Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(83)
Gavin doesn’t answer me. He’s looking at me with this blank expression. His throat works in a swallow. “What the hell is the point of this?”
I glance back up at the stars, lacing my hands together behind my head. “I’m getting there. These ancient stories—myths—have lasted so long, these bizarre explanations for burning balls of gas, because there’s something that resonates. Maybe they don’t make much sense, in literal terms. They’re definitely far-fetched efforts to understand our existence, our surroundings, when none of what we know now existed to demystify the vast, complicated workings of the world, but I do think there’s still some nugget of wisdom in them.”
“And what nugget is that?” Gavin asks.
“That sometimes life takes a turn we didn’t see coming. That a single choice can irrevocably alter the path of our lives, and we have no idea what choice that might be and where it might take us. I mean, I’m pretty sure Callisto didn’t think her life would end up how it did simply because of her choice to be with Zeus. And poor Arcas, that kid was born into this world, at the whim of a whole family drama that completely upturned his life. Zeus, I’m gonna hazard a guess here, his ‘let’s make them bears to keep them safe’ was a fairly impulsive solution, because it protected his lover and son, but at what cost? They were lost to him forever, their lives irrevocably altered, likely not in any way they’d have wanted or hoped.
“So, I think…” I tip my head, examining the constellations stretched across the sky. “I think it’s a reminder, that there’s a lot we can’t control in life, that sometimes we get dealt a real shit-kicker, but…in ending up where we never meant to, even in bodies we don’t recognize, situations we didn’t ask for, there’s still a little beauty to be found. Purpose. Meaning.” I point to the bears, side by side. “Maybe even love.”
Gavin stares at me, throat working roughly. “I think that’s easy for the bystanders to say. That there’s a redeeming significance to be found in others’ suffering.”
Tearing my gaze from the stars, I search his eyes. “But we all take turns, don’t we? Being the bystanders and the ones who suffer. What if we’re meant to be counterpoints to each other—not to diminish each other’s pain, not to overstate the silver linings of hardship, but instead to stand in witness to it, to help each other see that little bit of light and hope that keeps us going, that reminds us life is some hard shit, but the people who love us through it…they make it bearable?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Bearable?”
I grin. “Pun intended.”
Our gazes hold as his sardonic expression softens, as my grin begins to slip. Gavin swallows and stares down at his plate, pushing his food around. “Well, when you get too old for footie, be sure to call American Greetings. They can put you to work.”
I throw a piece of bacon at him. “Shut up.”
He grins down at his plate, but hides it quickly. After a heavy exhale, he says, “Oliver…”
My heartbeat slows with dread. I feel my hands clasp beneath the table until my knuckles ache.
“I…” He lets out another slow breath, scoots his food across it. “I know I said it already, but…thank you.”
I don’t know what he’s thanking me for. The shower. This meal. Being here with him. Understanding his need to step back. Again.
I don’t know. And I’m so tired of not knowing. But I’ve been the one so many times, showing up at his door, barging my way in, and look where it’s got me. This time, I can’t chase him down. I can’t shoulder my way in. Much as I hate it, it’s my turn to wait. To see if he thinks I’m someone worth chasing down, too.
“You’re welcome,” I finally manage.
Gavin meets my eyes, but only briefly, like he won’t allow his gaze to linger. Glancing up at the stars, he’s quiet for a while before he says, “Dammit. Now every time I look up at night, all I’m going to be able to think about are bears with stretched-out tails and…” His voice dies off. He peers down, spears his food, then fills his mouth as if to shut himself up.
He doesn’t finish that sentence, doesn’t say what else he’ll think about, looking up into a sparkling nighttime sky. But foolishly, I let myself finish that sentence, let hope glitter, like a star in my heart.
Me.
26
GAVIN
Playlist: “Cold Cold Man,” Saint Motel
It’s only been three weeks, but it feels like three years. I’ve spent them watching Oliver step fully into his role as sole captain now that I’m out of commission, though the team doesn’t know it’s for good. Three weeks I’ve watched him take command, lead by word and example. Three weeks I’ve warred with how deeply I want him, how badly I want to let him want me, fearing my baggage will overshadow us, worrying I have no business asking Oliver Bergman for anything except that recipe for the soup he brought and maybe, perhaps, any other musicals worth adding to my playlist because I have all of Sondheim stuck in my head and all it does is make me think of him.
Which is torture. I already think about him, see him, ache for him, enough, as it is.
Standing at the sidelines, I watch him, observing the tiniest things I never used to allow myself to before, when all I wanted was to avoid noticing him, being drawn toward him, actually liking him.