Even the Moon Has Scars (14 page)

Gabe shrugs. “Her mom was super into it too before she married her dad, so I guess it maybe runs in her blood. She’s super passionate which is good—but also bad. Jemma had this habit of pulling me into her drama, just to get a reaction out of me.”

“She got you into trouble?”

He nods. “More times than one.”

“Ouch.”

“Her family owns a group of successful restaurants here in the city, and you didn’t hear it from me, but it’s widely known that they may-or-may-not be mob related.”

“Like,
mob-mob
. Are you being serious?”

Gabe nods slowly and grins.

“Yep. So someone narc’d on her family for buying illegal oysters with fake tags for their seafood restaurant and they assumed it was me—that I told my mother about them. And Jemma let them go on believing it. I didn’t, but the cops showed up and they got fined.”

“Oh, shit,” I say.

“Lena Pettitt, I didn’t know curse words came out of that sweet mouth of yours,” he says, staring at my mouth, his own face plastered with a wicked grin.

“Very funny. But if they’re mob—what’d you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. Her uncle came to our apartment one afternoon to talk to me. I wasn’t home, but Mom was. Turns out, she knew who he was because the cops were already keeping an eye on Jemma’s family for all sorts of illegal crap. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Jemma did it all—if she ratted out her own family so that they’d turn on me— so that she could get back at me.”

“Wait, get back at you for what?”

“For not showing up.”

“What do you mean?”

Gabe lets out a deep, throaty laugh. “Sorry, I’ll back up. Jemma always made it seem like she didn’t want to ask her family for any help when she was scared, or in trouble or whatever because their reactions would be too big, you know? So she always made it seem like she only had me. That she could only rely on me.”

“You seem like a pretty decent guy to have on your side.”

“Yeah, just wait until you get to know me,” he jokes.

“Anyway, she was always crying wolf, and I’d had it one day. After getting her out of her pretend trouble every night for a week, for once, I didn’t answer the phone.”

“And she didn’t like that?”

“Ooooooh,” Gabe hoots. “No, she didn’t like it at all. In fact, she broke up with me.”

“She broke up with you for not coming to her rescue one time?”

“She did. And she quickly rebounded. A guy from my philosophy class.”

“And that—”

“And that is called getting your heart trampled on. I wasn’t there for her, I get it, but I had a lot of my own shit going on, too.”

“But what does this have to do with Israel?

“Ah, see, she gets my brain all jumbled,” Gabe says.

I narrow my eyes and he says, “That’s not a good thing, Lena.”

“Israel?” I repeat, feeling relief that Jemma doesn’t have a hold on him anymore.

“Okay, so the last time I saw her before tonight was at Harvard.”

“Harvard,” I say. “She’s why you’re banned from being there?”

“Yep,” he says, raking a hand through his gorgeous head of hair. “She texted me and said she was in trouble. Some protest over the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Some of the protesters were getting out of control, she was scared it was going to turn violent and she needed help getting out of the crowd.”

“So you went?”

Gabe sucks a breath in through his teeth. “What can I tell you? I’m a moron.”

“Not a moron, you just give a lot of chances.”

“Oh, I wasn’t looking for another chance. I was looking to prove her wrong. When she broke up with me, she told me I’d never cared about her, and that’s just not true. I did. I guess I probably still do. Just not in the way that she wants. But I don’t want to see people I care about in any kind of trouble. My mom has been itching to put one of the Randazzos behind bars since before the oyster incident. Now that one of them had dared to come to her house, she was waiting to pounce. Minor or not, she’d jump at the chance to throw the book at any one of them—even Jemma. I was just trying to do what I could to make sure that didn’t happen.”

“Were things bad at the protest?”

Gabe shakes his head. “They weren’t, but I think they were getting there.”

“Well, then you did the right thing by going.”

“I saw some guy grab her—I reacted.” Gabe clenches and the relaxes his fist. “I punched him. Turns out he was a cop.”

“Oh my God. You assaulted a police officer?”

“To be fair, I’m pretty sure he assaulted me right back. He just did a better job of it, because I was out cold.”

He laughs, but it’s not funny.

“And that’s why your mom sent you away? To get you away from Jemma and her family?”

