Chapter 36 Gabriel | Florence
THIRTY-SIX
GAbrIEL | FLORENCE
“Oh, sweetie. You’re okay, right?” Zalea’s mom asks through the video call, her whole face filling the screen. “Are you sure you don’t want us to fly over there?”
It’s been a week since our ultrasound with Erika, and today—thanks to Zale—we’re finally finding out whether our twins are boys or girls.
Zalea nods, her smile soft but worn out. She looks better than she did last week, but she’s still not fully recovered, still fragile.
“I’m okay, mom. I promise,” her grip on the phone tightens. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner. I wanted to tell you about the babies myself, but everything was happening so fast. It was just a lot to take in.”
“Sweetie, don’t apologize,” her mom says immediately.
The screen jerks sideways and Zalea’s dad’s face suddenly fills the frame.
“What we care about,” he declares, adjusting his glasses and squinting at the camera, “is that you’re okay, honey. And that Gordon is treating you right.”
I close my eyes briefly because Mr. Evans has known me since I was ten years old. He absolutely knows my name is not Gordon.
“Dad,” Zalea warns. “Be nice. Please.”
He huffs. “Fine. I hope Gabriel is treating you right,” he corrects.
I take that as my cue to pop into frame beside her, offering a small wave and trying not to look as awkward as I feel.
“Hi Mrs. Evans., Mr. Evans,” I say carefully.
Her dad grunts, looking away from the camera, and I know I’ll have to work on getting back on his good side once I’m in Saltwater Springs.
“Gabriel, it’s been so long,” her mother says warmly. “I hope you’re eating well and staying healthy.”
It’s such a simple thing to say, but it hits me deep.
My mother died bringing me into the world, and my father never remarried, never even dated.
I grew up loved, but not mothered in the way most people understand it.
No one ever asked if I was eating enough or sleeping enough unless it was tied to school or surf training.
The small, ordinary concern that her mother shows me feels enormous. It’s what I imagine my own mom might’ve sounded like.
“Alright folks!” Zale announces, walking in with two nurses and a wheelchair. “I originally wanted to do something epic, like a baby sumo wrestler suit showdown, but apparently that violates multiple hospital policies. So, we’re going with the next best thing.”
The nurses help Zalea out of bed carefully—which is much easier now that she’s not hooked up 24/7 and is allowed to wear her own clothes most days—and into the wheelchair.
Once she’s settled into the wheelchair, I take my place behind it and roll her out of the room after Zale who’s taking off down the hall.
“Where are you taking us?” she asks, grinning at her phone where her parents are still watching eagerly.
“The cafeteria,” Zale says, backing toward the door. “It’s late and most of the food spots are closed, so it’s basically empty.”
We pile into the elevator and slowly ride down to the main floor. Zalea rests her hand on her stomach, absentmindedly tracing small circles, as she talks to her parents. When the doors slide open, Zale darts forward and snatches the phone straight out of her hand.
“Hey!” she yelps.
“Follow me!” he shouts over his shoulder, sprinting down the hall.
“He doesn’t expect me to run after him while pushing you, does he?” I mutter.
Zalea giggles, the sound echoing down the empty hallway. I pick up the pace as much as I can without jostling her, and we round the same corner Zale disappeared around seconds earlier.
We find the cafeteria completely empty, chairs flipped onto tables, and lights dimmed low. But, in the centre of the room are dozens of clusters of weighted blue and pink balloons. They float gently, their ribbons brushing against a large blank canvas propped on an easel.
Zale finishes adjusting Zalea’s phone on a portable tripod, stepping back to check the framing. He flips the camera so that their parents can see the canvas too.
He turns toward Zalea, his expression softening. “So, we all know you were in an art program before the accident. And sadly, because of it, you didn’t get to finish.” He rubs the back of his neck. “But I remember you telling me how much you loved painting. So…get on over here.”
I lock the wheelchair before helping Zalea to her feet. She’s stronger than she was a week ago, but she still winces when she shifts her weight. I wrap an arm around her waist, steadying her as we walk toward Zale. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out two black blindfolds.
“I’m going to need you both to trust me,” he says, waggling them.
He ties Zalea’s on first, and then he hands one to me. I knot it behind my head, the world going dark. He steps closer and guides us both forward before taking my hands and dipping them into something cold and slick.
“This better be paint, Zale,” I mutter.
Zalea giggles beside me. “Smells like it.”
“Relax,” he says, pressing my palms flat against the canvas. “Do not move, Gabriel.”
I freeze, hands spread wide. I can hear him positioning Zalea next to me, her arms brushing gently against mine as he guides her hands the same way.
“Okay,” Zale finally says. “I’m going to take off your blindfolds and then we’ll count down from three. When we hit zero, you peel your hands off the canvas. Got it?”
“Got it,” we say together.
