Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
When Gabriel skips down the stairs, presumably headed to lunch, something is different. I notice it right away—the lightness of his step, the lean of his body, the tautness around his eyes. He’s not just headed to the cafeteria to grab a sandwich. He’s going somewhere to do something.
And I want to know what.
Five minutes later, he opens the door to an Italian café on the edge of campus, and I can’t help myself—I duck in after him. My skin chills, forming goose bumps with the knowledge of the risk I’m taking. It’s darker in here, low lighting and fake plants in the corners. Square tables with red-checkered tablecloths. Booths and tables, and a woman at the front who’s got ten years on me.
“Any table’s fine, hon.” She waits with a menu in hand. I scan the dark room, trying to catch sight of him. Then I realize I’ve passed over him twice, because he’s already seated, back to me, in a booth in the rear corner. Directly across from a woman.
“Here is fine, thanks.” I take the nearest table, a little two-seater in the middle of the restaurant. Not exactly unobtrusive, but he can’t see me. As long as I keep my head down, even if he leaves first, he’ll never know I was here.
“Need time to look at the menu?” She sets it in front of me.
I look down at it. “I’ll take the caprese salad. And a glass of pinot, please.”
She disappears. Seconds later, a glass of wine is at my fingertips. The glass sweats, it’s so cold, and I take a tiny sip, watching the back booth. Gabriel’s hands are gesturing—tanned skin, creased with whatever hobby exposes them to frequent sun—and across from him sits a petite woman with blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Young. Pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way. Her gaze is focused on him very seriously.
It’s probably a meeting with a fellow professor. Maybe she’s new—that explains the skin young enough to not have met wrinkles yet. Or she could be a family friend. Perhaps even a business meeting of some sort, given the way she’s watching him so intently. A lawyer or an accountant or—
He does it again.
He throws his head back, deep laughter coming from his gut, and she smiles, clearly pleased with herself for garnering such a reaction.
I take a long sip of the wine and let its sweet, tart flavor roll over my tongue.
He’s so good at pretending.
I wish I was better at it. I’ve just barely gained back the ability to eat, to do something other than force myself through the motions. I’d love to actually enjoy food again, order an appetizer and dessert rather than a single dish I know I won’t even make a dent in. Then again, I don’t deserve to enjoy anything after what I did. What I didn’t do. I exhale forcefully, then startle when a hand is suddenly right in front of me.
“Oh, my apologies. I thought you saw me.” The waitress. Setting down my salad. “Can I get you anything else?”
I shake my head. “No. Thank you.”
I ignore the salad, pull out my new notebook, and scribble more notes. Maybe if I search through them later, I’ll find a pattern. I’ll recognize something, some semblance of a hint that will allow me to see the truth underneath the mask he wears.
Eventually, I pick at the salad. I study the spread of the oil and balsamic, eat a piece of cheese, nibble on a tomato. At least I’m getting my veggies. Kind of. But all the while, I’m listening—catching bits and pieces of their conversation, though not enough to make sense of it. Something about a mutual friend, I think. A problem at her work, which may also be teaching. And then he says, “Storage unit,” and my ears perk up. I look over, but the blonde notices me staring their way. So I flash a vague smile and force my gaze to move elsewhere, like I’m just a diner alone admiring the restaurant and fellow diners.
I’m more careful after that, not wanting to meet the eyes of the woman a second time. Then a couple takes a table between mine and theirs. The new couple’s talking drowns out any chance I have of more eavesdropping. Except for when I hear the woman’s energetic laugh come from the booth in the corner. I chance a quick peek. It’s a fraction-of-a-second look, yet I come away with a new revelation.
Maybe she’s a girlfriend.
My mind catches on that idea. Maybe he and his wife were about to get divorced. Maybe he really is happy because she’s dead—
But no. Even if he had been ecstatic to be rid of her, he also lost his little girl.
His beautiful little Rose.
Even I had to click away when the picture came up on Google. The sweet, innocent face that would never grow old, too much for anyone to bear. Except maybe a monster. Which Gabriel Wright wasn’t. I saw the devastation on his face that night. His world had shattered into a million pieces. He’s pretending to be happy. He’s just mastered the art of camouflaging his feelings. His misery is lurking under the disguise he wears. Soon I’ll see it.