I crouch down so we're eye to eye. "I think you can be anything you want to be."
"Even both?"
"Especiallyboth."
She nods, and reaches for my hand. "Okay. Push me on the swings again."
But before we reach the swings, I spot Zoey at the edge of the park.
She's wearing a different sweater and her hair is brushed. She's got her hands in her pockets, and she's justwatchingus like she's been there the whole time.
Morgan spots her a second later and is off the swing before I can blink.
"MOM!"
Zoey crouches just in time to catch her, and the look on her face when Morgan barrels into her arms—
God. It's beautiful.
Morgan is chattering at a hundred miles an hour about hot chocolate and the climbing frame and how I'm officially called'Buddy'now. Zoey is laughing, brushing dirt off Morgan's leggings, kissing the top of her head.
I hang back at the swings, hands deep in my jacket pockets, watching them.
Mother and daughter. Easy and warm.
And I want it.
God,do I want it.
Not just Zoey. Not just the kiss in the locker room or the moment we shared after.
The wholething.
The braid arguments. The busy school mornings. The bad days and the sleepovers I never got.
Because she's not just the woman I want.
She's thelifeI want.
Chapter 12
Zoey
Our regular Girls Brunch at Frost Café is in full swing, and I'm sitting here thinking I'm about to be murdered by my two best friends.
"I swear, if you don't start talking, I'm going to climb across this table and shake it out of you."
Quinn slumps back in her chair across from me, arms crossed over a Needle & Ink tank top, hazel eyes glinting like she's already plotting where to bury the body once she's done with me.
Avery, beside her, is currently pulling apart a cinnamon scone with her fingers.
"Aves, that'smine."
"You're not eating it." She pops a flaky bite into her mouth with zero remorse.
The café isgorgeousthis morning. Late autumn light slants through the tall front windows, catching the steam rising off our oversized mugs of Harold's signature roast. The fire in the stonehearth crackles softly behind us, and Millicent is gliding between tables with a teapot, pausing to refill a regular's cup.
Harold is behind the counter, scowling at the espresso machine.
