She narrows her eyes. “But why do you care about that?” she asks slowly. “You don’t want kids.”
I stare at her in silence, because the last three weeks away from her, along with the revelation that Iama father, even if my baby is no longer here, changed things for me. The whole experience made me realize that despite my fear of failing as a father, I do want kids, and I do want to try and be the best dad that I can be.
“I changed my mind,” I say, keeping my tone even as I turn and head down the aisle.
I barely make it three steps before her hand wraps around my bicep, stopping me.
She steps in front of me, eyes wide. “You want…to have kids?”
I look down at the green eyes that I’ve loved since we were teenagers. The ones that have seen me at my worst and still stayed. She’s so beautiful. I hope our future kids look just like her. I lean forward and kiss the tip of her nose.
“I do,” I say softly. “But only with you.”
Her reaction to that is not at all what I expect. Her face crumples and a sob breaks free from her chest before I can process it as she buries her face in my shirt. I wrap my arm around her instinctively, holding her close.
“Hey,” I murmur, startled. “What happened? Why are you crying?”
Around us, the store has gone quiet. A middle-aged woman stocking shelves freezes mid-movement and glares atme like I’ve just confessed to something criminal. She mutters something in Italian that sounds like it’s meant to be insulting before stomping off.
Another woman near the produce section clutches a tomato like she’s debating whether to use it as a weapon against me.
Zalea pulls back slightly, face flushed and tears streaking down her cheeks.
“I’m just so happy,” she hiccups.
Relief washes through me so fast my knees nearly buckle, and I pull her back into my chest as more women around the store narrow their eyes at me. I grow more and more worried that they’re going to call the police on me, or worse, start throwing produce at my head.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” I whisper against her hair, eyeing the woman still glaring at me. “But if you keep sobbing like that, I think I’m going to be arrested.”
She sniffles as she glances around, and when she clocks the suspicious stares and the threatening tomato, she bursts into laughter. Full, hysterical laughter that bends her in half as she grips my arm to stay upright.
The women in the store exchange looks and return to their business.
“You are really going through it,” I say, unable to stop my own grin.
“You have no idea,” she says breathlessly, wiping her cheeks.
She doesn’t let go of my arms as we move through the aisles, but she does read the list out loud without any argument while I drop items in the basket.
“Salmon.”
“In season,” I say confidently, though I have no clue if that’s true.
“Chickpeas, flaxseed, greek yoghurt…Gabriel, when did you become a nutritionist?”
“I told you, I’ve been researching recipes to help with your PCOS.”
“For how long?” she asks softly.
“Since you told me about your diagnoses.”
She stops walking and stares at me dumbfounded. “You’ve been researching PCOS recipes for over a month?”
I clear my throat. “I wanted to help.”
Her expression softens and we begin walking again. “You don’t have to try and fix everything, you know?” she says gently.
“I know,” I say. “I just…I want to show you I’m here.”
