Chapter 37 Zalea | Florence
THIRTY-SEVEN
ZALEA | FLORENCE
FOUR MONTHS LATER
Ever since Gabriel had me moved into the hospital’s VIP unit, and requested an English speaking medical team, I’ve been much more comfortable and able to fully rest. He has a pullout bed beside mine too, so now he doesn’t have to twist himself into a hard chair overnight or stay on the rock hard bench.
He’s sleeping properly, and eating properly, and that allows me to relax in a way I couldn’t before.
Zale stops by almost everyday, but about a month into my stay, I practically shoved him out the door and told him to go experience Italy.
He’s been staying at our apartment, sleeping in our bed, and sending me voice notes about his adventures, and what sound like an ever-growing resume of Italian women.
However, today I’m startled awake from my morning nap to the obnoxious sound of party blowouts. I jolt upright, a cramp instantly seizing my side as I hiss, pressing my palm against the ache.
“What the—”
I blink the sleep from my eyes and find Zale standing at the foot of my bed holding a white cake box. Two party blowouts dangle limply from his mouth, and his wide-eyed horror matches my glare perfectly.
Gabriel rushes in a second later, juggling balloons and a stunning bouquet of flowers. He freezes as he takes in the scene.
“Please tell me you didn’t blow those things and wake her up.”
Zale yanks them from his mouth. “I barely breathed into them! They just…unraveled and that horrendous sound came out.
Gabriel groans. “I knew I should’ve just given you the balloons.”
He shoots my brother an exasperated look before walking toward me, his expression softening.
“Happy birthday, Red.”
I adjust my bed so that I’m sitting more upright, my belly impossible to ignore now, and accept the bouquet of lush roses that he offers.
“They’re beautiful,” I murmur, lifting them to my face and breathing deeply. After months inside these walls, even the faintest hint of nature feels overwhelming. “Thank you.”
“Don’t forget the cake,” Zale says, handing the box to Gabriel.
Gabriel rolls my tray table closer and sets the box down in front of me, opening it to reveal a moss-green vintage-style cake with a handwritten message across the top.
Pact Rules.
I frown. “What does that mea—”
The words die in my throat as I look at Gabriel who is no longer standing, but kneeling next to my hospital bed instead, a small leather box in his hand, flipped open to reveal the most breathtaking marquise-cut diamond I have ever seen.
“Eighteen years ago,” he begins, voice already shaking, “you and I made a pact that if neither of us were married by the time you turned thirty, we’d marry each other.”
My vision begins to blur but I quickly swipe at my eyes because I refuse to miss this.
“We haven’t exactly had a smooth ride getting here,” he continues, a shaky laugh escaping him. “If anything, it’s been a full-blown rollercoaster. But no matter what’s happened, and no matter how far we’ve drifted, we’ve always found our way back to each other.”
He’s right. There were so many chances for him to walk away. During his tours, when distance stretched us thin, when he thought I was back together with Paul McIntosh after he moved back to Saltwater Springs, and when I finally told him about Gabriella and everything shattered open between us.
Over and over, he chose me, just like I’ve always chosen him. It has always felt inevitable, like the universe kept pushing us apart just for us to prove we’d come back stronger.
“I’m so excited to bring these beautiful babies into the world with you,” he says, glancing at my stomach before looking back up at me. “And I cannot wait to leave this damn hospital—” I laugh through my tears “—and finally live in a little house with our little family.”
My lip trembles when I see his eyes gloss over too.
“So,” he swallows hard, “Zalea Evans, will you follow our pact rules and do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
Tears begin to stream down my face as I nod. “Yes,” I gasp. “Yes. Of course I will.”
His grin is blinding as he slides the ring onto my finger.
“Perfect fit,” I whisper, staring at the massive, sparkling stone.
Gabriel leans forward, wrapping his arms around my stomach as best as he can, and kisses me softly.
“Alright, alright,” Zale interrupts. “I had to stop recording. No one wants footage of your gross hospital makeout.”
I burst into laughter as he walks over and hands Gabriel his phone. “I took pictures too,” he mutters. “You’re welcome.”
Then he looks at me, his expression softening. “And congrats, sis. I expect to be your Man of Honour.”
The idea makes me laugh again, and I nod. “Deal.”
Satisfied, he wishes me a happy birthday one more time before announcing he has a hot Italian date to get to and I watch him leave.
“Ready for cake?” Gabriel asks, lifting the box and carrying it to the small table near his pullout bed.
“You don’t need to ask me twice,” I say, admiring my ring again. “Yes, please.”`
He cuts two slices and brings them over. I scoot over so he can sit beside me, and he wraps an arm around my shoulders so I can lean against him instead of the pillow.
I take a bite and immediately groan.
“Good?” he chuckles.
“I don’t know if it’s pregnancy hormones or what, but this might be the best red velvet cake I’ve ever tasted in my entire life.”
He laughs softly and presses a kiss to my shoulder. “I’m glad you and the babies approve.”
The room falls silent while we eat, but after a few minutes he speaks again.
“So, I ran into Doctor Ricci downstairs,” he says, and I chew slower as I listen.
“She said that typically twin pregnancies don’t make it to forty weeks,” he says softly. “So there’s a good chance you could go into labour any day now.”
Just like that, the cake tastes like ash in my mouth and I lower my fork.
I’ve been avoiding thinking about labour, although I know it’s imminent at this point. With Gabriella, everything happened so differently. She was so small and fragile, but these babies are bigger, and stronger. The thought of pushing them into the world makes fear crawl up my spine.
Gabriel must notice the shift in me because he squeezes my thigh gently.
“Everything will be alright,” he says.
I nod, putting on a brave face. I haven’t told him about the intrusive thoughts that wake me up at night and whisper that things will probably go wrong for us. That maybe joy is followed by loss.
I tell myself it’s just my trauma of losing Gabriella that’s talking, not my intuition.
“You’re right,” I finally say, because even if I don’t fully believe it, maybe if I say it enough times, I will.