41. Alexis #3
The line shifts slightly, and I glare at Gabriel.
He meets my glare with one of his own, his expression a mix of defiance and something I can’t quite place.
Protectiveness, maybe? Possessiveness? It’s definitely something that would’ve made my heart flutter a month ago, but now, whatever it is, it only stokes my frustration.
He doesn’t have the right to behave that way anymore. He gave it up.
“Was that really necessary?” I demand, keeping my voice low enough not to draw attention from the other patrons.
His jaw tightens. “You tell me.”
I purse my lips and march away from the line, putting some distance between myself and the other customers. Gabriel follows me, his footsteps steady and deliberate. Once I round the corner of the food stand, obscured from any prying eyes, I whirl around to face him.
“What the hell?”
“You think I’m just going to stand there and watch some asshole hit on you?” he mutters. “Like it’s nothing?”
I freeze, stunned by the bluntness of it, my mouth opening and closing before I manage to find words. “Yes! Because it is nothing, Gabriel. It was a conversation. A normal human interaction, not some crime you needed to swoop in and stop!”
His lips press into a hard line, and he shakes his head, exhaling sharply through his nose like he’s trying to hold something back.
“You—” I start, my voice cracking with emotion. I clench my fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms. “You gave up the right to care who talks to me. Remember? You can’t have it both ways.”
“I’m not trying to have it both ways.”
“You don’t get to do this,” I say hotly. “You don’t get to walk in here and act like you have some kind of claim over me.”
“That’s not what—” He looks exasperated, his brow furrowed.
“No? That’s not what you were doing?” I shake my head. “Unbelievable. Were you following me? What the hell do you want?”
He lifts his chin. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
A mirthless laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am.” He fixes me with a hard stare, like he’s scanning my thoughts. “I’m always serious.”
That assertion lands in my chest, rekindling some deep-seated ache in my heart. Because I know that it’s not true. I’m probably one of the only people in the world who knows that it’s not true, that Gabriel has a soft, playful side he keeps buried under layers of responsibility and grief.
My hands tighten into fists. I pray silently that he can’t tell what’s probably obvious: that I’m not alright. Far from it.
That’s none of his business. Not anymore.
“Leave me alone,” I mutter. To my dismay, my voice catches on the last word, like there’s a sob building in my throat.
That doesn’t go unnoticed by Gabriel. Nothing does. He takes a step closer, his brows drawing together in concern. “Are you okay?”
I hate how genuine he sounds, how his tone slips past my defenses like he still has a right to care. He doesn’t. He shouldn’t.
“I said, leave me alone,” I snap, louder this time. I stumble away from him. Tears gather in the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall. “You—you wanted the divorce. So you need to leave me alone. It’s only f-fair. Give me a clean b-break.”
His lips part, like he wants to say something. But he doesn’t. He remains frozen for a long moment, and I can sense his thoughts churning.
Gabriel is rarely at a loss for words. I find myself holding my breath. Waiting. There’s some part of me, the same part that was comforted by the mere echo of his voice, that wants him to say those magic words. I made a mistake.
After a few seconds that seem to stretch into hours, he purses his lips and looks away.
The ache in my chest worsens, like he just pressed on a bruise. I grit my teeth in an effort to hold back the flood of tears.
“Leave,” I choke out.
Gabriel’s eyes linger on me for a moment longer, like he’s trying to memorize the pain in my expression. Then he finally takes a slow, reluctant step back.
I fix my gaze on the concrete until I’m sure he’s gone. When I look up again, I’m alone.
It takes around a minute for me to regain enough feeling in my legs to walk. I don’t bother to rejoin the line at Luca’s. I’m not hungry. In fact, just the thought of garlic and espresso makes me feel nauseous again, like I was this morning.
I head back to the warehouse, my feet dragging with each step. By the time I get back, I feel drained, like all the energy I had left has been leached from me.
The moment I cross the threshold, my stomach rebels.
I bolt for the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet before I throw up, my shoulders heaving violently.
I drop to my knees and lean my head against the cool porcelain, the walls of the stall spinning around me. My stomach feels like it’s in the process of turning itself inside out. I know that strong emotions can have a physical effect on the body, but this is different. This is more.
I breathe slowly, trembling. I must be coming down with something. It’s not flu season. Maybe I have a stomach bug.
Or… or maybe not.
I force myself to sit back, resting against the stall wall for a moment. A quick calculation runs through my head. Twenty-nine—no, thirty days.
Oh, god. I might be pregnant.
It’s not a certainty. But the possibility alone is enough to send me into a spiral.