11. 11
Something in the Water – Carrie Underwood
I ’m pushing the world’s squeakiest trolley down aisle four, pretending I’m anywhere but here.
I should’ve just ordered takeaway for the rest of my life, lived on caffeine and two-minute noodles until my insides shrivelled into seasoning packets.
But no, apparently basic nutrition is necessary for survival.
Wattle Creek’s supermarket is too bright.
Too clean. Too full of people who smile too much.
And of course, my mother is here.
She hums beside me, way too chipper for a woman dragging her depressed daughter through a fluorescent-lit battlefield of old memories and cereal boxes. “Ooh, look, Zoe—quinoa is half-price.”
I deadpan at the tiny, overpriced packet she waves around like a golden ticket. “Thrilling.”
She sighs, clearly unimpressed with my lack of enthusiasm. “You need fibre. And something green in your life.”
I ignore her and walk further down the aisle before yanking open the freezer door. I don’t hesitate to grab a tub of triple choc chip ice cream. Tossing it into the trolley with a satisfying thunk, I catch her look of horror.
“Zoe,” she breathes, clutching the quinoa packet to her chest. “That’s full of sugar.”
“Exactly,” I mutter, shoving the trolley forward.
We walk through the aisles—her, pointing out kombucha and lentil snacks, me grabbing chips and instant noodles with the precision of a soldier on a mission.
The gap between us has never felt wider.
A silent tug-of-war: her optimism versus my reality.
We’re halfway through the cleaning supplies aisle when she drops the bomb.
“So… have you spoken to Liam?”
My fingers freeze around a bottle of dish soap. I stare at the label—it’s lemon-scented—and avoid eye contact. “Don’t.”
She pauses beside me, shifting her basket to her other arm. “Zoe, he’s still your husband.”
My grip tightens on the bottle. “Was. He was my husband.”
“You can’t hide out here forever, darling. You have to go back. Talk to him. Fix your marriage.” And there it is. That word. Fix. “You’re still legally married. That means something, right?”
I stop walking, turning to face her fully. “Why the fuck should I have to fix my marriage?”
Her eyes widen. “Keep your voice down.” She places her basket on the floor like she’s grounding herself before I explode. I don’t lower my voice. If anything, I let it rise.
“What for? Are you worried people will talk? Good. Let them. Let them know I’m done. Done playing it safe, done pretending, done being the perfect fucking housewife.”
“Zoe, stop. I didn’t bring this up to cause an argument.”
The sound of my bitter laugh fills the space around us in the quiet aisle. “Bullshit. You knew exactly what this would do. You always do. And yet, you bring it up now? In the middle of the supermarket?”
She opens her mouth, but I cut her off, the words tumbling out like a confession I’ve been holding in for too long. “We’ve been separated for over a year, Mum.”
Her brows pull together. Confusion. Disbelief. “What do you mean? You live together.”
“Under the same roof, sure. But not together. We slept in separate rooms. I even attended events alone.”
Her lips twitch like she wants to deny it, but the truth is right there, plain as the linoleum beneath our feet.
Can you imagine that? Living with the one person who once promised to love you through it all, and feeling like a ghost in your own home?
Breathing the same air yet passing like strangers in the hallway.
You get good at pretending. At smiling in public, at acting like the foundation isn’t cracking.
But inside, it eats you alive. The distance.
The shame. The slow suffocation of realising you’re nothing more than a placeholder in your own life.
I step closer. “Do you want to know the last time he and I slept together? Over a year ago. You want to know why?” My voice breaks, but I don’t stop.
“Because he’s an abusive, manipulative bastard who’s been too busy sleeping with other women while gaslighting me into thinking everything was my fault. ”
Her hand lifts to her mouth. Eyes glassy. Silent. She’s finally listening. But it’s too late for her tears. I place a bar of soap into the trolley slowly.
“Zoe, I’m just… trying to help you,” my mother insists, though her voice wavers.
“No, you’re trying to drag me back. Back to the version of me you were proud of. The one who smiled on cue. Who hosted dinner parties with bruises under her sleeves and made excuses for a man who broke more than just promises.”
“I-I… I’m so sorry.”
