Chapter 23

I'm on my bed,laptop open in front of me, though my attention is anywhere but the economics essay I should be writing. Instead, I want to cozy up on my small couch, wrap myself with my throw blanket, and forget that I have a gazillion things to do. Most of all forget that no one—and I mean no one—remembered my birthday.

A knock at the door startles me. I glance at the clock on my nightstand. It's seven-thirty on a Tuesday night. Who could possibly be stopping by unannounced?

I look through the peephole to find Gabe standing there, holding a hemp grocery bag in one hand and a small white bakery box in the other.

Stepping back, I do a double take. Gabe Decker is here. Gabe? Why is he at my door? My heart stammers as I take in his unexpected presence. I haven't seen him in over a year. Sure, we text almost daily, but why would he be here today?

He came for me? No. Don't you dare to start thinking that he has a thing for you, Ameline Lewis. He's just a friend, I remind myself sternly. But the sight of him still makes my stomach flutter traitorously.

"Gabe," I say, pulling open the door in surprise.

"Surprise." He grins, brushing past me into the apartment.

"It is a really big surprise," I murmur, pulse racing.

"Well, I was in the neighborhood," he says casually, "and wanted to drop by to say happy birthday, Ame."

"You remembered my birthday?" I ask, feeling a warmth spread through my chest. There's a softness in his eyes that makes me wonder, for a fleeting moment, if there's more to his visit. "I . . . I didn't think you would." Especially since everyone else seemed to forget this time.

He sets the bag and box down on my kitchen counter before enveloping me in a hug. The scent of his woodsy cologne surrounds me, and I find myself momentarily lost in the comfort of his embrace.

"Of course. What kind of friend would I be if I forgot your birthday?" he asks and I'm reminded of the cruel reality that he's just a friend. That nudges me to the present, and I step back from his strong, comfortable arms.

I repeat again what he said: Friend. The word that reminds me I'm just some girl that he's been hanging out with because she happened to stumble into his apartment a couple of years ago. His former roommate's little sister. I, of course, manage a smile, pushing aside the pang in my heart.

"Thank you, but you didn't have to."

He scoffs and gives me a look as if saying, "Don't be silly." From the bag, he pulls out a lumpy gift-wrapped present."Happy Birthday, Ame."

As I take it, our fingers brush, sending that familiar jolt of electricity through me. I turn quickly, hiding my reaction under the guise of examining the bag. I meticulously peel back the wrapping paper. Inside is a periwinkle blue sweatshirt, thick and cozy. I unfold it to see "Vienna" embroidered across the front in looping script.

"I love this so much," I breathe, stroking the soft fabric. I want to throw my arms around him, but I resist. What if I do something stupid, like kiss him?

"I saw it at a little shop and thought you might like it," he states casually.

"I really do," I say honestly, wondering if this was just recently or last year when he was in Vienna traveling with his twin and cousins. Does it even matter? I shrug those thoughts away. "Thank you, Gabe."

As our eyes connect, a silent exchange seems to unfold between us, a language of glances that carries more than words could convey. Though, I can't understand what we're trying to say, or maybe I'm confusing everything—again. His eyes hold a depth of emotion that stirs something within me, a longing to close the gap between us, to feel the warmth of his embrace.

Yet, I restrain myself, aware that such a step could alter the nature of our friendship irreversibly. Clutching the sweatshirt to my chest, I try to calm the fluttering in my heart, to suppress the part of me that dares to yearn for something more. Something beyond friendship, texts, and the occasional call.

The urge to close the gap and press my lips to his becomes overwhelming. I imagine the kiss, slow and tender. Hesitant at first as our breaths mingle and we gently explore each other. I can almost feel the softness of his lips, growing bolder as the longing takes over.

In my mind, the kiss unfolds slowly as we let the pent-up emotions we've held back free. It's just a daydream, a fantasy that I stop while trying to calm down. A leap like that would just hurt me in the end.

When my pulse finally steadies, I set the sweatshirt aside and turn my attention to the bakery box and the takeout he brought. "This is incredibly thoughtful of you, Gabe. You didn't have to go to all this effort for me."

He shrugs, as if it's not a big deal. "It's your birthday, Ame. I wanted to do something special for you." Gabe glances around the studio, taking in my décor. "I like what you've done with the place—very vintage-boho-chic."

"Thanks." I smooth my suddenly sweaty palms down my jeans. "Izzy helped me with it. We went to several stores and some garage sales."