I know how his mom treats him, I’ve seen it first-hand. And I have no doubt that her sending Gabe away had just as much to do with political gain as it did to protect him—but I also believe that she
was
trying to protect him. This family—this girl—they were all toxic for Gabe.

He deserves better. He deserves to care about people who know how amazing he is. He deserves to be loved.

“Some people can fuck up your life so royally it’s really hard to pick up the pieces when you’re done, you know?”

“She’s your scar.”

“Something like that,” he says. He pauses and then smiles a little and says, “Or, I guess she’s more of my hairline fracture. You know, something that barely shows up, even on an x-ray, but still hurts like a bitch? It’s not permanent, but there’s not much you can do for a hairline fracture other than just let it heal on its own.”

“I’m sorry.”

He looks up at the sky and I follow his gaze. That’s when he pulls me in close to him and rests his chin on top of my head.

I breath in the now familiar smell of Gabe. I can feel the warmth of his chest through his shirt. The long, lean muscles of his arms wrapped tightly around me.

How can someone feel so strong and yet so broken all at the same time?

“Don’t be. These lights,” he says. “The stars. They all burn out eventually. But that big guy up there,” he pulls back and points up to the silver moon. “Even he’s got scars, and he’s still keeping on, right? I’ll be okay, Lena. We’re both going to be okay.”

I stare up at the moon, full of canyons and gashes and scars, still shining night after night, and think that that may be the truest thing anyone has ever said to me.

Gabe slides his arm off of me and then lets his hand slip down the length of my arm, leaving a tingly trail of goose bumps even through my coat, until he finally reaches my hand.

I link my fingers through hers and with her soft touch, there is a lightness in my chest.  A wall has come down. Lena and I aren’t the same people we were a couple of hours ago, sitting across from each other at the diner.

Right now, with her hand in mine, I’d give her whatever she wanted. I’d answer whatever she asks. It’s different being here in this place with Lena. Everything looks exactly the same, but it
feels
different.

I don’t know if it’s the place or if it’s me.

“You okay?” Lena asks.

“Definitely,” I say. “Let’s go this way.”

“But the party is over there,” Lena says.

I tip my shoulder down. “That’s alright, they won’t mind.”

“Gabe!” she yelps, tightening her grip on mine. That only adds to the adrenaline coursing through me. “Come on, so we go have one dance. What does that hurt?”

Lena pulls back on my arm. “I don’t dance.”

I look back and her expression is even more terrified than when the drunk dude grabbed her back at the train station.

“Lena,” I say, stepping close to her. The blush that creeps across her face almost covers the line of freckles sprinkled over her cheekbones. “All girls say that. Come on, it’ll be fun. We’ll even wait for a slow song, that’s easy. There’s practically no skill needed to slow dance.”

“I’ll embarrass myself,” she says. She pulls her bottom lip in and bites down softly.

Don’t do that,
I think. I’m only holding her hand now. A simple thing that feels more intimate than it ever has with anyone. I can feel her pulse against mine where our wrists touch and it feels like a rhythmic throbbing of electricity, pinging back and forth between us so hard that it almost aches. If just holding her hand feels like that, I can only imagine what it would be like to taste those sweet lips. I watch her biting down on one, and I can’t think about anything else.

“I thought you said you wanted to live a little tonight?” I challenge, but she doesn’t budge.

“Come on, don’t they say that embarrassment builds character?” But it comes out a little hoarse. I clear my throat. “Let’s go.”

I pull on Lena’s arm and lead her toward the party with her protests getting quieter and quieter the closer that we get.

“Look,” I say. “There’re even outdoor heaters. You may never want to leave.”

Lena smiles that sweet smile, and I love that it’s there because of me.

All of the guests are in the middle of a proper vodka-toast. I smile as the glasses are clinked together, and then immediately refilled. “Polish wedding!” I say to Lena over the noise.

“How do you know?”

“They’re my people,” I say.

“You’re a Martinez,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

I shake my head. “My
mom
is a Martinez. My dad’s side, they’re Polish. Polish weddings are the best. They’re very all or nothing.” I look at her and she raises a brow. “A couple years ago, one of my uncles got married in Poland, and Dad and I went. The thing went on for two days.”

