It seems all she's been doing these past few weeks is cry. It has been an emotional rollercoaster. And yet, each time she does so in Gabriel's arms, it seems fine; she feels right as rain even if she's bawling.
"Stop crying," Gabriel whispers; he flashes a faint smile. "Let's talk."
Claire sniffles. She lets Gabriel lead her to a divan, where she could it down in comfort and perhaps be able to take what he's about to say. There's something about Gabriel that makes her sense some impending doom—is he going to say that classic, "It's not you, it's me" bullshit? Is he going to say, "Maybe we'd need some space apart?"
"Don't worry about Mom," Gabriel instead says. "If you haven't noticed, she's like a gorilla, all sound and fury signifying nothing. She's getting old, you know. She gets too touchy at times."
"Gab," she says. "I think 'touchy' is an extreme understatement. Did you hear what she said about me?"
