by Alexis Daria
Across the bottom, in bold script, it read:
Part of me will always be waiting for you.
“What do you want to do with it?” Ava asked.
Michelle didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed her phone and sent a text message.
Michelle: I need his mailing address.
Chapter 26
Gabe read over the page he’d just written. Was it picking up the story threads well enough? Fuck, he couldn’t tell. His eyes were bleary and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something. Or showered.
He’d been working on the fanfic all week, ever since he’d signed the papers turning the gym over to Powell. It was all up to the lawyers and the financial folks now, but Gabe suddenly found himself in possession of a lot of money and a lot of free time.
Having never been in this position before, he hadn’t known what to do with himself. So he’d turned to the only thing that had brought him joy during this darkest of times.
Celestial Destiny.
It was a little ridiculous how happy rereading the fanfic had made him. It had lifted his spirits, bringing him back to a time and place where the possibilities had felt endless, where he’d indulged in his creative whims and controlled the fates of characters he’d grown to adore. And most of all, it reminded him of Michelle. Of the story decisions they’d made together. Of the drawings she’d made of their characters—some of which still lived on his hard drive. Of the hours they’d spent talking about Beyond the Stars, theorizing about what could have been going on behind the scenes in the space kingdom so they could bring it to life in the pages of their shared story.
It had been a simpler time, and the memories brought him a sense of contentment and optimism he never could have predicted.
He really loved this silly story.
Reading over it now was a trip. For one thing, he had some writing tics that made him smile and shake his head every time he saw them, like a tendency to overuse the words suddenly and shrugged. Some things he didn’t even remember writing, and he mumbled, “Who wrote this?” more times than he could count.
But the biggest surprise was . . . himself. He’d written himself into the character of Zack in a way that was glaringly obvious, and as a result, reading the story was like opening a time capsule and finding Teenage Gabe.
Zack Salazar, a Latinx space prince with telekinetic powers and major family baggage, was slow to trust and second-guessed himself and others constantly. He went through periods of extreme caution before throwing it all to the wind in an impulsive act fueled by emotions. And he had been head over heels in love with Michelle’s character, Riva.
Riva, as Gabe had written her, was daring and smart, brave and beautiful, and far too cool for Zack. She was, in essence, how Gabe had always seen Michelle.
It was while reading episode 9, the one where Zack and Riva kissed, that Gabe had realized the truth. Michelle was the love of his life, and she always would be.
Which meant he had once again tossed aside something most people only dreamed of.
After finishing his Celestial Destiny read-through, he’d gotten his shit together to sell the business. One step in front of the other, Gabe had worked with Fabian, Powell, and a team of lawyers. It had gone smoothly. They’d broken the news to the employees and gym members. Shortly after, Rocky Lim had texted, saying he was sorry to see Gabe leave Agility, but he hoped to hire him for one-on-one sessions if Gabe was willing to take on private clients. Gabe said he was open to the idea but needed to think about it, only to get a number of similar messages over the next few days from other clients, both famous and not.
If he wanted it, the next phase of his business was there. But right now, he still needed to come to terms with closing out this chapter of his life. Needed to let himself mourn the loss, even though he could now see it was the best decision all around. The thing he’d loved the most had been choking him. And while he’d never thought of ending it this way, he was free now. He just needed to figure out what to do with that freedom.
The first thing he’d done was paste Celestial Destiny into a new document. Then he’d started revising it from the beginning, fixing typos and clunky sentences, filling in details and beefing up story lines that had gotten dropped. It was hard work, employing skills he hadn’t used in what felt like a million years. He went for long runs on the beach when he needed to think out a plot problem, something he hadn’t had time to do in ages. The repetitive, methodical act of running gave his brain the space to problem-solve, and in the process, it crunched the experiences of the past few weeks.
New York.
Michelle.
His parents.
Powell.
Inside, Gabe felt like he was healing a wound he hadn’t even known he bore.
And then he’d set out to write the final chapters of Celestial Destiny.
Back in the day, he and Michelle had discussed how it would end, and he still had some notes from their chats. But after reading over everything, he had a few new ideas that eighteen-year-old Gabe never could have dreamed of.
Teenage Gabe had felt like the whole world, or at least his parents, was against him. That he’d had to fight alone to get what he wanted. That he had to cut out the naysayers before they drowned him in doubt.
He hadn’t seen that he’d internalized that doubt and made it his own, carrying it with him wherever he went, allowing it to run his life.
And wasn’t that a kick in the ass.
Wasn’t it time he started really believing in himself?
The sound of someone knocking on his door pulled Gabe from his reverie. He looked around like he was coming out of a trance. There were mugs on his desk, dishes on the coffee table, and a pile of running sneakers in a heap by the front door. His usually spotless apartment was, by his standards, a mess. And since he’d been home, he’d postponed the cleaning service that stopped by once a week.
The knocking continued. Who the hell could it be? It was—he glanced at his laptop screen—three in the afternoon on a Wednesday. And his apartment had a buzzer.
“Who is it?” Gabe yelled.