“Forget it.” My heart hammers against my ribcage, and I ignore the ache building behind my eyes. The wheels of my trolley squeal as I storm away, past shelves that blur as I blink too fast.
I don’t care what’s in the basket, I just need to get out.
At the self-serve checkout, I scan items like a robot, ice cream trembling slightly in my hands. My fingers fumble for my card as a group of women at the next register glance my way. I meet their stares head-on, jaw tight. I can survive a few whispers.
Outside, the sun feels too bright, and I walk quickly to my car, pretending the warmth doesn’t feel like punishment.
Back at the glorified shoebox the real estate agency called a “rental retreat,” I drop the shopping bags on the chipped bench and power up my laptop.
I tell myself it’s just a quick check, nothing more.
But as soon as my inbox opens, my fingers fall into rhythm, and hundreds of unread emails flood in.
Client updates marked all good. Project notes flagged ahead of schedule. Threads full of check-ins and light-hearted banter. They’re fine. More than fine. The tension in my shoulders loosens just a fraction, relief creeping in, yet it doesn’t settle the guilt pressing at my ribs.
They’re doing well without me. My team. My clients. The life I built.
The people I left behind.
Jeff’s voice echoes in my head, clear as glass and twice as sharp: “You come first. They’ll be fine.” He’s said it to me too many times now. Hammered it in. Begged me to believe it.
With a heavy sigh, I shut off my laptop and let the silence spread around me like a cool embrace. No matter how hard I try to will it away, the ache is still there. The pull to fix things, to hold the world together like glue.
But maybe, for once, I don’t have to be the one who does.
I blink open my eyes, lids still heavy with the kind of sleep that hits like a freight truck—unwelcome, jarring, and far too sudden. What time is it?
My body feels exhausted, but for the life of me, I cannot pinpoint why. I roll over sluggishly, instinctively searching for the time, though no clock or phone sits within reach. I exhale through my nose, dragging myself upright, the weight of unrest clinging to my skin like a second layer.
The cold tiles in the bathroom sting against my bare feet, grounding me as I lean over the basin, letting cold water rush over my hands before cupping it to my face. My reflection stares back at me, blurry at first, but gradually sharpening.
Eyes ringed with sleep, hair a tangled in a defiant mess of auburn curls that seem to frizz with every breath I take.
I grab my toiletry bag, yank out my brush, and start tugging it through the knots, wincing as I try to force some kind of order onto the chaos sitting atop my head.
I don’t try to be gentle. I don’t have the energy for gentle. Not today.
When I’m at least satisfied enough to not look like I’ve just crawled out of the gutter, I flick off the light and wander back into the living room.
The floorboards creak underfoot as I cross to the couch, where my phone sits exactly where I left it—plugged in, screen black.
I tap it. The time flashes up in bold white numbers. 3:14.
I blink. That can’t be right.
I stare at the screen again, heart picking up speed as my brain tries to make sense of it.
I got home around nine this morning—dropped the groceries on the kitchen counter, made a coffee, and curled up on my bed for what I thought was a quick minute.
But I must’ve blacked out completely. Six hours.
I’ve been asleep for six hours in the middle of the day, and I don’t even remember shutting my eyes.
That’s not like me. I don’t do this. I don’t lose time like that, not unless I’m sick—or spiralling.
But I know exactly what this is. No routine.
No structure. Nothing familiar. Just this temporary house in a town I swore I’d never come back to.
Everything I used to be is unravelling quietly at the edges while I try to pretend I’m fine.
But I’m not fine. I’m unmoored. My days blur.
Nights stretch too long. I forget to eat.
Forget what day it is. I’m floating through this weird limbo, and the only thing that feels real anymore is the exhaustion.
The doorbell rings.
I freeze.
My heart lurches, one painful beat after another—each one louder than the last as a cold dread slices through me. I just stand there, not making any effort to move, eyes fixed on the front door like I can will it to vanish.
It’s not him. It can’t be Liam. He doesn’t know where I’m living. He’s not supposed to. No one told him. Unless my mother—
Fuck.
My stomach clenches. I swallow hard, trying to steady my breathing, but it’s no use. The panic is already curling its fingers around my throat, tightening. Because what if it is him? What if he found me? What if the past I finally clawed my way out of is standing on the other side of that door?