Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
GAbrIEL | FLORENCE
“You came all the way to Paolo’s studio just so we could go grocery shopping?” Zalea asks, eyeing the basket I grab from the stack near the entrance of the tiny market by our apartment.
“We’ve never done it before,” I say lightly. “I thought it could be fun.”
But the truth is, I plan to put the cookbooks I purchased for her PCOS to use, now that we’re living together.
I give her the list I wrote while she was with Paolo earlier. It’s two pages long, possibly three. She scans it once, then again, before slowly looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Gabriel,” she says carefully, “this is way too much food for just the two of us.”
I shrug, reaching for a basket of tomatoes and inspecting them like I know what I’m doing. “We can freeze things.”
“Theres fresh fish on here, and spinach, and berries, and about twelve different kinds of grain.”
“I like variety.”
She narrows her eyes, folding her arms. “What’s actually going on?”
I pretend not to hear her and start down the first aisle, but when I look back and notice she hasn’t moved, I stop and exhale before walking back to her.
“There are a few recipes I found,” I admit, tugging lightly at my collar. “Meals that are supposed to help balance your hormones.”
She narrows her eyes. “But why do you care about that?” she asks slowly. “You don’t want kids.”
I stare at her in silence, because the last three weeks away from her, along with the revelation that I am a father, even if my baby is no longer here, changed things for me.
The whole experience made me realize that despite my fear of failing as a father, I do want kids, and I do want to try and be the best dad that I can be.
“I changed my mind,” I say, keeping my tone even as I turn and head down the aisle.
I barely make it three steps before her hand wraps around my bicep, stopping me.
She steps in front of me, eyes wide. “You want…to have kids?”
I look down at the green eyes that I’ve loved since we were teenagers. The ones that have seen me at my worst and still stayed. She’s so beautiful. I hope our future kids look just like her. I lean forward and kiss the tip of her nose.
“I do,” I say softly. “But only with you.”
Her reaction to that is not at all what I expect. Her face crumples and a sob breaks free from her chest before I can process it as she buries her face in my shirt. I wrap my arm around her instinctively, holding her close.
“Hey,” I murmur, startled. “What happened? Why are you crying?”
Around us, the store has gone quiet. A middle-aged woman stocking shelves freezes mid-movement and glares at me like I’ve just confessed to something criminal. She mutters something in Italian that sounds like it’s meant to be insulting before stomping off.
Another woman near the produce section clutches a tomato like she’s debating whether to use it as a weapon against me.
Zalea pulls back slightly, face flushed and tears streaking down her cheeks.
“I’m just so happy,” she hiccups.
Relief washes through me so fast my knees nearly buckle, and I pull her back into my chest as more women around the store narrow their eyes at me. I grow more and more worried that they’re going to call the police on me, or worse, start throwing produce at my head.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” I whisper against her hair, eyeing the woman still glaring at me. “But if you keep sobbing like that, I think I’m going to be arrested.”
She sniffles as she glances around, and when she clocks the suspicious stares and the threatening tomato, she bursts into laughter. Full, hysterical laughter that bends her in half as she grips my arm to stay upright.
The women in the store exchange looks and return to their business.
“You are really going through it,” I say, unable to stop my own grin.
“You have no idea,” she says breathlessly, wiping her cheeks.
She doesn’t let go of my arms as we move through the aisles, but she does read the list out loud without any argument while I drop items in the basket.
“Salmon.”
“In season,” I say confidently, though I have no clue if that’s true.
“Chickpeas, flaxseed, greek yoghurt…Gabriel, when did you become a nutritionist?”
“I told you, I’ve been researching recipes to help with your PCOS.”
“For how long?” she asks softly.
“Since you told me about your diagnoses.”
She stops walking and stares at me dumbfounded. “You’ve been researching PCOS recipes for over a month?”
I clear my throat. “I wanted to help.”
Her expression softens and we begin walking again. “You don’t have to try and fix everything, you know?” she says gently.
“I know,” I say. “I just…I want to show you I’m here.”
Zalea studies me for a long moment. “This doesn’t mean we start trying right away,” she says carefully.
“I know.”
“And it doesn’t mean I suddenly trust that you won’t panic and leave again.”
“I know.”
“And it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what happened.”
“Zalea, I don’t want you to forget,” I say quietly. “I just want the chance to do better.”
She reaches up and cups my face briefly, thumb brushing my jaw. “This,” she says, nodding at the basket, “is a good start.”
Halfway down the pasta aisle, she nudges me. “You know,” she says thoughtfully, “we could also just adopt a dog. A Sprinkles Jr.”
“After I just committed to fatherhood?” I snort, raising a brow. “We can get a dog and have enough kids to start our own little league.”
She laughs and the sound fills me with hope.
The grocery bags are cutting into my fingers by the time we turn onto our street, but I don’t say anything because I loaded most of the weight onto myself on purpose.
Zalea walks beside me with two reusable bags hooked over her forearm, and a watermelon flavoured gelato in her hand, the late-afternoon sun warming her cheeks pink.
“You realize,” she says, nudging my shoulder with hers, “this is the most domestic we’ve ever been.”
I glance down at her. “Speak for yourself. I’m very domesticated.”