“You need to sign for a package,” a muffled voice said from the hallway.
Oh for—fine. Gabe couldn’t even imagine what he’d ordered, but the last few days had been a blur.
“Be right there,” he called.
Grumbling, Gabe gulped down the last of the cold coffee in his most recent mug—the caffeine habit was back in full swing—and swiped a hand through his hair. He hadn’t styled it, so his loose curl pattern was unrestrained, and he hadn’t trimmed his beard since—shit, since he’d returned from the Bronx.
He was wearing only a pair of basketball shorts, so he grabbed a tank top from the arm of the couch and threw it on, shuffling to the door in his socks and chanclas.
He swung the door open and froze.
His parents beamed at him from the hallway.
“Surprise!” his mother yelled, throwing up her arms.
“Yeah.” Gabe blinked at them. He was sure the hell surprised. “Uh, come on in.”
His mom took his face in her hands and kissed his cheek, then wrinkled her nose. “Gabriel, ¿qué pasó?”
His father gave him a one-armed hug on the way in. “¿Estabas durmiendo?” he asked.
“No, I wasn’t sleeping, I was”—Writing fanfiction—“working. On my computer.”
He closed the door behind them and watched in a speechless stupor as his mother parked her suitcase by the entrance to the kitchen, then walked around picking up dirty dishes. She tsked and muttered, “Qué sucio,” when she saw all the cups on his desk.
Gabe hunched his shoulders. It was the kind of thing that would’ve gotten him grounded as a kid.
“What . . . what are you two doing here?” he asked, since neither of them had explained why they were in California—in his apartment—yet.
“We came to visit you,” his father said, as if it were a perfectly obvious and natural thing for them
to do. “We have things to talk about, and you were taking too long.”
“How—”
“Nikki gave us your address, and your friend Fabian picked us up at the airport. He gave us keys to the building, but we didn’t want to just barge in.” His mother gave the pile of plates in her hand a meaningful look, while completely ignoring the fact that they had barged in, while also pretending to be a delivery person.
“¿Dónde está el baño?” his father asked, and Gabe pointed down the hall, then winced when he remembered the three days’ worth of running clothes on the floor by the shower.
“My apartment is usually very clean,” Gabe told his mother, following her around and picking up the other odds and ends that had gotten out of place. “I’ve just been . . . busy.”
“With the gym emergency?” she asked, loading the dishwasher.
“Yeah. It was—yeah.”
While his mom cleaned his kitchen, Gabe went into his bedroom and pulled fresh bedding down from the closet. He didn’t know what else to do. His parents were in his apartment for the first time ever, and of course it was the only time his place was a mess. But since he wasn’t going to tell them to leave or stay in a hotel, the only thing to do was make his bed for them. His dad came in a moment later and, without a word, helped him change the sheets and pillowcases.
While flipping the comforter back over the bed, Esteban winced and rubbed his left shoulder like it pained him.
Gabe’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
His dad waved it off. “Es nada. I’m just getting old.” His words held a trace of humor, but the corners of his mouth were pinched.
Gabe knew what someone in pain looked like, but he let it slide. For now.
Instead, he went back out to the living room to retrieve his parents’ suitcases. Then he ducked into the bathroom and picked up all his dirty clothes before his mom could see them. While he was at it, he also replaced the hand towels and wiped down the sink too.
In the kitchen, he found his mother cooking chicken in a pan.
“What are you doing?”
“Making dinner,” she replied, like it was obvious. “It’s evening for us.”
Sure enough, his father was already setting the table—something that had been Gabe’s job when he was young.
The scene was so . . . normal. Somehow, it felt natural for his parents to be in his space, even though they’d never been here before, and he’d hardly spoken to them in a decade. They’d shown up on his doorstep in Los Angeles and picked up right where they’d left off.
No, not where they’d left off. This was worlds better than it used to be.
All this time, Gabe had been feeling like he had nothing without the gym, because the life he’d built was falling apart. But maybe that wasn’t true.
Many years ago, he’d cut his parents out of his life to save himself. And while he was a firm believer in upholding healthy boundaries against toxic people, even if those people were related by blood, he could acknowledge that he’d also done it to hurt them. But in doing so, he’d hurt himself too. He’d distanced himself from his family, but he’d never put down the anger, the pain, the validation-seeking. All this time, he’d been carrying those around with him. Wasn’t it time he put that shit down?
Maybe this was the wound that was healing.
Not everyone got these kinds of second chances. Some families started out dysfunctional and stayed dysfunctional. But ever since running into his dad in the condom aisle, Gabe had wondered if his parents had changed enough for him to give them another chance.
If he’d changed enough to give them a second chance.
Esteban went into the bedroom and came back holding a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
Gabe stared. “Did you bring that from New York?”
His father gave him a bland look. “No, your friend gave it to us when he picked us up.”
Fabian really was the best friend a guy could ask for. He would’ve known Gabe didn’t keep alcohol on hand, so he’d gifted them a bottle. Gabe could imagine his parents arriving at the airport, having come all this way and not knowing what kind of reception they’d receive, and how much it would have meant to them that Fabian not only picked them up, but brought them a present.