As Gabe moves around the studio, grabbing plates and forks, a sense of surrealism washes over me. I watch him in a state of mild disbelief. It's hard to grasp that he's here, in my apartment. After so long, all of a sudden here he is, humming "Happy Birthday" under his breath, setting up a casual dinner as if no time has passed since the last time we saw each other.

We sit down at my small dining table, the intimate space drawing us closer. I sneak a discreet pinch under the tablecloth. Nope, not dreaming. The charming, thoughtful, devastatingly handsome Gabe is really sitting across from me right now.

But as we catch up over fettuccine Alfredo and breadsticks, I remind myself he's just a friend—an old friend who barely has time for me anymore between med school and his family. Still . . . the way his blue eyes dance with interest as he asks about my classes and the new hobbies I've taken up—photography and crocheting—makes my pulse quicken all over again.

Our conversation flows easily like no time has passed. I tell him about the children I've been babysitting and the bookstore. He talks of med school kicking his butt, deliberating between specialties like pediatrics or surgery. Through it all, a sense of contentment takes over me. I've missed this—missed him—more than I realized.

As he talks, I find myself stealing glances at him. The way laughter lights up his eyes, the easy curve of his smile—it all makes my heart flutter in a way I can't quite control.

After dinner, Gabe opens the white box. Inside there are four beautifully decorated cupcakes. He selects one, placing a candle on top, and ignites it with a flick of a lighter. His rendition of "Happy Birthday" is charmingly silly and it makes me giggle.

"Make a wish," he says, his voice a low, husky whisper that sends shivers down my spine.

I close my eyes, torn between wishing for something as special as a kiss from him—our first kiss—or something more meaningful. Ultimately, I choose the latter, a wish for purpose, a direction for my life. Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes and then blow out the candle, sending my wish into the universe.

"What'd you wish for?" Gabe asks, leaning in as his eyes search mine for clues.

"If I tell you, it won't come true," I tease, flashing him a playful smile.

He scoffs. "I can't argue with that logic."

"Everyone knows that's a rule," I say, playfully sticking my tongue out.

We share the cupcakes, sitting side by side on the small green couch that sits beside my bookcase. Our shoulders brush, the proximity sending waves of electricity through me, making my pulse quicken. I listen to what he's been doing, but all too soon, Gabe checks his watch. "I should get going. Early day tomorrow."

A wave of disappointment crashes over me, settling heavily in my stomach. Without a word, I rise and walk him to the door.

There's an awkward pause as we stand in the doorway, and the air thickens. I quickly snap out of it so I don't push myself up and kiss him.

"Thanks again for everything, Gabe," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper. "This was the best birthday." My eyes meet his, holding a mix of gratitude and something more, something I prefer not to name.

Gabe hesitates, then pulls me into another warm hug. It feels like a safe haven in a sea of mixed emotions. As he steps back, our eyes meet again, and there's a quick moment where it feels like he might lean closer. Just close enough to kiss me. My heart leaps into my throat, but at the last second, he turns, his lips brushing my cheek instead.

"Good night, Ame," he murmurs. And then he's gone, leaving me standing in the doorway stunned as I watch him disappear toward the stairs.

Foolish girl. When will I learn? He's just a friend. That's all he'll ever be.With a resigned sigh, I close the door.

I clean up the remnants of our impromptu birthday celebration, replaying the evening in my mind.I'm genuinely touched that Gabe remembered my birthday and put so much effort into making it special. Yet, beneath it all, there's an undercurrent of disappointment—I wanted a lot more than a sweatshirt, food, and a song.

All I want is him. Both of us falling madly in love with each other, a promise of forever and . . . I sigh because I sound stupid.

After rinsing the dishes, I step out onto my small balcony overlooking the city. The night air is cool and crisp. I wrap my arms around myself, lost in thought.

My mind turns to the wish I made—to find meaning and purpose. I'm in my sophomore year of college and yet, I feel like I don't know where I'm heading. I envy some of my friends—the ones who have their careers mapped out while I flounder, rudderless and unsure.

But how can I do that when my father keeps reminding me that I have to go to law school? Maybe, just maybe, this time he'll let me leave the state, but only if I keep up with my grades. Perhaps I should consider Columbia. He says it as if they'll have me. Doubtful.

What I would like to do is restore art or old houses or . . . I'm not sure what exactly, but I want to do something that preserves history. But I can't even dare to dream of creating my own path. The truth is, I'm afraid. Afraid of making the wrong choice. Of committing to one thing only to regret it because maybe my father was right. Or perhaps it's just that I don't have the courage to go against his wishes. Paralyzed by fear and indecision while everyone else moves forward.

