12
DECLAN
All I can think about is Zola.
The way she held that baby against her chest like she was terrified someone might take her. The way her eyes went cold when she looked at me, building walls I used to be allowed past. The way her voice stayed flat and distant even though I could see her pulse jumping in her throat.
She's not over me. Not any more than I'm over her.
The knowledge sits in my chest, warm and dangerous.
I climb to my office on the second floor, overlooking the garden I've never stepped foot in. I handle the night's business there—check in with the crew running the north distribution point, approve a shipment coming through the ports, deal with a payment dispute that requires me to make three phone calls and remind someone exactly why disappointing me is a poor life choice.
The work is efficient. Mechanical. I've been doing this for so long without really being present for any of it.
But tonight something shifts.
Tonight I have a reason to finish quickly. A reason to get everything handled so tomorrow I can go back to that bookstore and see if Zola will let me stay a little longer.
Stellan calls around midnight. "How'd it go?"
"She said we could be friends."
A pause. "That's good."
"Is it?" I lean back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. "She looked at me like I was a stranger."
"You basically are. It's been eight years." Stellan's voice is pragmatic as always. "You can't expect her to just—what, fall into your arms?"
No. I can't expect that. Can't expect anything except what she's willing to give, which right now is barely civil tolerance.
But it's more than I had yesterday.
"I'm going back tomorrow."
"Good." Stellan sounds almost approving. "Keep showing up. Let her remember who you are."
Who I am. Who I was. Who I want to be again if she'll let me.
I end the call and sit in the dark office, thinking about Zola holding that baby, thinking about the way she saidfinelike the word cost her something.
I can do this. I can be patient. I can show her that the man she left is still here, still hers if she wants him.
Even if it takes months. Even if it takes years.
I'm not walking away again.
The next morningI'm dressed and out of the house before Bianca wakes up, which isn't unusual. What is is the buzz of actual energy I feel.
I stop at the café three blocks from Storybound Books—the one I remember Zola used to love because they made their croissants fresh every morning and didn't burn their espresso.
It's still there. Still serving the same pastries in the same paper bags.
I order two coffees—one black, one with cream and two sugars the way she used to take it—and a chocolate croissant because she used to eat them for breakfast when she thought I wasn't paying attention.
The barista hands them over without making eye contact. Smart. I'm not in the mood for small talk.
Twenty minutes later I'm standing outside Storybound Books, staring at the front window. It's early—just past nine. The sign says they open at ten but I can see movement inside, Zola's silhouette passing behind the displays.
