Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
GAbrIEL | FLORENCE
I’m not sure if it’s the sun peaking through the curtains that wakes me or the blaring migraine I have.
I force my eyes to slowly open and the first thing I see is a glass of water and painkillers on my nightstand.
I sit up, hissing when my head pounds painfully, and throw back the pills as I chug the whole glass of water.
While I wait for the pills to kick in, I try to remember what happened yesterday and how I managed to shower, change, and get myself to bed in the state I was in, and that’s when I remember Zalea.
She came here with Paolo last night, and even though he left, she stayed to take care of me. After everything I’ve done to her, she still chose to take care of me instead of leaving me to figure it out on my own, the way I’ve always left her.
I don’t deserve her. She should be with someone who chooses her every single time, who doesn’t run when things get hard, who’s there when she needs him. Because I realized, I don’t know how to be the person she deserves.
It was such a jarring realization that I did the one thing I’ve never done—I got wasted to numb the pain.
A familiar pressure tightens in my chest, like someone’s slipped their hand between my ribs and they’re slowly tightening their grip. It’s the same feeling I’ve been battling every single day for three weeks since Zalea told me about my daughter.
I blink up at the ceiling, trying to ground myself, but the room feels small, and the air too thick. My lungs don’t fill the way they’re supposed to, and my breathing shallows as my heart begins to pound.
I swallow as my ears start to ring, a low hum building at the base of my skull.
“You’re fine,” I whisper to myself as I shift in bed.
My hands feel strange, almost like they’re going numb. I flex my fingers but the sensation spreads up my arms.
“Never mind,” I wheeze. “You’re not fine.”
My chest tightens further and my throat feels like it’s sealing shut, as if an invisible hand is wrapping around it and squeezing.
“No, no, no.”
My heart slams erratically, like it’s lost control, and I press my palm flat against my sternum as if I can physically steady it, but I still can’t breathe.
I open my mouth wider, dragging in air, but it feels like I’m breathing through a straw. My lungs won’t cooperate and I’m positive I’m going to pass out—or worse. My brain latches onto the thought instantly.
You’re having a heart attack, I think to myself. You’re dying.
My vision blurs at the edges and a cold sweat breaks out across my skin. Every sound feels amplified and I try to take a slow breath like I’ve done a hundred times before a big heat.
In and out.
But my body won’t listen. Each inhale feels choppy and my chest spasms because I can’t get enough oxygen. The fear becomes physical, like a wave crashing over me violently, I feel like I might drown in it.
I swing my legs off the bed and stumble to my feet. Move! I shout in my head, because if I don’t, I’m going to die.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m gripping the side of the sink, staring at my reflection. My eyes are wide, my skin pale and clammy, and my chest is heaving.
I look wild.
My hands shake as I turn the faucet handle all the way to cold, and the water blasts out. I shove my head under it without hesitation, gasping as icy water drenches my hair and face. The shock steals the breath from my lungs for a split second, and then I gasp again.
I grip the edge of the counter as droplets run down my neck and I force my eyes open, staring at my reflection again. I look unhinged, but not like I’m dying anymore. I suck in air through my nose, slower this time, and hold it for three seconds before I let it go.
My heart is still racing, but it’s no longer trying to break through my ribs. The pounding shifts from violent to frantic, then from frantic to just fast. The ringing in my ears dulls and the room steadies.
I drag the faucet off, water dripping from my hair into the sink as my shirt clings to my back. My hands are trembling like I just ran a marathon, and in a way I guess I did. I just outran my own mind.
I slide down the cabinet slowly until I’m sitting on the bathroom floor, back against the wall.
“You’re fine,” I mutter hoarsely.
God. The way my brain can turn on me is terrifying. The way one simple thought can spiral into catastrophe.
I close my eyes and inhale again, this one filling my lungs almost completely, and the relief is so strong that tears prick behind my eyes. The comedown always hits hard after a panic attack—my limbs feel heavy, my head buzzes faintly, and I feel wrung out from the inside.
“What was that?” A quiet voice asks.
I open my eyes to find Zalea standing just inside the bedroom, staring at me in complete shock.
Fuck.
I never wanted her to see that. But I promised myself if I came back here, if I was going to try and fix what I broke, I’d stop hiding. I’d be honest and I’d ask the same from her.
“That was a panic attack,” I mutter, as I push myself to stand, legs still slightly unsteady but functional.
“When did you start having those?” She asks softly.
She watches me as I reach back and turn off the bathroom light, then walk past her into the bedroom. My clothes are still damp as I climb into bed, the sheets cool against my overheated skin.
I shrug like it’s nothing. “Since my first ever tour.”
Her jaw drops and she blinks like she misheard me. “Your first tour?”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” There’s hurt in her voice. “You never once said you were struggling.”
“Because I thought they made me look weak,” I admit, and the word tastes bitter. “And I never wanted to look weak in front of you, Zalea.”
Silence stretches between us as she holds my gaze.
“When was the last one before today?” she asks carefully.
I hold her gaze. “Yesterday.”
She flinches. “And before that?”
“The day before.”
Her breath stutters and she slowly lowers herself onto the edge of the bed, keeping space between us.
“Gabriel…” Her voice cracks. “Have you been having panic attacks every day since I told you about the pregnancy?”
My jaw tightens. This is the part I could lie about to save her from the guilt she’s going to feel, but I don’t.
I nod and the truth lands between us like a dropped weight.
She presses a hand to her stomach like she’s been physically hit, and a broken sound escapes from her throat as tears instantly well in her eyes.
