9. 9 #2
I need to be still for this. The second I swipe to answer, his voice slices through the silence.
“Are you fucking serious, Zoe? I have to sit here and lie to people about where you are. Do you know how embarrassing that is?”
A dry laugh slips out. “I’ll tell you what’s embarrassing—being a weak, lying cheat who can’t even own what he’s done.
Who couldn’t even keep his dick in his pants at the sight of another woman.
It’s pathetic, and you should be fucking embarrassed, Liam.
Might actually do you some good for once.
” When he doesn’t answer right away, I press on.
“And there’s no need to fucking lie. Everyone already knows what happened. ”
“Say whatever you want, Zoe. No one will believe you.” His sharp inhale crackles through the line. “Just get your fucking ass back home. We’re together.”
“We are definitely not together anymore. Was I not clear enough that night?”
“You think I don’t know you ran straight back to your parents? I spoke to your mother.”
Of course he did. I knew that would happen. I wouldn’t expect anything less from her.
“You can believe whatever she says,” I tell him.
“You know nothing. So stop acting like you give a fuck about me. You never did. You sure as hell didn’t when you had your dick buried in your fucking assistant, did you?
” My grip tightens around the phone, the plastic biting into my palm.
“So, fuck you, Liam. And here’s the truth…
I stopped giving a fuck about you a long time ago. ”
The words burn coming out, but the worst part isn’t saying them. It’s the way my chest caves in at the thought of it all afterwards.
Seven years.
I spent seven years trying to mould myself into someone else, someone easier, more accommodating. Seven years convincing myself that if I were just more patient, more understanding, I could make a marriage built on obligation and expectation work.
No. Seven years I wasted.
That’s what hurts the most. Not the betrayal. Not the lies. But the time I will never get back.
Liam exhales hard, and his voice drops lower, almost a growl. “Enough, Zoe. It was a stupid mistake. She means nothing to me.”
“Oh, and I do? Fuck off with that bullshit, Liam.”
His control snaps. “Come the fuck home, Zoe. I’m not gonna ask you again. You’re still my wife. Stop acting like an immature teenager.”
Was .
“What?” he bites out.
I hadn’t realised I said that out loud. I clear my throat. “I was your wife. I meant it when I said I was done.”
His breathing turns heavy, as if he’s physically holding himself back. “You’re making this so much harder than it needs to be.”
I stare at the empty road ahead, hands gripping the wheel. “No, Liam. I’m finally making it easy.”
“Zoe—”
I hang up before he can get another word in and power my phone off. For a minute, I just sit there, staring at the stretch of road ahead. My chest is tight, my breathing is jagged, and the weight of it all presses in. My vision blurs, but I force the tears back where they came from.
I will not be shedding a tear for him. Not for this. I drag in a slow breath. Then another.
In. Out. In. Out.
When my hands finally stop trembling enough to move, I shift into drive. The second I pull onto the road, a shrill beep cuts through the air. A warning light blinks on the dash, one I don’t even recognise, and the car jolts beneath me.
“Perfect,” I mutter, just as the engine sputters. My frustration spikes, and I smack the steering wheel with my palm. Just my fucking luck, right?
Because, of course, this means I’ll have to get it looked at. Again.
And there’s only one place in town for that.
One damn auto shop.
My stomach knots, heat creeping up my neck before I force it down. No. Absolutely not. I’m not dealing with him. Not now. Just picturing walking into that shop and seeing that smug, knowing look on his face is enough to make my blood simmer.
So I ignore the blinking light, ignore the occasional cough of the engine, and keep driving. Halfway to my rental, something on the road catches my eye.
Something small. Unmoving.
A cat? Maybe a dog?
I barely give it a second glance, but as I drive past, something about it lingers in the back of my mind. It was tiny, too still, and though logic tells me it probably has an owner, my fingers twitch against the wheel. Just keep driving, Zoe.
I exhale sharply, pressing my lips together.
I don’t have time for this. I don’t want to have time for this.
Yet, muttering a string of curses, I yank the wheel hard and throw a U-turn, the tyres screeching in protest. I pull up beside it before getting out of the car.
I walk over cautiously, to not startle whatever it is, and lean over, scanning the dark patch in the dirt.
Well, it’s definitely not a dog. Or a cat.
It’s a bloody kitten.
I stare down at the soaked little mess curled in the dirt, every muscle in my body screaming to get back in the car and drive. Just walk away. But it lets out a weak, strangled meow—barely even a sound—and something sharp twists in my chest.
“Shit,” I breathe, dragging a hand down my face.
Another soft mewl and I huff out a breath, squatting low enough to get a better look. The thing’s a wreck. Orange, though it’s hard to tell under all the dirt and whatever else it’s soaked in. Tiny. Frail. Curled in on itself like it’s trying to disappear. Eyes squeezed shut. Shivering.
“You’re not even trying to sell it, are you?
” I mutter. “Could at least meow like you mean it.” It doesn’t move, just shudders again.
I pause, fingers twitching at my sides. My throat’s tight, and I hate it.
This isn’t who I am. I don’t do the soft thing.
I don’t do rescue missions. But then my nan’s face flashes in my mind—how she always smelled like peppermint and lavender, how she’d scold me for being ‘all bark and no bloody bite,’ and how she had this ridiculous way of scooping up every stray she came across.
“What would Nan do?” I mutter, already knowing the answer.
She’d pick it up. No hesitation. She’d wrap it in one of her hideous floral tea towels, coo like it was a baby, and tell it everything was going to be alright.
And then she’d probably smack me upside the head for standing around like a fool.