He removes my blindfold first, the fluorescent lights blinking back into focus as the first thing I see is Zalea standing beside me, blindfold still on, smiling so wide it almost steals the air from my lungs. And suddenly I know—without a doubt—that this was the right choice.
Zale steps behind her next, and unties the blindfold. The fabric falls away, and her eyes open, but she doesn’t look at the canvas. She looks at me. There’s so much love, gratitude, fear, and even hope in her eyes that makes my chest physically ache.
He retreats to stand beside the phone, where both of their parents are vibrating with anticipation.
“Okay, let’s start the countdown,” he says with a grin.
I hold her gaze the entire time, communicating how much I love her without words, and feeling the reciprocation in the way she looks back at me.
Three.
Two.
One.
Before we pull our hands away, I lean forward and kiss her gently.
“I’ll be happy no matter what,” I whisper against her lips. “Because they’re a piece of you.”
We peel our hands away from the canvas and turn to find two handprints staring back at us. One blue, and one pink.
“One of each,” she breathes, her voice cracking on the last word.
Tears spill down her cheeks almost instantly, and I pull her into my arms without hesitation, not caring that wet paint smears across both of us. I press my chin to the top of her head and hold her as tightly as I can without hurting her.
I know she’s crying for more reasons than just joy. I’m sure she feels the same ache of sadness that I feel, knowing that Gabriella isn’t here to celebrate with us. She should be here.
Both of Zalea’s parents erupt into cheers and claps through the phone, before her mom dissolves into full sobs, too. Even her dad turns his head, swiping discreetly at his eyes as if no one will notice.
Across the room, Zale sits on the edge of a cafeteria table, hands clasped between his knees. And even though he’s smiling, it’s sad.
We’re all carrying the same thing—the joy, and the loss. The same unfairness of the situation, and I think that’s something that we’ll never be able to stop feeling.
“Are you excited?” I whisper into her hair, my throat thick. “We need to start thinking about baby names.”
She nods against my chest, tears still flowing but not as intensely as before. She turns to look at the canvas again, a small smile on her face as she stares at the colourful handprints.
“Guess that spare room is officially going to be a nursery afterall, huh?” I say, brushing a thumb under her eye. “We can hang this in there.”
She inhales slowly and looks at me. “I want to go back to Saltwater Springs.”
The words catch me off guard. “What?”
“Not now,” she says quickly. “When the babies are here, and it’s safe to travel, I want to get all my things from Hawaii and move back to Saltwater Springs.”
She pulls back enough for me to see her face clearly and I search her expression for any signs of hesitation.
“I thought you said you were unhappy there,” I say.
“I was,” she admits. “But it’ll be different now.” Her hand drifts to her stomach. “I want our kids close to family, to our friends. I want to be able to visit Gabriella’s grave with her siblings,” her voice softens, “and with her dad.”
My throat closes up and I can’t say a word so I nod instead.
She rises onto her tiptoes and kisses me. I deepen it, ignoring Zale’s gagging noise and the way her mother shushes her father, who is getting worked up watching me kiss his daughter.
“Ms. Evans,” one of the nurses says from behind us. “We should get you back upstairs. Your body still needs rest.”
We slowly separate, and I kiss her nose before helping her ease back into the wheelchair. Zale brings the phone over, and we both lean in to thank her parents for being there. Her mom blows kisses and her dad clears his throat gruffly and says, “Take care of her, Gabriel.”
“I will,” I promise.
Once we’re back in the room, exhaustion hits Zalea. The nurses help her settle into her bed, and within minutes of her head hitting the pillow, she’s asleep. Across the room, the canvas leans against the wall near the window, the paint still glistening under the lowlight.
Zale stands in front of it, staring like it’s something fragile.
“I hope you know,” I say quietly, keeping my voice low so I don’t wake her, “that was probably the best reveal you could’ve done for your sister.”
He doesn’t look at me right away, eyes fixed on the canvas.
“Thank you,” I add. “We both really appreciate it.”
He glances over then, cheeks a faint pink as he shrugs one shoulder. “It was no baby sumo wrestlers,” he mutters. “But, I’m glad you two liked it.”
I huff out a soft laugh as we fall into an easy silence, staring at the canvas together.
“I’m scared to be excited,” he suddenly says. “After what happened last time…I’m scared.”
His jaw tightens and I nod slowly, sliding my hands into the pocket of my hoodie.
“We all are,” I admit. “But the only thing we can do is take it one day at a time and stay hopeful and positive for her.” I glance toward the bed. “She needs to feel like it’s okay to be happy.”
He watches her for a long moment before nodding. “Yeah.”
We fall back into that easy silence, but within a few minutes he speaks again.
“I bet they’ll look just like her,” he says after a while.
A small smile pulls at my mouth. “I sure hope so.”