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I don’t believe that Max is in love with me. I believe he hates Gabriel, that’s all. I think he’s madly jealous of him—and he wants to take everything that belongs to Gabriel, which includes me. But now that I’ve stood up to him, I don’t think he’ll bother me again—at least I hope not. Not for a while, anyway.
So, for the moment, I’m going to remain silent.
Of course, Gabriel can read me like a book. Or maybe I’m just not a very good actress. Last night, as we were getting ready for bed, he said I’d been weird the whole time Max was there.
“I was just tired.”
“No, it was more than that. You were so distant. You might have made more of an effort. We barely ever see him. I don’t know why you have such a problem with him.”
“I don’t. It was nothing to do with Max. I was distracted, I was thinking about work. I’m behind with the exhibition—it’s all I can think about.” I said this with as much conviction as I could muster.
Gabriel gave me a disbelieving look but he let it go, for the moment. I’ll have to face it again next time we see Max—but something tells me that won’t be for a while.
I feel better for having written this down. I feel safer, somehow, having it on paper. It means I have some evidence—some proof.
If it ever comes to that.
JULY 26
It’s my birthday today. I’m thirty-three years old.
It’s strange—it’s older than I ever saw myself as being; my imagination only ever extended this far. I’ve outlived my mother now—it’s an unsteady feeling, being older than she was. She got to thirty- two, and then she stopped. Now I’ve outlived her, and won’t stop. I will grow older and older—but she won’t.
Gabriel was so sweet this morning—he kissed me awake and presented me with thirty-three red roses. They were beautiful. He pricked his finger on one of the thorns. A bloodred teardrop. It was perfect.
Then he took me for a picnic in the park for breakfast. The sun was barely up, so the heat wasn’t unbearable. A cool breeze was coming off the water and the air smelled of cut grass. We lay by the pond under a weeping willow, on the blue blanket we bought in Mexico. The willow branches formed a canopy over us, and the sun burned hazily through the leaves. We drank champagne and ate small sweet tomatoes with smoked salmon and slivers of bread. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, was a vague feeling of familiarity, a nagging sense of déjà vu I couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was simply a recollection of childhood stories, fairy tales, and magical trees being gateways to