46. Alexis #2
The words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them. “That isn’t my home anymore.”
His face crumples. There’s enough hurt in his eyes that I half expect him to turn away, to abandon the effort.
I’m hoping for it, honestly. This has already been a convoluted, messy situation, far from the clean break I would’ve hoped for.
Between my pregnancy and Vérité’s impending collapse, it promises to only get more complicated.
It will be better with distance between us. If he’s willing to retreat, to cede ground, to let our interactions become nothing more than business.
But he doesn’t pull back.
“Please,” he says quietly. “I just want to make sure you’re taken care of.” He pauses, then adds, “You and the baby.”
Oh. He’s worried about the baby. His baby.
My heart feels tight. Of course he’s worried about the baby.
I’ve seen what an attentive father he is to Peyton.
Now that he knows he has another kid on the way, he’s going to want to be involved.
Part of me wonders if it’s the baby he’s truly worried about.
If all of the attention he’s been showering on me is just because I’m pregnant with his child.
It would make sense. I can’t even fault him for it, even though the thought makes my chest feel like it’s caving in.
Still, the hospital stay has opened my eyes to a fundamental truth: I haven’t been taking good enough care of myself. The constant tension, the exhaustion, the way I’ve been ignoring my own needs, it’s all started to catch up with me.
I can’t afford to ignore myself anymore, not with the baby to think about. But I don’t feel ready to go through the motions myself. If I’m left to my own devices, if I go back to that apartment and try to manage on my own, I know I’ll just end up back here.
“Okay,” I say in a small voice. Relief lights up Gabriel’s face, and I force myself to look away. “Just for a little while.”
“Thank you,” he says. He stands quickly, like my agreement has sent a jolt of electricity through him, and starts to gather my belongings.
I press the call button, and the nurse comes by to collect my discharge papers. She helps me into a wheelchair, and Gabriel fusses over me before we leave the room, ensuring that the blanket is tucked around me fully, making sure I’m comfortable.
He wheels me out of the room, Peyton following along.
As we move through the hospital, my stomach starts to churn.
It’s probably morning sickness rearing its head again, but I’m sure the anxiety of returning to Gabriel’s house doesn’t help.
I rest a hand on my abdomen, my lips pursed as we reach the hospital’s entrance.
There’s a car waiting in the covered drop-off area, an unassuming black sedan with tinted windows. A man in a suit rushes around to open the door for me, but Gabriel waves him back to the driver’s seat. He helps me out of the wheelchair himself, settling me into the back seat alongside Peyton.
The ride back to the house feels like an eternity.
I stare out of the window, fixating on the horizon in an attempt to calm my nausea, but it’s no use.
Peyton is excited, practically bouncing in her car seat.
Gabriel tries to keep her calm, but she’s all energy, going on and on about everything we’re going to do together now that I’m coming home.
Home. I don’t feel like this is truly home anymore, but how can I explain that to a six year old? I tuck my arms around my torso. I can’t stop myself from wondering if this was a mistake.
By the time the car rolls into Gabriel’s driveway, my stomach is so agitated that it’s all I can do not to vomit in the back seat. As soon as the driver brings us to a stop, I lurch out and stumble over to the manicured bushes.
“Are you sick?” Peyton calls out, her voice worried.
“Go on up to the house, Bug,” Gabriel says softly. “Margaret should be waiting for us.”
I can’t see them—can’t see anything but the ground in front of me—but after a few seconds, I hear Peyton’s footsteps on the brick path leading to the front door.
Then Gabriel’s hand is on my back, his touch soothing, despite everything. “Are you doing okay?”
“Yeah.” I nod, breathless. “I just—”
I’m interrupted by the sudden, violent turn of my stomach.
Gabriel doesn’t say anything, just stays there beside me, his hand still resting on my back. He doesn’t rush me, doesn’t push me to get up or speak.