“Gabriel, ¿dónde están los vasos de vino?” his mother called from the kitchen.
Gabe didn’t have wine, but he did own a few wineglasses, leftovers from his relationship with weekend-getaway-obsessed Olivia. He pointed to the correct cabinet, and his mother waved his father over to reach the glasses, which were on a high shelf.
Esteban reached for the glasses, then hissed in pain and jerked his arm back down.
“Coño,” he muttered, rubbing his left shoulder.
“You have to remember to reach with your right hand,” Norma reminded him.
“I can’t help it. I’m left-handed.”
“Papi, why don’t you let me work on your shoulder?” Gabe offered, moving into the kitchen and taking down the wineglasses himself. “There’s no reason to live in pain if you don’t have to.”
“I don’t want to trouble you,” Esteban insisted.
Since when? The man had troubled Gabe for the first eighteen years of his life and had now shown up uninvited on his doorstep. But they were getting along well, so Gabe didn’t say that. “Come on, Pop. This is literally what I do every day. Let me help you.”
That wasn’t precisely true. Once upon a time, physical therapy was the thing Gabe had done every day. Before his schedule had been consumed by phone calls and emails and meetings, which was exactly why he’d sold. Still, he knew what to do.
“You should let him help you,” Norma said, uncorking the wine. “Never turn down free medical care.”
Esteban sighed, but finally he said, “Okay, you can try.”
“Come on,” Gabe said. “I’ll get a hot compress on you while I set up my table.”
Gabe directed his father to sit on the sofa, then went into the kitchen to pop a hot/cold pack in the microwave for twenty seconds.
“Do a good job, okay, mijo?” his mom said under the cover of the microwave hum.
As the words filtered in, Gabe was able to read between the lines. She wasn’t saying it because she didn’t believe in him, but because she knew he was worried about his father’s response. She wasn’t telling him to do a good therapy session, but to have a good interaction with his father.
Had his mother always been this way? Saying one thing and meaning something else? Why was he only able to see it so clearly now?
Because you’re an adult now, his brain supplied.
Before he’d left at eighteen, Gabe had still viewed his parents through the lens of a child, interpreting their actions only in relation to himself. He hadn’t yet learned to see them as real people. Now, he’d been gone so long, it was like seeing dual images of them: the parents he remembered, and the people—older people—that they were now. He was forced to confront the truth that they were fully formed humans beyond their roles as Mami and Papi.
Not only that, they’d all changed during the time apart. His parents seemed much more mellow than he remembered, and Gabe noticed he was better at managing his own emotional responses to them. He didn’t get as riled up as he once had.
“I will, Mami,” he said. The microwave beeped and he removed the hot pack.
And mentally prepared to be alone with his father for the first time in years.
AFTER MOLDING THE pack around his father’s shoulder, Gabe pulled his portable treatment table out of the hall closet and carried it to the bedroom. There was just enough space by the windows to set it up.
It had been ages since he’d used this thing, since he’d worked on someone in his home. As he opened up the table and got it ready, he realized that he’d missed the literal hands-on aspect of physical therapy. He’d been working on the business side for years now, managing other PTs and trainers. And of course, the tables at Agility were maintained by assistants. Gabe couldn�
��t even remember the last time he’d had to spray and wipe down a treatment table himself. He grabbed a pillow from the bed and called his dad into the room.
“Lie on your back here,” Gabe said, setting the pillow at one end of the padded table.
“Should I take off my shirt?”
“Only if you want to.”
Esteban hesitated, then unbuttoned his plaid shirt and draped it over the closet doorknob. He sat on the table and seemed to test it for sturdiness before stretching out on his back.
Gabe had always known he took after his dad, but it was weird to get a glimpse of what he’d look like in thirty years. Esteban was still pretty fit, but his chest hair had gone gray and his skin had changed. His shoulders sloped more than they had before. Gabe noted the small changes with the eye of a physical therapist: the curve of the spine, the angle of the neck, the tilt of the pelvis, the swelling in his dad’s hands. Gabe would have bet his entire business—if he still had it—that his father had more pain than just in his shoulder, but of course Esteban would never admit it.
Well, Gabe would start where he could, with the pain his father couldn’t hide or ignore. Beyond that . . . well, they’d see. He lotioned up his hands and got to work.
“The shoulder consists of three bones,” Gabe explained as he explored the area with his hands. “Together, they make a ball-and-socket joint.”
Years of training took over as he palpated the joint, gently moving his father’s arm to observe the range of motion. He asked questions in a low voice as he worked. “Does this hurt? Can you move it this way?” And mentally noted his father’s answers.
Once he’d assessed the issue, Gabe moved into a combo of manual therapy and soft tissue mobilization, coaxing the muscles and tendons to release tension.
As always, Gabe went into the zone as he worked, the back of his mind wandering as his fingers and hands found the physiological connections in a patient’s shoulder and encouraged them to relax.
