"You look like shit," he says conversationally.
"You're one to talk."
"Yeah, but I look like shit because I had a fantastic time last night. You look like shit because you're dead inside." He turns to look at me, those gray eyes too knowing even behind dark lenses. "There's a difference."
I pull out of his driveway without responding, navigating the streets on autopilot. We've had this conversation before in various forms. Stellan pushing me to feel something, anything. Me refusing to engage because what's the point? The only thing I ever wanted walked away eight years ago, and I've been running on fumes ever since.
Deep down, in places I don't examine too closely, I'm just waiting for it to end. Waiting for someone to finally put a bullet through my skull and end this grinding existence where every day is exactly like the last. Where I wake up in an empty house and go through the motions and return to an empty house, over and over, an endless loop of nothing.
Sometimes I think about doing it myself. Late at night when the silence gets too heavy and sleep won't come, I think about the gun in my nightstand and how easy it would be. One pull of the trigger and no more emptiness, no more watching Stellan live the life I should be living, no more lying next to a woman I can't touch while remembering the one I couldn't keep.
But I don't. Not because I'm brave or because I have some moral objection, but because Uncle Vittorio made me promise. Made me swear on his deathbed that I'd lead this family, that I'd hold everything together, that I'd give him heirs to carry on the name.
So I stay. I breathe. I move through days that all blur together into one long stretch of gray.
And I try not to think about amber eyes and vanilla body wash and the way she used to say my name like it meant something.
9
ZOLA
The lawyer's voice is steady, professional, carefully neutral in the way people get when they're delivering news that will reshape someone's entire world.
"Ms. Montgomery, as outlined in the last will and testament of Nialyn Maeve Brooks, you are named as the sole guardian of her daughter, Maeve Iris Brooks, and sole beneficiary of her estate."
I sit across from him at one of the bookstore's reading tables, Maeve a warm, sleeping weight against my chest. She's been clingy since the morning she woke up and Nia wasn't there. Kept looking around for her, making those little questioning sounds that babies make when something in their universe has shifted. I couldn't put her down without her screaming, so she's been strapped to me in the carrier ever since, her curls tickling my chin, her sticky fingers occasionally clutching at my shirt.
The bookstore is closed, has been for a week. The sign on the door saysClosed for Family Emergencybecause I couldn't bring myself to writeClosed Due to Death. Too final. Too real. Even now, two days after watching them lower Nia's casket into theground, some part of me expects her to come through the back door with that brilliant smile, asking if I've eaten today.
"The bookstore property is held in trust," the lawyer continues, consulting his documents. "Ownership transfers to you outright, along with all inventory, assets, and associated accounts." He slides papers across the table. "Ms. Brooks was remarkably thorough in her planning. She established a trust fund for Maeve funded by her life insurance policy—after covering funeral expenses, there's approximately two hundred thousand remaining. That money can only be accessed for Maeve's care and education until she turns twenty-five."
My throat closes. Two hundred thousand dollars. Nia planned for everything, made sure her daughter would be taken care of, made sure I'd have what I needed to raise her. The weight of that trust, that absolute faith that I wouldn't fail her, sits like concrete in my stomach.
"Additionally, Owen Brooks' life insurance policy covered all medical expenses related to Ms. Brooks' illness. The bookstore has no outstanding debts." He looks at me over his reading glasses, his expression softening slightly. "She made this as easy as she possibly could for you, Ms. Montgomery."
Easy. The word is laughable. Nothing about this is easy. Nothing about waking up without my best friend, my sister in everything but blood, will ever be easy again. But I understand what he means. Nia didn't leave me drowning. She threw me every lifeline she could from beyond the grave.
"There are a few forms requiring your signature." He spreads them out, pointing to highlighted sections. "Guardian designation, trust fund acknowledgment, property transfer documents."
I sign where he indicates, my hand moving on autopilot while Maeve sleeps against me. Her breath is warm through my shirt, her weight the only thing keeping me grounded. Without her,I think I might just float away, become nothing, dissolve into the grief that's been threatening to swallow me whole since I watched them lower that casket.
The lawyer gathers the papers, sliding them back into his briefcase with quiet efficiency. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Ms. Montgomery. If you need anything, my office is available." He stands, offering his hand. "Ms. Brooks spoke very highly of you. She was confident you'd take excellent care of her daughter."
I shake his hand because that's what you do, even when every social nicety feels like moving through concrete. "Thank you."
He sees himself out, the bell above the door chiming softly as he leaves. The sound echoes in the empty bookstore, bouncing off the shelves Nia spent years curating, the reading nooks she arranged just so, the children's corner where she hosted story time every Saturday morning.
I'm alone. Completely, devastatingly alone in a way I've never been before.
My mother died eleven years ago, but I'd had Nia then. Had Declan. Had people who knew me, who cared, who existed in my orbit and made the world feel less vast and terrifying. Then I left Declan, cut myself off from everyone except Nia, spent eight years in New York with no real connections because getting close to people meant they could leave.
And now Nia's gone anyway, and I'm holding her daughter, and I'm the only person left who knew Zola Montgomery before she became this hollow thing wrapped in sarcasm and defense mechanisms.
I stand carefully, supporting Maeve's head as I move toward the back room. The apartment stairs loom ahead of me, each step feeling impossible. But I climb them because that's what you do when you're all that stands between an eight-month-old and the foster system. You keep moving even when moving feels like drowning.
The apartment smells like Nia. Her lavender lotion, her coconut shampoo, the vanilla candles she burned constantly. Every surface holds evidence of her—framed photos, her favorite coffee mug still sitting in the dish drainer, one of her cardigans draped over the couch. She's everywhere and nowhere, present in every object but absent in the only way that matters.
I lay Maeve down in her crib with the kind of care usually reserved for defusing bombs. She stirs but doesn't wake, her little fist curling against the sheet, her rosebud mouth making those tiny sucking movements babies do in their sleep. She looks like Nia. Same warm brown skin, same riot of dark curls, same perfect features. Looking at her is like looking at a ghost of my best friend, and I don't know if that's a gift or a curse.
