately, my hands tremble, and the hollow pit that’s always in my stomach fills with acid, burning my gut and eating away at the lining in my throat. “No.” I croak the word, but it’s either that or vomit.
“Cadence.” He growls. “Just come home.”
I shake my head stiffly. California is not my home. Not anymore. “I’m not going back out there.” For so many reasons. So, so many reasons. And until I’m forced to, which I never will be, I will not step foot back there. I’m never going back.
“Why do you do this to me?” His voice lowers, and I know what’s coming next. It’s his normal cycle. First, he’ll call and be nice, then he’ll try guilt or maybe sympathy, then the threats will come, and then it’ll start all over. “Dan wouldn’t want us to fight.”
So predictable. He’s not wrong, but he is. My father wouldn’t want us to fight, that’s true, but he also would have wanted Chris to take care of me after he died. He would have wanted his stepson to look out for his daughter, not do what he did to me.
Even the thought of it makes me gag.
I refuse to listen to him, which is one of the reasons I moved. And as I’m thinking that, I realize I really don’t have to listen to his shit, so I hang up on him. Then I push the phone away on the counter as if it caught fire and take a step back on wobbly knees.
My nose stings, and I feel the burn hit the back of my eyes, but when I hear the screeching laughter from the first kid who’s here for story time, I shove it back, shove it down, and then lock it away where it belongs.
