"I don't want to--"
"If you're wrong, that's fine." He looked at me. "But I don't believe you are."
I took a deep breath and turned to the items on the bed. "Weapons, money, food, drink...It's survival stuff. Like what people stash away in case of a natural disaster or a nuclear bomb or, hell, a zombie apocalypse. It makes them feel the same way I did, carrying around clean underwear. Like they're in control and prepared. Except you aren't worried about the end of the world. For you, it really is about survival. You lived for years where all this"--I waved at the items--"was a matter of life and death, and I'm sure there were times when you didn't have it, not nearly enough of it, and now you do and..."
I took another deep breath. "It's like my underwear times a hundred, because, let's face it, my childhood trauma isn't exactly traumatic. Yours--" I swallowed, biting back any observation that might make him uncomfortable. "I don't know how you did it, Gabriel. I don't know how you got from there to here"--I motioned at the room--"because I can't even fathom what it takes to accomplish that, and if having a case of Coke and a gun under your bed helps you feel like you'll never end up there again, then it's a small, small thing, because if it was me, I'd need a whole lot more than an envelope of money to give me what I needed to put my past behind me and move forward."
He nodded and said, "Yes." That's all he said. Yes. Then he picked up the case of stew and returned to the bathroom. When he came back with a roll of duct tape, I helped return the rest to where it went, and he didn't try to stop me. Didn't say a word, either, but that horrible, dead silence from earlier had passed, and this was...
I won't say it was comfortable. I could feel his lingering discomfort, pulling the room down, the mood somber. But it was relaxed enough for us to get everything back in place. Then I said, "Do you have ice cream?"
He looked over.
"I'm going to guess that's a no," I said. "And also, 'Why the hell are you asking about ice cream at four in the morning?' "
I won't say he smiled--or even that his lips moved--but his eyes warmed.
"That day with the underwear fiasco," I said, "my dad took me out for ice cream. I kind of feel like ice cream."
Totally untrue. I hadn't told my parents about the "great underwear incident" until a week later, when my dad finally convinced me to confess what was wrong. He'd gone to the school first. Then he took me to Six Flags, knowing the speed and thrill of the rides was the best thing to clear my mind and get me back on my feet. But I wanted to help Gabriel find his balance, and ice cream seemed a perfectly reasonable way to do it.
"I know there's a twenty-four-hour shop down the road," I said. "Can we walk over?"
"I believe I can do better than ice cream from a convenience shop," he said, the faintest smile breaking through.
"At four in the morning?"
"Let's see."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Gabriel did not know where to find an open ice-cream parlor at 4 a.m. He did, however, know where to find all-night restaurants, not surprising given the hours he kept. One of those was a takeout diner. I got a milkshake. Gabriel said, "The same," and when the waitress asked which flavor, he frowned at the list, as if annoyed that options existed. "Whatever she had," settled the matter efficiently.
We went to sit, only to notice a couple of men watching us and whispering. That was less common these days--I'm getting to be old news--but normally, when it happened, Gabriel ignored it. Tonight, the look he gave the men suggested that if they said a word, he'd have a few to say back.
"How about outside?" I said. "There's a park a few doors down, and it's not too cold."
We sat in the park until the first hint of sun touched the horizon. It wasn't exactly a warm night, and the milkshakes didn't make it any warmer, but once we got talking, neither of us seemed to notice. We talked about the lamiae case and Aunika Madole--hashing it out because that's what we did, talked and bounced ideas around and segued along any path vaguely related to the topic at hand.
When I slurped the melted last of my shake, he said, "Good?"
I nodded.
"Even if it wasn't ice cream like your father got you?"
"He...didn't actually get me ice cream. Not that time."
"I know."
I laughed softly. "I'm that bad a liar?"
"No, you're a decent liar. Not on my level, of course, but perfectly adequate. I could not, however, imagine you telling your father that story and him resolving it by taking you for ice cream. At least, not until he'd resolved the core iss
ue. He went to the school, I presume."
"Got the substitute teacher fired."
"Good."