3. Gabi
THREE
GABI
I pulled into the crushed-shell driveway beside Hoyt’s battered F-150. He’d bought it slightly used the summer I’d left for college and had put countless miles on it since as he and Caroline had renovated this house, taking it from the run-down duplex it had been when he bought it to the home it was today. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the restored beach house, its weathered blue clapboard siding and white trim glowing in the golden light. Music and laughter drifted through the screened windows, as it often did. After a childhood where we’d all been forced to stay quiet, creeping around lest we set off our unpredictable father’s temper, my sister made sure her own brood felt comfortable taking up space and making noise. Theirs was a house full of love. And it was home sweet temporary home.
At least until I found my own place.
Grabbing my medical bag from the passenger seat, I climbed the wooden steps to the wraparound porch. Through the front window, I caught glimpses of movement in the kitchen—Caroline’s dark head bent over the stove, Hoyt’s tall frame reaching into an upper cabinet. I hadn’t missed dinner after all. At the front door, my hand hesitated on the knob. After ten hours of dealing with patients, I craved the quiet of my upstairs bedroom. But the faint smell of garlic and olive oil as I let myself inside had my stomach growling loud enough to wake the dead.
“Look who finally made it home!” Caroline’s voice rang out as I shut the door behind me.
I dropped my bag by the stairs and picked my way through a maze of toys in the living room, back to the spacious kitchen.
The room was warm and inviting, with an array of herbs growing in painted clay pots along the windowsill of the wide window that overlooked the dunes. Bright stainless steel pots hung from the ceiling rack over the rustic island that was the centerpiece of the space. It was the kind of kitchen Caroline had always wanted.
The woman herself wiped her hands on a dishtowel and turned to flash a bright smile my way. “I was starting to think we’d have to send out a search party.”
“Clinic ran late, and I popped by the Brewhouse for a drink before I came home.” I gave the air a sniff. “Is that albondigas I smell?” The rich aroma of Mexican meatball soup made my mouth water.
“With extra cilantro, just how you like it.” With one hand resting on the swell of her baby bump, Caroline stirred the pot with a wooden spoon. “And I made fresh tortillas because the little alien demanded it.”
“Thanks to the little alien.” I draped an arm around her shoulders. “You feeling okay? Not doing too much?”
“I’ll have you know it’s been a whole three days since I vomited. I think we’re past the worst.”
Hoyt and I exchanged knowing looks. With her previous two pregnancies, the morning sickness hadn’t fully abated until the start of her third trimester.
A thundering of feet on the stairs rattled the hanging pots. “Tía Gabi!”
Audrey crashed into my legs, her dark curls wild around her face. Logan wasn’t far behind, brandishing a crayon drawing. “Look what I made!”
I knelt down to properly admire the artwork—a surprisingly detailed fire truck rendered in red and yellow. “This is amazing, mijo .”
“It’s for Daddy’s station!” Logan beamed, showing off the gap where his front teeth used to be.
The chaos and noise washed over me. Courtesy of that drink at the Brewhouse, I managed to smile instead of wince. I loved these two to pieces and never wanted to make them think otherwise.
“Alright monsters, wash those hands if you want dinner.” Hoyt’s voice rang with the natural authority honed over years of firefighting. The kids scrambled toward the bathroom, shoving each other to be first.
“Need help with anything?” I moved to the cabinet for plates.
“Grab the sour cream from the fridge?” Caroline ladled the steaming soup into bowls, while Hoyt stacked still-warm tortillas on a plate lined with a bright, embroidered cloth.
The kids raced back, hands thrust out for inspection. “Clean enough?” Audrey wiggled her fingers.
“Pass inspection.” Hoyt gave them each a playful salute. “Now help your Tía set the table.”
We moved around each other in the familiar dance of family dinner prep, the kids carefully carrying napkins and spoons while the adults handled the hot dishes. The kitchen filled with steam from the soup, the smell of fresh tortillas, and the sound of happy chatter.
Once we settled at the table, Caroline passed me a warm tortilla. “How was your day?”
I tore off a piece and dunked it in my soup. “Busy. Everyone’s coming in for last-minute prescriptions before the storm. Not that it’ll make much difference if it hits before the pharmacy has a chance to restock.” That was the reality of being on an island. We didn’t necessarily have access to everything all the time, and when weather cut us off from the mainland, we had to make do. “I put in an extra order myself, but I don’t know if it’ll make it in on the last ferry or not.”
