"You've got things to handle?"
"A bookstore. And Nia left me her daughter. I can't work nights and run a business and take care of an eight-month-old." I pull my keys from my pocket, slide them across the bar. "I'm sorry for the short notice."
"Don't apologize. Family comes first." He picks up the keys, pockets them with the same careful gentleness he uses for everything. Ray's a good man, the kind who pays fairly and doesn't ask questions when someone calls out sick, who tries to do the best he can given the kind of bar he runs. "You need anything, you call me, understand? My wife's sister has a daycare. We know people. You're not in this alone."
Except I am. But I appreciate the lie, appreciate that he's trying to help even though we both know I won't call.
"Thank you, Ray." I stand, ready to escape before this conversation can get any more painful.
"Zola, wait."
Naomi's voice stops me halfway to the door. I turn back, and she's already coming around the bar, her expression fierce with concern and something else. Something that looks like she's about to bulldoze through every defense I've spent years building.
"What's going on? What friend? What baby?"
The genuine confusion in her voice reminds me that we don't really talk outside of work. She knows I have a friend, knows I've been dealing with something heavy, but I never gave details because giving details means letting people in. And letting people in means they can leave.
But Nia already left, and I'm so tired of carrying everything alone.
"My best friend died five days ago. She had cancer. She left me her eight-month-old daughter and her bookstore, and I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm the only person she had so I'm doing it anyway." The words come out mechanical, empty of inflection because if I let any emotion in, I'll shatter right here on the bar floor.
Naomi doesn't hesitate. She crosses the remaining distance and pulls me into a hug that smells like cocoa butter and clean cotton. Her arms are strong around me, and for a moment I let myself lean into it, let someone else hold the weight.
"I'm so sorry." Her voice is low, fierce, full of an understanding that comes from someone who knows what loss tastes like. "God, Zola, I'm so sorry."
I pull back before I can start crying again, before I can take too much comfort from someone who has her own life to live. "I should go. Serena's watching Maeve."
"You have my number." Naomi doesn't let go completely, one hand still on my arm, anchoring me. "Use it. I mean it. You need anything—help with the baby, someone to watch her while you run the store, just someone to talk to—you call me. I'm a mom. I can help. Don't disappear on me."
I nod, not trusting my voice. Then I pull away and head for the door before she can see how close I am to falling apart again. The afternoon light is harsh after the bar's dim interior, making my swollen eyes ache.
The walk back to the bookstore is mechanical. One foot in front of the other. Past the corner store, the bodega, the residential streets where kids play basketball and neighbors sit on stoops. Everything looks normal. The world didn't stop just because mine ended.
When I reach the bookstore, I stand outside for a long moment, staring at the sign above the door.Storybound Booksin the script Nia painstakingly painted, the letters slightly faded from weather and time.
This is mine now. This building, this business, this life Nia built from nothing. And upstairs, sleeping in her crib, is a baby girl who depends on me for everything.
I unlock the door and step inside, letting it close behind me with a soft click.
One day at a time, Serena said.
I don't know how to do this. Don't know how to be a mother, run a business, exist in a world without my best friend.
But I'm going to try. Because Nia believed I could. Because Maeve deserves someone who'll fight for her the way Nia fought for every breath in those final weeks.
Because I'm all she has, and that has to be enough.
10
DECLAN
The phone pressed against my ear feels like a lifeline to something that doesn't matter. Lian drones on about the north side distribution point—inventory counts, product quality, the usual shit that should require my full attention but just fills the empty hours.
"—and Tommy wants to know if you want him to get Phillips or if you'll be there?—"
"Whatever he thinks is best." The words taste like ash. Everything tastes like ash.
My phone buzzes against my cheek. Bianca. Third time in twenty minutes.