She laughs around her spoon. “You panicked in the bulk aisle.”
“That woman was judging me.”
“I’m pretty sure she was asking if you needed a scoop.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she’s already smiling too hard for me to win.
“You also bought six zucchinis,” she says.
“You said you liked zucchini.”
“I said I tolerate zucchini.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll love it the way I make it.”
She laughs under her breath, and everything feels normal in a way we’ve never really allowed ourselves to be. When we round the corner toward our building, Zalea stops so abruptly I nearly crash into her.
“What—”
I follow her line of sight and see a guy leaning against the stone beside the entrance, ankle crossed casually over the other, phone in hand. His hair is a little longer than I remember, broader shoulders, sun-browned skin, and a familiar Saltwater Shredders hoodie, despite the heat.
Zalea gasps, causing him to look up and grin.
“About time,” he says.
“Zale?”
He pushes off the wall just as the grocery bags and gelato slip from her hands to the pavement. She runs to him and he catches her mid-collision, lifting her clean off the ground.
“What are you doing here?” she laughs.
“I told you I had a housewarming gift,” he says. “It’s me. I also figured someone had to make sure you didn’t let this guy decorate.”
His eyes jump to me over her shoulder and they’re not friendly. My jaw tightens, but I keep my face neutral.
I’ve been coaching him since he was fifteen—before I ever created The Saltwater Shredders surf team. He has raw talent but too much ego and not enough discipline. I shaped him into the surfer he is now, and pushed him harder than anyone else would.
He used to look at me like I was untouchable, like I was someone he looked up to, but that was before I left town and his sister when she needed me most. And in Zale’s mind, that’s unforgivable.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” I say evenly.
“Didn’t think I needed permission,” he replies, setting his sister down.
“You don’t.”
He narrows his eyes at me like he’s trying to decide whether that answer irritates him or disappoints him.
“Is the rest of the team doing okay?” I ask.
“Griffin’s holding down the fort like you told him to,” he answers.
“Good.”
His jaw shifts slightly and Zalea looks between us, tension rising.
“You’re staying with us, right?,” she asks quickly. “We have an empty guest room, but I can buy a bed tomorrow—”
“No,” Zale cuts in. “I’m not making you buy furniture.”
“It wouldn’t just be for you.”
“It’s fine. I’ll take the couch.”
“You’re not sleeping on a couch.”
“I’ve slept on worse during comps,” he mutters. “Remember Huntington? I literally slept on a board bag.”
I almost smirk. “You complained the entire time.”
Zale looks at me, annoyed that I’m inserting myself into his conversation with his sister, but I could care less.
“Because you booked the cheapest Airbnb in all of California,” he shoots back.
“It built character.”
“It built back pain.”
For half a second, it feels like old times. Zale must realize it too because he straightens and his gaze hardens.
“You good leaving Koa and Maliah for this long?” he asks.
I hold his gaze. “I check in with them every few days. They’ll be fine.”
“And if something goes wrong?”
“It won’t,” I reply, certain of it. “And even if it does, I’ll figure something out.”
Zale studies me for a long while, and then his eyes shift past me to the grocery bags in my hands.
“You do your own groceries now?” he asks. “Thought you would’ve hired someone for that.”
“Well, I don’t have a whole surf team to feed here,” I reply. “I can manage a couple bags.”
His gaze hardens but he walks over and picks up the bags Zalea dropped. Then he reaches for two from my hands without asking, but I don’t let go.
“Give me these,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“I’m sure.”
The edge in his voice is subtle, but I catch it, and it forces me to grip the bags even tighter, refusing to let him help. Zalea opens the building door, oblivious to the silent exchange happening inches behind her. Zale holds my stare, something unspoken passing between us, as if he’s warning me.
“Are we going in?” Zalea calls over her shoulder.
He steps inside after her, carrying her bags of groceries like he’s staking a claim, along with his suitcase.
“I’m not here to cause problems,” he says quietly as I follow. “I just want to see my sister and make sure she’s okay.”
“Good,” I reply. “Then we should be just fine.”
He shoots me a look over his shoulder, protective and suspicious, but I ignore it as we all cram into the elevator. Zalea fills the silence as she tells him about the art program, Florence, and her upcoming weekend trip.
When we finally reach our floor, Zalea unlocks the door and lets us in. His eyes jump around the space as we enter the apartment, assessing everything as he sets the grocery bags down on the kitchen counter.
“So,” Zale says, glancing at the couch in the living room. “Guess that’s mine.”
“You’re not even going to let me argue?” she asks.
“Nope.”
He drops onto the cushions like he belongs here, sitting in my living room, watching me like I’m on probation.
“How long are you here for?” I ask as I set the rest of the bags next to his on the counter.
He shrugs. “I haven’t decided yet.”
He looks at me from over the couch, challenging me to argue with him, but I stay quiet for Zalea’s sake. Whatever agreement he made with Griffin to be able to come here is their business. I trust Griffin’s judgement, but I just hope it doesn’t screw over the team's chances this year.
She laughs nervously. “We can at least get you proper blankets then.”
“I’m good.” His eyes shift to me again.
Having him here is going to test all of us, and I have a feeling Zale didn’t just fly to Italy to check in on his sister.