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.
