"And Zola?" Her name sounds different now. Feels different. Like something precious I'm allowed to say again. "What do I?—"
"Don't charge in." Stellan's voice firms. "It's been years and she's going through a lot. It might be a good idea to try and re-establish a friendship. She's not just going to let you back in like nothing happened."
"If she does it at all. She asked me to let her go," I say quietly. "Eight years ago she asked me not to come looking for her."
"Yeah. Eight years ago." Stellan meets my eyes. "You think she might feel differently now? Knowing what she knows? Knowing you didn't move on, didn't replace her, spent the last six months married to someone you won't even touch because they're not her?"
The question hangs between us.
I don't know what Zola would think. Don't know if seeing me would make her happy or break her heart all over again. Don'tknow if she spent all the years missing me the way I missed her or if she learned to stop, learned to build a life that doesn't have me in it.
But I know I can't walk away now. Can't go back to the hollow existence I've been living, not when she's here and I have even the smallest chance of finally fixing this.
Because I will. I'll find a way.
11
ZOLA
The bell above the bookstore door chimes and I glance up from the inventory spreadsheet that makes about as much sense as ancient hieroglyphics. Numbers blur together, column after column of data that Nia tracked meticulously and I can barely comprehend.
"Please tell me you've eaten today." Naomi's voice cuts through my concentration, warm and exasperated in equal measure. She's carrying two takeout bags that smell like heaven—garlic and butter and something savory that makes my stomach clench with sudden hunger.
I can't remember if I've eaten. Toast this morning, maybe? Or was that yesterday?
"Define 'eaten.'"
"Actual food. Not coffee." She sets the bags on the counter and gives me that look—the one that says she's already decided I'm a disaster and she's taking charge. "When's the last time you had a real meal?"
Maeve stirs in the carrier strapped to my chest, tiny fist curling against my collarbone. She's been asleep for maybe twenty minutes, which means I have another hour if I'm luckybefore she wakes up screaming for attention or milk or just the comfort of being held.
Eight months old and already so much like Nia it hurts. Those huge brown eyes, the way her face scrunches when she's about to cry, the little huffing sound she makes when she's content.
"Zola." Naomi's still waiting for an answer.
"I had..." My brain scrambles for something convincing. "Crackers?"
"Jesus Christ." She unpacks containers—pasta with cream sauce, garlic bread, salad that looks suspiciously healthy. "You're running yourself into the ground. You know that, right?"
I do know that. Can feel it in my bones, in the exhaustion that never quite lifts even when Maeve sleeps through the night—which she hasn't done since Nia died. Can feel it in the way my hands shake sometimes when I'm making bottles or trying to figure out which cry means hungry versus tired versus I just want my mom and you're not her.
"I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar." Naomi starts sectioning out portions, efficient and practiced. She's been stopping by every other day for the past two weeks, always with food or supplies or just her presence. Jordan came with her last week, sweet and awkward the way fourteen-year-old boys are, offering to carry boxes and reorganize shelves while Maeve grabbed his finger and refused to let go.
Nilos came with Naomi too, once. Stood in the doorway with that careful stillness he has, watching me struggle with a crying baby and a customer who needed help finding a specific translation of Dante's Inferno. He didn't say much—just stepped in, found the book in thirty seconds flat, rang up the customer with the kind of quiet competence that reminded me why people are terrified of him. Then he looked at me holding Maeve andsaid, "You need anything, you call Naomi. She'll make sure you get it."
Not an offer. A statement of fact.
I'd nodded because what else was I supposed to do? Tell him I don't need help when I clearly do? Tell him I'm drowning and have no idea how to swim with a baby strapped to my chest and a business I never asked to run?
"Where should I put her?" Naomi's already moving toward the small setup I created in the office just behind the desk—a portable crib that folds up during business hours, currently unfolded and waiting. Soft blankets Nia picked out, woodland creatures dancing across pale green fabric. A mobile hanging above that plays a lullaby I can't listen to without my throat closing.
"She just went down." My voice comes out quieter than I intend. "She'll probably wake up if I move her."
"Then I'll take you both." Naomi's hands are already reaching, careful and practiced. "Come on. Let me help."
The thing about Naomi is that she doesn't wait for permission. Just slides her hands under Maeve's weight, supporting her head with the kind of instinct that comes from years of motherhood, and lifts her out of the carrier without jostling enough to wake her.