“Well, I don’t think being half-Polish auto-scores you an invite to this one, Gabe. Let’s go.” Lena tugs on my arm.

“One dance,” I say, holding up one finger then lightly touching it to her lips.

She closes her eyes, then shakes her head, conceding. “Fine, but I’m telling you, I really don’t know how to dance.”

The music changes from the traditional
Sto lat
and fades into an Artie Shaw song that I recognize from one of my grandfather’s old Swing records. I remember him letting me choose which one to put on next, and we’d sit in the matching recliners in the den and listen to jazz. The sound of his records felt more complete than the stuff I listen to. With its crackles and pops in the background and the rich vocals that you could practically feel in your bones. The music had meaning. It felt real.

I point upward, “Ah, see, we’re in luck. Slow song. All you have to do is basically stand, right?”

Lena grins, her cheeks the perfect shade of pink that lets me know she’s game. She takes my outstretched hand and lets me pull her to my chest. I lock her hips close to mine and suck in a quick breath at the way our bodies fit together.

She clings to me, rigid at first, but, as the song goes on, she loosens up. Her movements become more fluid, her steps a little softer. She was lying about not being able to dance. I love the way she moves.

I manage to twirl her, to dip her, even make her laugh. There’s light in her eyes. There’s
life
in her eyes. She’s letting go.

“Are you having fun?” I ask against her ear.

She lays her head on my chest, and it’s all the answer I need.

On the train here, I pictured how this night could go—a thousand different variations—ranging from the non-eventful grabbing of the part and getting out of town quickly; to being caught in the city by my mom and thrown in jail; to somehow showing this girl an incredible time and maybe even enjoying myself for the first time in weeks.

In all the ways I pictured it, I never dared to think it could end up that I’d have this beautiful girl in my arms like this.

The sweater she borrowed is too big for her, and it’s managed to slip off of her shoulder a little.

I press the back of my hand to her chest, on the tiny space of bare skin where I see the beginnings of the scar that she keeps so fiercely hidden.

I can feel her heart racing under my hand, even with the subdued song and our slow movements.

“Your heart is—”

“Steady,” she cuts me off with a lie and pushes my hand away.

She tugs the sweater—my sweater closer to her neck, trying to cover any part of the scar that might be showing. Why, I don’t know.

Her eyes meet mine and a I can’t help the smile pulls in the corner of my mouth.

“I was going to say, beating like crazy.”

“Scarred,” she mumbles.

“Not even close.” I shake my head and tip her chin up so that she’s looking right at me when I say, “Perfect.”

I stare at her mouth.

I wonder if she wants to kiss me as badly as I want to kiss her.

I watch the way she swallows, the way she touches her tongue to her bottom lip. I’m not a moron, I know she’s giving me the sign that it’s okay. That I can make a move.

But I don’t.

But I can’t.

Because I can’t kiss her the way I want to right now.

I want to kiss her like she’s mine and she’s not.

I want to kiss her so she’ll never forget it. So she won’t forget me, even if she probably should.

The song ends and everyone moves from the dance floor in one mass exodus. Lena smiles up at me, trying to hide the bit of disappointment I think we both feel.

We’re the only ones left standing in the middle of the wooden dance floor.

“Oh, crap, we’d better go,” Lena says, glancing around the deserted floor.

“Must be midnight” I say.

“What?”

“Polish weddings, they cut the cake at midnight,” I say.

The guests all gather around a side table with a massive, tiered wedding cake atop it.

“I bet you only one of them must be Polish, though. They aren’t going all out, there’s no roasted cow,” I say.

“Like, a cow-cow? An entire cow?”

“Yeah. A cow. They wheel out a roasted cow in case anyone is feeling peckish,” I say with a wink.

I can’t tell if Lena is intrigued or horrified.

“Should we go extend our best wishes to the bride and groom?” I ask, mostly joking, knowing Lena is cringing inside and out. “Or can I get you a slice?”

“No!” she yells. Horrified. Definitely horrified. “We should go, seriously.”

“Alright, alright. I’ve got at least a couple more places to show you.”

And as we walk away from the wedding, I wonder if we’re both mourning the loss of a moment we may never get back.

Or if we’re hoping we’ll have many more chances.