Izzy says to just get through law school . . . that it's not so bad. But can I survive three more years toeing the line? Burying my dreams just to please Dad? I don't know if I'm that strong.

My phone chimes, jolting me from my thoughts. It's a text from Gabe.

Gabe: Made it home safe. Thanks again for a great night. Let's do it again soon. I've missed you.

Ameline: Missed you, too. Definitely repeat soon. Good night. :smile: emoji

Taking a deep breath, I turn to head back inside, ready to go to bed.

I set my phone down, Gabe's words lingering in my mind. I've missed you. Did he mean that platonically, or . . . was there something more? My heart dares to hope, but I quickly squash the feeling. It's probably wishful thinking.

I change into the sweatshirt he gave me, enveloped in softness that still smells faintly of him.

As I drift off, I think back to our almost-kiss at the door, the charged moment stretching between us. What if I had turned my head just so, pressing my lips to his? Let my body melt into his strong arms?

In my dreams I'm back in my apartment, Gabe getting up to leave after another cozy dinner. But this time as he reaches the door, I grab his hand and pull him back around to face me. I press close and whisper, "Don't go. . ."

He searches my face, eyes darkening. Then his mouth descends on mine in a searing kiss. My hands slide up his chest and curl around his neck as our bodies press together. He kicks the door shut and walks me backward until my back hits the wall, all without breaking the kiss.

But that isn't enough. As my mouth opens to let his tongue dart inside, the soft kiss becomes desperate. Urgent. Right then, his hands roam my body as my fingers tug at his button down shirt, untucking it from his jeans. I fumble with the buttons, desperate to feel his bare skin on mine. He shrugs out of the shirt and reaches for the hem of my top. I lift my arms and let him pull it over my head.

We stumble back inside my studio, leaving a trail of discarded clothes behind us. He lays me back on the bed, his warm weight settling over me. I arch into him as his lips blaze a trail down my neck. Just as his fingers find the clasp of my bra, he stills.

"I should go," Dream-Gabe murmurs. "We can't do this, Ame."

"But why?" The words escape my lips, a desperate plea, my lungs deflating as if all the air has been sucked out of the room.

Gabe leans in, his lips grazing my forehead in a tender, yet agonizingly brief gesture of love, or maybe he's being kind because he can't give me what I want.

"This isn't right. Sorry, this . . . Us, it can't ever happen," he murmurs, almost apologetic.

He pulls away, and I watch, feeling hollow, as he moves toward the door. My hand reaches out, grasping at the empty air he leaves behind. The room suddenly feels plain and empty without him.

As the final threads of the dream unravel, my eyes flutter open, breaking the spell of that magical kiss. For a moment I remain motionless, disoriented as I try to calm the ache between my legs and in my heart.

Slowly, reality seeps back in, the familiar flowery scents of my studio pull me back into the present. I let out a deep steadying breath. Sitting up, I run a hand through my tangled hair and try to brush away the lingering sensations trickling through my mind and body. I rub my eyes, trying to erase the vivid images that felt so real, so tangible.

But what hurt the most were his words. "Us, it can't ever happen." I've dreamt of Gabe before, but nothing like this—nothing this intense.

"Let's try this, Gabe, please," I whisper to the vacant space, but he doesn't respond. There's just a painful silence.

The quiet aftermath of my shattered dream.

Glancing at the clock, I groan. It's five in the morning. There's no chance of going back to sleep now, not with my thoughts spinning like this. I slip out of bed and pad to the bathroom on unsteady legs. Splashing cool water on my face helps ground me, washing away the haze of desire and all the vivid memories of that dream.

Yet beneath the surface, questions whirl. Why did Gabe show up unexpectedly last night? And did we almost kiss or was it just me hoping that we . . .?

I cut off that train of thought abruptly. We're just friends. I can't afford to get swept away by fantasies.

With a sigh, I stare at my reflection. The girl looking back has shadows under her eyes and cheeks flushed with frustration.

"Get it together," I tell her silently. "It was only a dream. A fucking painful dream."

But even as I try to talk myself down, I know it's pointless. This was no ordinary dream—it was vivid, intensely real. I can still feel the ghost of his fingers on my skin, the heat of his mouth seeking mine. Those sensations will be seared into my memory for days, even weeks to come.

Some wishes are hard to forget, even once the candles go out, but the ache remains burning bright somewhere deep inside my soul. I'll have to endure the bittersweet aftertaste. In the meantime, there's coffee to brew and studying that won't do itself.

The best I can hope for now is a distraction to dull the relentless wanting.