Chapter 15 - What Daniel Knew
We went to an all-night diner three blocks away.
Daniel ordered coffee.
I ordered nothing.
For several minutes, he stared through the window.
“You probably think I’m going to give you some speech about staying away from her.”
“I considered the possibility.”
“I’m not.”
That surprised me.
He rubbed a thumb along the edge of his coffee cup.
“Isabelle and I dated.”
Past tense.
Something shamefully close to relief moved through me.
I did not let it reach my face.
“For about six months,” he continued. “We stopped two months ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
Daniel looked at me sharply.
“Are you?”
“I’m trying to become the kind of person who can mean that sentence.”
He laughed.
“Fair.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because the gossip story made everything messy, and because she might ask you for more help with the shop.”
I waited.
Daniel leaned forward.
“She ended things with me because she said she couldn’t tell whether she wanted a future with me or whether I simply felt safe because I wasn’t you.”
The words hurt.
Not because they insulted me.
Because they made sense.
“She cared about you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad.”
He stared at me.
“You’re terrible at lying.”
“I’m improving in the opposite direction.”
That earned another brief laugh.
Then Daniel became serious.
“I loved her.”
I looked down.
“I might still.”
There was nothing for me to say.
“But she wasn’t fully there. And I realized I was starting to wait for her to become ready in a way that wasn’t fair to either of us.”
He looked toward the street.
“So we stopped.”
“Why remain friends?”
“Because adults sometimes do that.”
“I’m still learning.”
“I noticed.”
Silence.
Then Daniel said something I did not expect.
“She defended you.”
My eyes lifted.
“Not what you did. You.”
I said nothing.
“When the articles got ugly, people called you a narcissist, a monster, all kinds of things. She hated it.”
“Why?”
“She said reducing you to the worst thing you did was just another way of refusing to understand what happened.”
My throat tightened.
Daniel shook his head.
“Don’t turn that into romance.”
“I won’t.”
“She’s not waiting for you.”
“I know.”
“She may never want you again.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you still wearing that expression?”
“What expression?”
“Like someone handed you oxygen.”
I looked down at the table.
Because perhaps he had.
Not the part about their breakup.
The part where Isabelle could see what I had done and still believe I was more than it.
That was not forgiveness.
It was something rarer.
Accuracy.
Daniel paid for his coffee.
At the door, he stopped.
“One more thing.”
I braced myself.
“The landlord offered Isabelle a new lease after the fire.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“It isn’t.”
He handed me a photograph of several pages.
Rent increase.
Personal guarantee.
Repair costs shifted to tenant.
Predatory.
“Why show me?”
“Because she’s exhausted, and you understand contracts like this.”
“She asked you to?”
“No.”
I handed the phone back.
“Then I can’t interfere.”
Daniel studied me.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“A year ago, I would’ve hated you.”
“And now?”
“I still don’t particularly enjoy you.”
“Comforting.”
“But I understand why she’s confused.”
I left the diner at sunrise.
At ten that morning, Isabelle called.
“Daniel says he told you about the lease.”
“He showed me one page.”
“He shouldn’t have.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“I know.”
A pause.
“Would you look at it?”
“Yes.”
“As advice.”
“Yes.”
“No buying the building.”
I closed my eyes.
“That was going to be my first suggestion.”
She laughed.
“Gabriel.”
“I’m joking.”
The documents arrived through email.
I reviewed them with a real-estate attorney who agreed to consult for Bell & Thread at market rate, billed directly to Isabelle.
No favors hidden inside gifts.
No debt.
The landlord was trying to use the fire to shift long-term building maintenance onto her.
Our attorney drafted revisions.
Isabelle negotiated them herself.
Three days later, she called.
“He accepted.”
“Good.”
“I kept the personal guarantee capped.”
“Good.”
“And got rent abatement during repairs.”
“Very good.”
She was quiet.
Then:
“Daniel told you we broke up.”
It was not a question.
“Yes.”
“Are you happy?”
The safest answer would have been no.
The truthful answer was more complicated.
“I’m sad you were hurt.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I sat back.
“Yes,” I said. “Part of me is happy. I’m not proud of that part, but pretending it isn’t there would be another lie.”
She breathed out.
“Thank you.”
“Does that make you angry?”
“No.”
Her voice softened.
“It makes me trust the answer.”
We did not speak for several seconds.
Then she said, “The temporary classroom opens Monday.”
“I hope it goes well.”
“Gabriel?”
“Yes?”
“You can come by sometime.”
My heart stopped behaving intelligently.
“As a guest?”
“As Gabriel.”
That was different.
I understood immediately how dangerous it would be to demand that it mean more.
May you like
So I said only:
“I’d like that.”
