“I’m sorry,” I tell him quickly, panicking, realizing I don’t even have the luxury of a mask to conceal my lack of makeup and lipstick. I feel very naked and exposed in my powder blue pajamas. I rub the back of my hand over my eyes. “I’m not at the hospital. There’s no news about her yet…”
“I need to know your name,” he says simply.
This makes me pause. “You do? Why?”
He stares at me hard, his forehead tightening with deep lines. “I don’t know,” he responds, hesitantly.
I bite my lip. It might be the same reason that I’ve been googling him all night. Crap. I’m in trouble.
“Well, what’s your name?” I ask him, like I haven’t just read thirteen biographies. Like I’m trying to hold onto some kind of sense of propriety.
“Gabriel Samuel Jean Delacroix,” he answers. “I’m 42 years old, and I teach at the Sorbonne.”
“My name is Camilla,” I respond.
“Oh,” he responds, and I see a flash of emotion in his eyes. “My mother’s name was Camille.”
“What happened to your mother?” I ask him softly. It’s the second time he’s mentioned her.
“Lung cancer. It was her dying wish that I stop smoking,” he explains. Then he sighs. “Also… she wanted me to marry Yvette. I’ve tried to make it work for so many years, just to honor my mother’s memory. In case she’s looking down on me.”
“But I thought Death is Final,” I say teasingly, before realizing that I’m not supposed to know his entire body of work after meeting him a few hours ago. Crap.
A grin lights up his already handsome face. “I knew it! You googled me.”
Shit. Well, that’s embarrassing. “Just a quick Google search. Like three seconds—I just skimmed the top few articles, nothing too in depth.” A hot blush darkens my cheeks, and I’m sure he knows I’m lying. I can see the victory painted all over his face. “So, why are you calling me, Professor Delacroix?”
“I’m not sure, Camilla,” he says honestly. “But I suppose… no one has told me to ‘shut the fuck up’ in a very long time.”
“You deserved it.”
He smiles at me.
I smile back at him.
We just stare at each other for a good, long minute, with both of our eyes shining stupidly. Both of us smiling like idiots until our faces hurt.
Oh, god. I’m in trouble now.
Pray for me.
I can’t keep myself from reading Gabriel’s books at every chance I get.
I spend days soaking up every word. I am fascinated by him, and craving to know more. I flip through the pages hungrily, wondering about what happened in his life to make him so cynical and cold.
But the best part is when he calls me, and I can learn about him directly. I feel such a rush of excitement to see his name lighting up my phone. And he’s calling me… a lot.
“This book is kicking my ass today,” he says with a groan. He stretches back in his office chair. “How’s Yvette? Any improvement?”
“Not yet. Her lungs will need more time to heal up. What are you currently working on?” I ask him.
“It’s inspired by the pandemic,” he explains. “Working title: SOLITUDE IS SPIRITUAL—how isolation and avoiding all other human beings can soothe your soul.”
I try to restrain myself from crinkling my nose, but I have to make a face. “Gabriel, that sounds like the smelliest steaming pile of... inaccurate information that I’ve ever heard. There’s a study that compares the negative health effects of loneliness to smoking and obesity. The isolation is literally killing people, causing all kind of psychological issues, stunting the social development of children…”
“Yes, yes, but isn’t it also more peaceful?”
“Not for me,” I tell him. “Watching people die all day is… really violent. And then I have to come home and be alone, with no one to hug or complain to. It’s like the horrible moments follow me around and they’re just always swimming around in my head. I don’t have real people… I have ghosts.”
“Interesting,” he says, and he actually puts down the phone so he can type on his keyboard and make some notes. “Maybe I could interview you for my book. Have you ever considered getting a roommate or a pet, or doing some social activities to ease the loneliness? Like a workout class?
“Well, my place isn’t big enough for a roommate. I work too much for a pet. Most social classes are cancelled right now… but I have thought about getting a plant of some sort. Probably a cactus, so it won’t die easily if I work long hours and forget about it for a week.”
Gabriel’s face lights up. He smiles and his brows raise, creating adorable lines on his forehead. Oh my goodness. I’ve never found a man’s forehead wrinkles to be so cute, and I am staring way too much.
“I happen to be a cactus expert!” he declares. “Put on some warm clothes and take me to your nearest cactus shop, and I will help you pick out the perfect cactus. I promise you won’t be disappointed by my succulent skills.”
“I would love to see your succulent skills,” I tell him as I get up to follow his instructions. And then I blush at how unintentionally naughty that sounds. Why does this feel like a video-date? Going to a cactus shop together? It’s rather sweet and special. But where do I even find a cactus shop? I’ll figure it out—Gabe is way too excited, and I’ll buy any prickly green thing he tells me to buy, just to see him smile.
I put the cactus beside my bed, near where my cell phone charges, and I look at it happily every morning and night. We gave it a name together… it’s called Arthur. So far, it is actually making me less lonely. One night, Gabriel video calls me after a long shift, when I am so tired that I