“Hey,” I say quickly, sitting up despite the lingering tremor in my chest. “Don’t cry over me, baby. I deserve this after everything I put you through.”
“No,” she says, her voice shaking. “No one deserves to experience a panic attack every single day, Gabriel. Especially not like that, not what I just saw.”
Her tears spill over, devastated, and somehow that hurts worse than the panic ever did. I reach for her slowly, giving her room to pull away if she wants to. The second my fingers brush her wrist, she collapses into me like she’s been holding herself upright by sheer will.
“Hey,” I murmur, wrapping my arms around her. “Come here.”
She buries her face in my chest, her shoulder shaking. I hold her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing slow circles into her spine like I’m trying to smooth the grief out of her.
“I’m sorry,” she chokes. “I didn’t know it would do this to you. I didn’t know—”
“Stop.” I press a kiss into her hair. “I don’t ever want to hear you apologize for telling me the truth.”
“But you’re falling apart.”
“I was already falling apart before,” I admit quietly. “I was just ignoring it.”
She goes still in my arms and I tilt my head so my cheek rests against the crown of her head. “You carrying all the pain alone for two years is what’s breaking me right now, not the truth. The fact that you were going through that by yourself.”
Her fingers fist into my damp shirt.
“You weren’t there,” she whispers.
I swallow hard. “I know.” But the words feel too thin for the weight of what they mean. “I ran,” I continue, forcing myself to say it out loud. “I did exactly what you were afraid I would do. Again. I asked you for time and then I disappeared. I left you in Positano like you meant nothing.”
Her grip tightens on my shirt.
“But I thought I was going to drown in it,” I admit. “The guilt. The what-ifs. I couldn’t breathe without picturing you in a hospital bed all alone.” My voice fractures. “And instead of staying and facing it with you, I ran.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes red, and lashes wet.
“I will never forgive myself,” I say, holding her gaze steady even though my chest feels like it’s caving in.
“For not being there, for not noticing you were hurting, for not asking the right questions. You went through a pregnancy, a birth, and the worst kind of loss a person can experience…and I was chasing gold medals.”
My throat tightens but I don’t look away.
“I should have been there,” I whisper. “I should have held your hand in that hospital. I should have met our daughter. I should have grieved her with you instead of letting you carry all of that pain by yourself.”
A fresh tear slips down her cheek and I wipe it away with my thumb.
“I can’t change it,” I continue. “And that’s what kills me. I can’t go back and be the man you needed. But I can try my hardest to be him now, if you’ll let me.”
She studies me like she’s still searching for any sign I’ll run off again.
“I’m not running anymore,” I say firmly. “Not when it’s hard, not when it hurts, and not when it makes me look weak. I’m done pretending I’m invincible. I don’t want to be strong if it means I lose you.”
Her breathing begins to level out and the tremors in her body settle.
“I was so scared you’d leave,” she admits quietly.
“I did leave,” I say, shaking my head. “And I’m so sorry.”
I press my forehead to hers.
“But I came back,” I whisper. “And I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere. Not from this. Not from you.”
Zalea exhales slowly, like she’s letting herself believe it just a little. I pull her back into my chest and hold her there. I want to make damn sure she never feels alone in it again.
She stays in my arms for a long time after that, long enough that my breathing steadies completely and the silence between us doesn’t feel like it’s about to split open.
Eventually, she pulls back just enough to put space between our bodies. Enough to remind me that closeness and forgiveness are not the same thing.
Her eyes search mine again, still guarded. “I forgive you,” she says quietly, and relief hits me so fast, it almost knocks the air out of my lungs again. “But that doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“I don’t expect you to,” I answer, shaking my head.
She nods, once, looking relieved that I’m not arguing. “You ran when things got hard, and while I understand why you spiraled, I can’t pretend that didn’t hurt.”
My chest tightens, but I force myself to sit with the feeling. “I know.”
“And I don’t want to be in a relationship where I’m constantly wondering if the next hard thing is going to send you packing.”
“It won’t,” I say instinctively, and she raises her brows.
“I believe you believe that,” she says. “But that’s different from me feeling safe.”
I nod slowly, “Okay.”
She lets out a deep breath. “I need time,” she continues. “Time to see that you’re not going to disappear when it’s inconvenient. Time to rebuild what we broke. I can’t just…snap my finger and be okay.”
“You don’t have to,” I say. “Take all the time you need.”
She hesitates before adding, “I have a trip this upcoming weekend for a class assignment, but I’m scared to leave now that you’re back.”
My stomach dips. “I could just come with you then.”
She shakes her head. “I want you to come, believe me, but I think I should go alone,” she says carefully. “To prove that you’ll still be here when I get back, and to prove to myself that my world doesn’t just revolve around you.”
The old version of me would have panicked at that. I would have tried to convince her to let me come, to fix it faster. But I already know what pushing does.
“Okay,” I say.
Her shoulders relax an inch.
“Okay?” she repeats.
“Okay,” I nod. “Go. Take the weekend to clear your head. I’ll be here when you get back.”
She studies me, testing for cracks.
“And you won’t disappear?”
“No.” My voice is steady as I hold her gaze. “I won’t disappear, or spiral and book a flight to another country. I won’t punish you for needing space.”
Her mouth trembles slightly at that. “I don’t want space from you,” she whispers. “I just need space for me.”
“I know.”
She reaches for my hand slowly. “I love you,” she says.
I close my eyes, feeling the sting behind my eyes. I haven’t heard her say those words to me in years and I don’t think I realized just how much I needed to hear them, especially now.
“I love you too,” I reply, my voice trembling.