His Mafia Queen

Falling

RILEY

There's a moment in every relationship when you come to a fork in the road. It usually comes early on, in the first week or the first month.

It's when you get a glimpse of the other person and you know, deep down, whether this will end soon.

Until Gabriel, I've only gotten one message from previous relationships.

This will end.

Soon.

Sometimes the message is loud and clear, like the guy I dated a few times who agreed to go to sushi, then said he hated raw fish. Sometimes the message is a little more subtle, like when one date repeatedly made a weird snorting noise with his sinuses.

But I haven't gotten any such messages from Gabriel.

Quite the opposite, actually. The kindness he showed in Miami with my feet, and the gentle caring he displays almost every time we see each other, makes me want to relax and enjoy this ride.

I can't get the reality out of my head: he's a made man. But I'm trying to shove that aside, because these past several weeks since Miami have been the best I've had in years. Maybe in my entire adult life.

I could chalk it up to the sex, which is incendiary, but it's more than that. It's the way Gabriel asks me questions about my day, and wants to know my opinion on things. It's how he holds doors open for me, and the way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention. It's how he looks younger and less stressed when he sleeps in my arms, and how he kisses me hello like he's a man stranded in the desert who needs water.

# # #

Since our one-night getaway in Miami, Gabriel and I have fallen into a routine. I spend a couple weeknights at his house, sometimes fewer if he's traveling for business. Weekends are for him, and we sometimes go out on his yacht, or take his jet to Miami or The Bahamas. He keeps talking about a longer stay in New York, but I have to wait until I get vacation at the newspaper for that.

I'm surprised he's so tolerant of my job, but I don't tell him this. For some reason, I expected a mafioso to have a problem with his girlfriend working a demanding job, but Gabriel is nothing but encouraging. He reads all my fluffy feature articles, even the one about adopting Easter bunnies.

"What do you think Reese would do with a bunny?" he muses.

"Eat it," I deadpan, and we laugh.

On Sunday nights when I'm back at home, I always get a little depressed. I'm certain Gabriel wouldn't mind if I stay, but something tells me I should keep my distance just a little, maintain a bit of mystery.

Sunday nights are also when I video chat with my Mom. I don't want to do that from Gabriel's house because that would be inviting all sorts of questions from her. Ones I might not be able to answer, like where is this relationship with this man going?

Tonight, I'm at home after being at Gabriel's all weekend. The usual Sunday Scaries are out in full force in my brain, an irrational parade of fears, punctuated by waves of dread.

I pace around my little, dumpy apartment, wondering if I should call Gabriel and tell him how I'm feeling. Would that be too needy of me? I'm certain he'd come get me, insist that I stay with him, and try to cheer me up.

No, I need to put on my big girl panties and be an adult. Prepare for the week ahead, do shitty adult stuff like laundry and maybe even balance my checkbook. I flop on my sofa and let out a guttural moan. I hate the feeling of the weekend being over. It's as if time for me is evaporating with each tick of the clock toward Monday morning.