Fiona and Jane(33)

“Don’t apologize. I get it,” he said.

She stood and made her way toward the entrance, the phone pressed to her ear. Her mother’s voice on the line was asking Fiona for money—demanding it, then pleading. Another deadline, for the next level of investors: “Better deal, guaranteed to make our money back in three months, if we follow all the right steps . . .”

When she sat back down at the table across from Gabriel, Fiona was shaking.

“Is everything all right?” he asked tentatively.

“Want to get out of here?” she said. “I have this bottle of rum at my place I’ve been saving. My coworker gave it to me from her trip to Barbados.”

He gazed around the restaurant, searching for the waitress. When he got her attention, he motioned for the check.

Fiona straightened her back. She arranged her mouth into a smile. “You gonna come back later to buy this mirror off the wall?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I already asked them to wrap it up for me. With the flan.”



* * *



? ? ?

The rum was all gone. Fiona felt loose, giddy. Gabriel stood from the couch and moved toward the bed. He sat down on the foot of it, his knees spread open.

“Get over here,” he said.

Fiona crossed the room. She stood between his legs.

Gabriel’s hands rested on her hips. “Come here,” he said.

“I am.”

“Closer.”

Fiona wrapped her arms around his neck and sat down on his lap. He was still wearing his hat. They kissed a few times, then he pulled back. He looked at her. “You’re lovely,” he said. “You know that?”

She laughed softly. His face didn’t change from its serious expression.

“I’m going to be hungover at work tomorrow,” she said with a sigh.

“Your face,” Gabriel said. “Reminds me of this student I had.”

Fiona stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“Vanessa Chang was her name. She died. My first year teaching.” Gabriel shook his head. “It was so weird. She was a senior, solid B student, headed to a SUNY on a swimming scholarship. She had her group of friends, involved in a couple clubs after school,” he said. “Out of nowhere, she jumped off the roof of her building, into the elevator shaft.”

Fiona couldn’t help but imagine it, glancing toward the window, a dark shadow flicking past, falling too fast to register a face, a body. Seconds later, a sickening crunch far below.

Gabriel was going on about the memorial service they held at the school, grief counseling for the students.

“What are you saying?” Fiona interrupted. “You think all Asian girls look alike?”

“What?” Gabriel said. “No. Course not.” He stared at her. “Why would you even say that?”

“You just said, my face—and her face—”

“I didn’t say nothing like that. You’re putting words—”

“Let me just ask you,” Fiona said. “How many Asian girls have you been with, anyway?”

“What?”

“Like, am I the first? Or do you always—”

“How many Puerto Rican dudes you been with?” Gabriel stood up, forcing her off his lap. “You got some sort of problem with me?” he said. “If you got something to say, say it. Let’s talk about what’s really going on here.”

“Why don’t you answer the question?” Fiona said. She was more drunk than she realized, and she uncrossed her arms and put both hands on the bed, touching something solid to steady herself.

“Look at this place,” Gabriel cried, flinging his arms around. “You got all this nice shit, gold frames for your art prints and everything. Heavy crystal glasses for drinking some fancy-ass rum.”

“This isn’t even my apartment,” Fiona said. “What’s your point?”

Fiona lived alone, a luxury she’d lucked into through a friend of a friend. The apartment in Gramercy belonged to a woman who was away for a year in Florence, conducting research for her dissertation. On what, Fiona didn’t know. Renaissance art? The tall bookshelf in the corner was crammed with oversized tomes of European art history and theories of aesthetics. Framed prints of the Madonna cradling baby Jesus adorned every available wall space. When she’d first moved in, Fiona couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, that the eyes of the various Virgins were following her around the studio. Now she was used to them; sometimes she even talked to them, finding sympathy in their long-suffering glances.

“Talking about, ‘My mom wants to invest in this and that.’ What kind of person just ups and drops out of law school, and you can still afford to live like this?” Gabriel said. “You saw how I’m living. I’m thirty-six and I got two roommates, okay?”

“Keep my mother out of this,” she said. “Who the hell— You know what? Just get out.”

“Who owns this place, then? Your family, right?” He shook his head. “I get it. You’re rich. It’s not a problem. I got some Chinese students at my school. Only thing is, I see the way their parents look down on me. They think it should be some white dude up there, teaching literature.” He crossed to the sofa, where his vest was slung over the arm.