“Smart thinking ahead.” Hoyt helped Logan cut his meatballs into smaller pieces. “Chief’s got us doing inventory checks at the station. Making sure all the generators are fueled up, chainsaws are sharp.”
“Speaking of prep...” Caroline shot her husband a look. “When are you putting up our shutters?”
“Tomorrow morning, before shift. Already got the brackets cleaned out yesterday.” He reached across the table to wipe sauce from Audrey’s chin. “Though honestly, you should just pack up and head to Mom and Dad’s tonight. No point waiting.”
“We’ll go tomorrow after you finish the shutters.” Caroline’s tone brooked no argument. “I want to make sure everything’s secured first.”
I stirred my soup. “Need help with anything? I can come by after clinic hours.”
“Got it covered, sis.” Caroline squeezed my hand. “You focus on the medical center prep. How many patients are staying through the storm?”
“Thankfully, none. So far, anyway.” Our clinic had the capacity to house up to four patients for the short term, but we weren’t a hospital. Anything more serious than could be dealt with on site was sent to bigger facilities on the mainland or up at Nag’s Head. I hoped none of those beds became necessary in the wake of the hurricane. “Either way, we’ve got the generator ready and enough supplies to get us through up to a week, depending on circumstances. And I’m coordinating with some of my staff and the EMTs from the fire station to set up a makeshift clinic at the community center, in case it’s needed.”
“Smart thinking. Coast Guard’s sending a team down tomorrow too,” Hoyt said between bites. “They’re bunking at the station while they help with prep. Chief’s got them doing door-to-door checks with us, making sure everyone’s got evacuation plans. and whatnot.”
My spoon clattered against the bowl. Heat crept up my neck as three pairs of eyes turned to me.
“Sorry.” I picked up my spoon, focusing on the chunks of potato floating in my soup. My heart thudded against my ribs.
Don’t be ridiculous , I ordered myself. It was completely normal for the Coast Guard to help during a hurricane. It wasn’t like I’d be seeing that particular Coastguardsman. He was on the other side of the country, living his best life without me. There was no reason whatsoever for me to feel like I’d just been punched in the stomach.
“Gabi?” Caroline’s voice was soft, concern etched across her features. “You okay?”
“Just tired.” I pushed back from the table, my appetite vanishing. “Think I’m gonna head up. Tomorrow’s going to be crazy at the clinic.”
Caroline frowned. “You haven’t finished your soup.”
“I had some appetizers at the Brewhouse.” The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. “Really, I’m fine. Just need some sleep.”
“Want me to save you a bowl for later?” Caroline’s dark eyes studied my face.
“Please.” I kissed the top of her head, then bent to hug the kids. “Goodnight monsters. Be good for your mama.”
“Night Tía!” they chorused.
I took my bowl to the sink, then retreated. My medical bag was where I’d left it by the stairs. I grabbed it, going up two steps at a time. In my room, I closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a shaky breath.
Hurricane Daniel. That hadn’t been the actual name of the storm that had trapped me in a stairwell my second year of residency, during the worst storm to hit New Orleans since Katrina. But it was how I thought of the man who’d been there to keep me sane during those long hours. Because he’d swept into my carefully ordered life and disrupted everything before blowing back out again.
My head dropped back against the door as the memories flooded in. How the wind had howled outside that concrete tunnel. Rain pelting the building. Daniel’s steady voice with that hypnotic drawl that had a Cajun edge, walking me through Coast Guard protocol, explaining how they tracked storms. The way his hands had sketched patterns in the air as he detailed wind rotation and pressure systems.
The power had flickered, then died. And his fingers had found mine in the dark, giving me an anchor in the storm. I’d turned toward him as the only stable thing and somehow our mouths had brushed. An accident at first. Then so very much not as we’d dove at each other, his hands tangling in my hair as he’d pressed me back against the wall and made me forget about everything but the storm he stirred inside me.
I shoved away from the door, pacing my room. It hardly mattered anymore. That kiss. The time that followed when we’d spent every spare moment together. None of it had meant enough to make him stay. Or even discuss staying. He’d just announced one day that he’d been promoted and was moving to Seattle. As if my opinion, our relationship, hadn’t factored into his decision at all. And no matter how he’d acted, I knew it had been a choice.
The wood floor creaked beneath my bare feet as I prowled to the window. Beyond the glass, beach grasses whipped in the strengthening wind. Another storm was coming. But I’d weather it just fine. I was a Carrera, after all. We’d survived everything life threw at us—an abusive father, the death of our mother, med school debt. A broken heart. What was one more hurricane in the face of all that?