Muttering a string of curses under my breath, I pull out my phone and type fast, searching for the nearest vet.
Wattle Creek Animal Hospital.
Which, according to my maps, is not far.
I swing open the boot, rifling through the mess until my fingers land on an old gym towel—stiff, fraying at the edges, and smelling faintly of sweat and detergent.
I grimace but thank whatever force of the universe decided to cut me a break today.
It’s better than nothing. Carefully, I bundle the kitten up, the towel swallowing its tiny shivering body.
I place it gingerly on the passenger seat, where it lets out the smallest, saddest little meow.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a real heartbreaker,” I mutter, shutting the door.
The fluorescent lights of Wattle Creek Animal Hospital are too bright as I push through the front door, the towel clutched tight against my chest. At the front desk, three women are in the middle of a heated, whisper-hissing debate.
“I’m telling you,” the older woman insists, hands waving dramatically, “guinea pigs can wear sweaters—there are Pinterest boards dedicated to it.”
“They overheat, Katie!” a young girl holding a small grey rabbit fires back. “It’s cruel.”
The older woman, whose greying hair is twisted into a messy bun, sighs loudly. “Lord above, how did we go from talking about appropriate adoption forms to arguing about guinea pig fashion shows?”
None of them notice me standing there, frail kitten and all in my arms. I clear my throat loudly, and all three heads snap toward me at once.
“Oh gosh. Sorry, dear!” the older woman exclaims, hastily straightening her shirt. “I’m Katie. How can we help you?” I lift the bundled towel slightly, feeling the kitten stir against my chest.
“I, uh, found this kitten on the side of the road. It’s… breathing . Figured it could use a professional instead of me.”
The woman in the middle, with long brown hair clipped messily at the back of her head, steps forward, her face softening as she peers down at the towel in my arms.
“Oh, little darling.” She gently plucks the bundle from my hands, her voice dropping to a coo. “Come here, sweetheart, you’re safe now.” She glances back at me, flashing a warm smile. “Thank you for bringing it in. I’m Dr. Isla Mitchell. Why don’t you come through? We’ll take a quick look.”
I hesitate, my instincts screaming at me to bolt, but she’s already leading the way down the hall.
When the kitten lets out a soft, pitiful mewl from the bundle of towel, my boots somehow drag themselves across the floor after her.
I cast a quick glance at the girl still cradling the rabbit, muttering something under her breath about “guinea pig liberation.”
The exam room is too bright. I take in the tall counter already laid out with neat silver tools and white towels.
Isla moves efficiently as she gently unwraps the kitten and starts checking it over.
She’s beautiful, in that effortless kind of way.
Long brown hair with subtle highlights through it, green eyes that seem clear and kind, and skin that somehow still glows under the terrible hospital lighting.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the younger girl following us in. “Hm, looks like dehydration and a bit of malnourishment to me,” she murmurs, watching Isla as she runs her skilled hands over the kitten’s tiny frame.
“Yep. No obvious injuries, though, which is good news,” Isla confirms. She glances up at me with a soft smile. Her head tilts slightly, like she’s studying me—trying to slot a missing piece into a puzzle. “You must be new here. I don’t think I’ve seen you around here or in town before.”
I shift my weight, feeling the familiar itch under my skin that always comes when people start poking where they shouldn’t.
“Just passing through,” I mutter, voice dry.
Her smile only grows. “Oh, you’ve got family here, then?”
“Something like that.”
Isla opens her mouth like she might dig a little deeper, but something in my face must warn her off, because she hums lightly instead, turning her attention back to the kitten. She pulls off the stethoscope around her neck and listens carefully to its heartbeat.
“She’s definitely underweight and dehydrated,” Isla reiterates, shifting the kitten with a kind of gentle precision that I hate to admit is almost soothing to watch. Female, I realise, catching the subtle way Isla says she.
Something small and helpless and struggling to survive. It punches a little harder than it should, scraping against the brittle feeling in my chest that I’m trying my hardest to bury. I clear my throat, feeling awkward for just standing there like an idiot.
“What happens to it? You know… after this?”
“We can keep her here for a while,” Isla replies, glancing at me. “We’ve got space to house a few strays short-term. But if no one claims her or adopts her, eventually we’ll have to send her to the animal shelter in Burralee.”
I have no idea where that is. Could be the next town over, could be on the bloody moon.
I nod anyway, like I understand, but a knot coils low in my gut.
I don’t know this kitten. I don’t owe her anything.
It’s not my responsibility. Still… the idea of her crammed into some steel cage under buzzing lights, forgotten and terrified, leaves a bitter taste I can’t swallow down.
Maybe Isla catches it—the way my jaw tenses or my hand curls slightly at my side—because her smile softens.
“We’ll do everything we can first. Get her strong, give her a real chance,” she says quietly, almost like she’s offering me a lifeline too. “And if no one comes…” Her small shrug speaks volumes. “Well. We just hope someone kind will come along and take her home.”
Isla finishes her checks and straightens up, offering me another one of those soft, understanding smiles that makes me feel more seen than I’m comfortable with.
“Thank you again for bringing her in,” she says warmly. “We’ll take it from here.”
I nod stiffly, already backing toward the door like the place might catch fire if I stay too long.
“Yeah. No worries.”
Without another word, I pull the door open and step out into the fading afternoon sun, the scent of antiseptic and warm hay still clinging faintly to my clothes. I shouldn’t feel guilty. I did what I came to do. It is what it is.
And yet, as I climb back into my car, the empty passenger seat feels heavier than it should.