The Beginner's Guide to Henry and Gabriella

| 26 | should've cashed in your heartbreak when you had the chance

Gabriella's POV

I ached to forget about yesterday—at least half of it. But I couldn't. I was upset with Lyla. I was angry with Magdalena. And I couldn't stop thinking about Henry.

The latter had no connection with the former, but every time I pictured my supposed friend's face all over my ex-boyfriend's mouth, my mind wandered towards my face all over Henry's—

You sound delusional, sweetheart.

The point was, my emotions were out of whack.

The morning sun peeked through my bay window, casting a line-patterned shadow on the wooden floors. Groaning at the abhorrent brightness, I yanked the covers over my head, forcing my heavy and dry eyes closed. I spent the entire night staring at the ceiling fan, too pissed and hurt to fall asleep.

Distant footsteps lingered outside my room, followed by a light knock on my door.

"I'm not awake," I whined, scrunching into a ball.

Whoever it was, disregarded my remark. I could hear their faint breathing as they shut my door. If this were a horror movie, the killer would love me and my lack of flight or fight senses.

My bed sunk.

Oh, well. At least I'll see my grandmother, again, or Helen Keller, depending on where I go.

"You looked really upset when you got home yesterday." It was my mom. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I stuck my head outside of the thick duvet, unbothered with the strands of tangled hair falling in front of my face. "You were asleep when I got home. How would you know?"

"You forget that I raised you," she rolled her eyes, nudging my leg. "Move over."

I sighed loudly through my nose, scooching to the other side of my full-sized bed as she slid inside next to me. We smiled at each other. We hadn't shared a bed like this since I was seven. Instinctively, she threw her arm around my shoulder, and I rested my head in the crook of her neck. Minutes passed before she uttered another word. As if she needed the silence.

"That night we left your father." Her soft voice wavered. It's been a very long time since she's mentioned him. It's been a while since I've thought about him. She held onto me tighter as if she was making sure I was still there. "You closed yourself off to everyone—even me. You don't like telling us what bothers you, but I always know. I don't pressure you or coerce you to tell me because I know you will when you're ready."

"Do you ever think about him?" I surprise myself by asking.

She didn't flinch. "No."

"Because he hurt you."

She snapped her head in my direction. "Because he hurt you."

Her brown eyes wore the same look from ten years ago. Distressed, angry, and regretful all at once.

Ten-year-old Xavier got a burning fever in the middle of the night. My mom rushed him to the hospital, leaving me with my father. She didn't bother waking me up. She had no reason to. She believed I was safe with the man lying next to her.

The fire alarm went off in the morning. A mixture of white and grey solemn clouds billowed in the air inside my room. They were coming from the crevices of my bedroom door. I was scared. Terrified. Because no one was calling my name. No one was screaming. Yet, I still got out of bed, slipped on my shoes, coughing from the burnt air. I reached for the door, and it didn't open. I tried again, but it still wouldn't budge. I was locked inside my room, and my chest tightened, and it hurt to breathe. I banged on the door, calling out for my mom. For Xavier. For my father. Until my lungs felt thick. Until my voice dimmed. Until I couldn't breathe anymore.