Since Ms. Shapiro isn’t telepathic—yeah, that’s wrong.
Michelle:
Whatever. You’re still writing this part. And I think it should also be from Zack’s POV, like chapter 1.
Gabe:
So Zack and Riva arrive on this planet, and there’s a random auntie waiting for them there. It’s a big moment. The first time Zack’s seeing his mother again, after thinking she was dead all these years.
Michelle:
Zack’s Latino. He should call her Mami.
Gabe:
She’s a queen!
Michelle:
Doesn’t matter. She’s his mami.
Gabe:
I guess.
Michelle:
While they’re there, the queen gives Zack a mission.
Gabe:
To go after a MacGuffin.
Michelle:
A what?
Gabe:
It’s the thing people in movies are always after.
Michelle:
What kind of thing?
Gabe:
Anything. The Holy Grail. R2-D2. The One Ring. Doesn’t matter.
Michelle:
So Queen Seravida tasks Zack with finding the MacGuffin that’s making his father a total monster.
Gabe:
If only it were that easy.
Michelle:
Everything okay over there?
Gabe:
Yeah, it’s fine. Zack’s powers are uniquely suited for this quest. But he hasn’t used them in years, and he’s not convinced he even wants to get sucked back into his family’s drama.
Michelle:
Luckily he has Riva to be his guiding star.
Gabe:
Yeah. Lucky guy.
Chapter 8
What.
The hell.
Were you thinking?
Michelle stood with her hands braced on the kitchen counter and stared at the bubbling water in the glass electric kettle, as if it were a crystal ball that would turn up a snarky answer like I predict you were thinking with your hormones.
Sex was not the kind of closure she’d intended when she insisted Gabe stay with her. And she couldn’t even blame it on being high this time.
Making bad romantic choices wasn’t new for Michelle. It was why she’d given up on dating, opting instead for flings, affairs, or fuck buddies. Whatever you wanted to call them, her sexual entanglements never lasted long and barely touched her heart.
In her more self-reflective moments, Michelle could admit she tended to have sex with guys who were kind of boring because it allowed her to maintain emotional distance even while letting them into her body. And while she’d gone out a few times with women, she hadn’t gotten to the bedroom with any of them. Even at thirty-one, her bisexuality was still something she was figuring out on a practical level, beyond a lifetime of easily dismissed crushes on female celebrities.
But this was Gabe, not some rando from college, or work, or from an app. And she’d fallen into bed with him less than twelve hours after reuniting.
This didn’t have to be a big deal. After all, she was queen of keeping her emotions separate from sex. Why should this time be any different? Sex was just sharing your body with someone. It was as natural as breathing. They’d scratched the itch, gotten it out of their systems, and never had to mention it again.
Oh fuck. Who was she kidding? Sex with Gabe was totally a big deal. Her inner teenager was freaking the hell out, bouncing off the walls and cheering, “He likes me! He really likes me!”
But there was danger here too. Gabe had fucked her how she liked to be fucked, hot and fast and a little rough. This kind of sex was impossible to ignore. It was too good, too intimate. It grounded her in the moment and forced her to be present, forced her to confront how she felt.
She didn’t want to think about how Gabe made her feel. Despite forgiving him, she couldn’t let him mess with her head, or her heart. Like he said, this was only until Friday. She had to remember that.
And while part of her wanted whatever she could get of him, it was better all around if she maintained emotional boundaries.
The kettle turned off with a soft click. Michelle went through the familiar motions of making a cup of tea and tried not to focus on how much had changed since the last time she’d done this very thing earlier that morning. She scooped loose leaves into the strainer, soothed by the familiar scent of vanilla Earl Grey and the scratch of the dried tea leaves rustling in the tin. She set the strainer in the mug—one of her dad’s, with the FDNY logo—and poured water over it, leaning away from the steam that rose into the air. Then she opened an orange prescription bottle and set her daily low-dose anti-anxiety pill on the counter next to the mug.
Michelle occasionally drank coffee, but she didn’t love it like she loved tea. She wouldn’t go so far as saying a hot cup of tea cured all ills, but it came close. The meds helped too.
The sound of water running through the pipes upstairs shut off. Gabe was done with his shower. Damn, he was fast.
Michelle set a timer for three minutes to let the tea steep and imagined Gabe coming downstairs when the timer went off. How was she supposed to harden her heart to him in such a short time?
Jezebel butted her head against Michelle’s ankle, and Michelle crouched down to pet her. Things were much better when it was just her and Jez. She needed to remember that.
The timer beeped. Michelle shut it off, then heard footsteps overhead. She removed the strainer, squirted honey into the mug, gave it a stir, and added oat milk. By the time she washed down her pill with the first decadent sip, Gabe entered the kitchen.
Michelle stayed at the counter, scared to look at him. Maybe if she didn’t, she could pretend he was less attractive. Or that he hadn’t just fucked his way past her emotional walls.
Or that his apology hadn’t settled something inside her that had been off-kilter for far too long.
He came up behind her, his big hands landing on her hips, warm through the denim of her shorts. She sucked in a breath, which trembled out as a sigh when his lips touched the sensitive place at the top of her spine, right over her tattoo.
“What’s this?” he asked, tracing his fingers over the image she could see in her mind’s eye—a stylized barn owl, with wings outstretched, and a tiny crescent moon over its head.
“It’s a symbol of Athena,” she murmured, and hurried to take a steadying sip of tea. “Greek goddess of wisdom, among other things.”
Not that any of Michelle’s choices that morning could be considered wise.
“I like it.” Gabe stroked the little owl again and Michelle tried—and failed—to fight off a shiver.
“It’s still early for you,” she said, cupping the mug with both hands so she didn’t give in to the urge to touch him. “If you want to go back upstairs and sleep some more, that’s okay with me.”
“I’d be happy to sleep with you more.” His deep voice—and that Bronx accent that had apparently never gone away—was a seductive rumble in her ear. She shivered again, but stepped away, giving him a stern look.
“That’s not what I meant,” she said primly. “Here I am trying to be a good friend and look out for your beauty sleep—not that you need any help in that department—and you try to get more sex out of it.”
He grinned, flashing those dangerous dimples at her, and Michelle could have kicked herself. So much for never mentioning it again.