Once the wave of nausea passes, I stand up slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s morning sickness, I think. It’s been like this for a while.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he responds. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
I nod, my throat tight, and allow him to help me toward the door.
The foyer is just like I remembered it. I can hear Peyton in the kitchen, talking animatedly, I assume to Margaret. As Gabriel guides me toward the stairs, Pepper appears from the living room. She pads over to wind her lithe body between my legs, a deep rumbling sound emanating from her throat.
Despite the welcome, I can’t help feeling like a stranger in this house. The last time I stood in this foyer was one of the worst days of my life, and the memory of Gabriel telling me to leave replays in my head as we ascend the stairs.
On the landing, Gabriel starts toward the bedroom we shared while I lived here.
The thought of sleeping beside him twists my chest into a knot.
That room once held so much intimacy, so much promise.
I can’t stand the idea of walking in there and feeling that same foreignness that I felt in the foyer.
I stop at the top of the stairs. “I can’t,” I say, my voice choked. “I can’t sleep there.”
He pauses with his hand on the door, then turns to look at me. The sadness in his eyes is almost enough to break me, but he doesn’t argue. He just retracts his hand as though the metal has burned him, then gestures down the hall, toward one of the guest rooms.
When we reach the door, Gabriel pushes it open and steps aside, allowing me to enter first. The room is understated, comfortable but clearly unused. It feels more like a hotel room than part of the house, which is something of a relief.
As I sink onto the bed, Gabriel murmurs, “You need to rest.”
I can’t argue with that. I’m exhausted. The sleep I got in the hospital didn’t sate my body’s need for rest. I nod and lie back against the plush pillows, letting my eyes close.
“I’ll bring you some food,” he says, and I hear the sound of the door closing.
For a little while, I drift in and out of sleep.
The walls in this house are soundproof, so much so that I can’t hear any conversation going on outside this room.
I can smell food, though. Gabriel must be cooking something.
The hospital meals were more of a necessity than anything satisfying, and the thought of something homemade, something warm, makes my mouth water despite my discomfort.
Around an hour later, the door creaks open, and Gabriel steps inside with a tray in hand.
He sets the tray down on the bed beside me carefully, letting me inspect its contents—a large bowl of chicken soup, a sliced panini, and a glass of iced tea.
I take a deep breath and catch the scent of vanilla.
I swallow hard. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to indulge in the things I love. I haven’t had the energy to take care of myself, not just physically, but mentally. I don’t know what to make of the fact that Gabriel is clearly trying to do both.
To my immense relief, Gabriel steps back after putting down the tray. He’s not going to hover around me. Good. I need some time to myself.
“I’d go slow,” he advises as he retreats to the door. “Hospital food probably hasn’t been kind to your stomach.”
“Thanks.” The word feels like glass in my throat, but it forces its way out. I can’t deny how grateful I am, even though Gabriel’s every action is a shock to my system. He’s right, of course. Stale sandwiches with dubious bologna haven’t exactly been the nutrition I need.
Once I’m alone, I pick up the bowl of soup and let its warmth seep into my hands.
I hold it against my chest, breathing over the steaming surface before taking a sip of the broth.
I can tell it’s homemade from the richness of the flavor, the oils that gather along the edges of the bowl.
I didn’t know he could make soup. Maybe he learned just for today.
The broth helps settle my stomach. I eat slowly, like Gabriel suggested, punctuating spoonfuls of soup with sips of tea. Eventually, I feel well enough to tackle the sandwich. It’s crispy, perfectly toasted.
After I finish the food, I set the tray on the floor beside the bed, then curl up under the blankets. The feeling of fullness lulls me back to sleep.
I wake up some time later to the sound of voices in the hallway. I recognize Gabriel’s. He murmurs something about how I might be asleep, and it’s Ivy who responds. “We’ll be in and out. We won’t wake her up.”
The door opens, and Chloe and Ivy step inside. To my relief, Gabriel doesn’t follow them.
“Hey,” I murmur, my head fuzzy from sleep.