Leather and Lace Ch. 02

We discuss the various aspects of life in Seattle as our food finishes cooking itself, and I carry the plates to the table while Gabriel lights a couple of candles.

Our conversation goes back to the basics as we tuck into the meal. I learn that he is twenty-eight and has been working as an artist, mostly drawing, writing and painting, since he relocated. He enjoys it, but it doesn't make him much money, so he relies on what he's invested over the past decade and a half—which I assume has done quite well, considering what he's living in.

I don't have a good opening while we're eating, because the conversation is so light-hearted, but I resolve to define what exactly is happening between us before the evening is over. I don't want to go home wondering whether he's interested in a relationship. Since I haven't seen him in another setting, I can't know if he's a Casanova or genuinely attracted to yours truly.

In a way, I enjoy not knowing. I'm never this irresponsible, and the fact that what we have going right now is very precarious and mysterious is somehow exhilarating to me. Moreover, this is so different from all other dates I've been on; there's more attraction, both physically and mentally, but no awkward pauses or silences. The nerve-wracking feeling that I'm obligated to impress my date is thankfully absent.

We're finishing the last bites of our salmon when Gabriel's phone rings.

"Would you please pass that to me?" he asks, since it's much closer to where I'm sitting.

I reach for it and glance at the name automatically. "Emily Gibbard... Ugh! Sorry, I know it's a terrible habit," I add apologetically as I hold it out for him.

But he doesn't take the receiver from me. He looks really pale all of a sudden. Is it the lighting? Has he looked so gaunt all evening?

"I'll call her back," he says quietly. No, I decide... Something's undeniably wrong. His tone has changed completely.

I look at him curiously, asking him to elaborate without actually speaking.

"She's just an old friend," he mumbles, but keeps his eyes downcast.

When he finally looks up and sees my obvious concern, he forces a smile and changes the subject to favorite films.

Despite his efforts, the mood is somehow lost. His teasingly sarcastic attitude has vanished, and our conversation stays pretty mundane. I don't know what to do—how I can make it better when I don't even know what's wrong—but I know better than to press the issue. We clear the table and soak the dishes together, and I begin wrapping up the food.

While Gabriel escapes to use the bathroom, I place the dish of leftovers carefully on a shelf in the fridge, then press the door closed. I notice a photograph of an adorable, chestnut haired girl who appears to be about three or four years old. She's proudly holding a carved pumpkin, her gap-toothed grin lighting up the picture. Directly next to it is a work of "art"—a smudged crayon drawing of something vaguely resembling a house—and a delicate pressed flower.

"This little girl is so precious! Who is she?" I ask, pointing to the picture as Gabriel walks back into the kitchen.

He looks almost agonized when I ask, but his voice is hollow and almost emotionless. "That's Bronwyn."

I'm still staring at the cute pig-tailed girl, but I hear him walk closer, and then I can see him out of the corner of my eye. He's looking at me looking at the photo.

Gabriel's next two words are a punch in the gut. "My daughter."