16. 16 #2
On Italian linen sheets I had sent from Florence because he’d said he liked the way they felt against his skin when we’d visited once. That was the moment. The switch.
People might wonder why it took something so blunt to make me leave. Why it wasn’t the years of emotional abuse, the slow bleed of who I used to be. Truth is, I’m not sure either. Maybe because seeing it—right there in front of me—was cleaner than trying to prove the bruises no one else could see.
The proof of his betrayal was easier to swallow than having to claw and fight my way out with nothing concrete to hold onto.
It was undeniable. Solid. It was the moment I could point to and say, This. This is why I left.
It was my ticket out. My one piece of leverage.
And I wasn’t going to waste it.
Instead of replying to his pathetic, half-baked threats, I screenshot them and fire them off to Jeff. Then I scroll to his name and press call.
“Oh, honey,” he drawls, skipping hello entirely. “If this is his idea of intimidation, I’ve had scarier messages from my barista when I forget to tip.”
I can’t help the faint smirk that tugs at my lips, though my voice is too flat to match his energy. “Yeah, well… figured he’d try something.”
A long, theatrical sigh drifts down the line. “Of course he did.” There’s a shuffle of paper in the background. “He’s so full of himself, Zoe. You’ve got everything we need. Throw in the infidelity, and it’s practically gift-wrapped. He’s just banking on you not knowing your rights.”
I stare up at the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the paint. “Right. And the apartment? Our assets?”
Jeff hesitates… long enough for me to notice. “That’s the trickier bit. His name’s on the mortgage, so there’ll be some wrangling. But I’m not worried, and you don’t need to be either. You’re not walking into this unarmed.”
My gaze drifts to the window, to where the kitten is curled up on the sill. She’s all tiny paws and slow, even breaths—all safe and warm-looking. I envy her. A cat . How pathetic. Because right now, I don’t feel armed. I don’t feel brave. I just feel… worn down. Hollowed out.
“Will I have to see him at any point?” The words scrape out like gravel.
“Only if something goes sideways,” Jeff says gently. “You won’t have to face him unless there’s a dispute we can’t close. Worst case, his lawyer pushes for a meeting, or it ends up in court.”
The thought of being in the same room as Liam again makes my stomach roll. Jeff must sense it, because his tone shifts into something calmer, anchored. “I’ll handle it, darling. You won’t be in this alone.”
I close my eyes, the endearment settling over me like something I didn’t ask for but desperately need. “Thanks.”
“Oh, and Dani has been busting my balls to come see you. I’m quite fond of those, so for the sake of preserving them, just text me a time that works for you, alright?”
A soft laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. “Soon.”
“Good. We miss you.”
I hang up, and the sound has barely faded before a knock rattles the front door.
Every muscle in my body locks. My mind jumps to worst-case scenarios.
It’s not Liam. He wouldn’t come all this way.
He’s too fucking lazy. A keyboard warrior who fires threats from the safety of a screen.
Sudden nervous heat bubbles up my throat at the thought of it being Michael again, showing up unannounced, standing there with that steady gaze I’m not ready for.
So, I move slowly. Peering through the curtain, I catch two familiar silhouettes on the veranda. I crack the door open.
What the actual hell—
“Hi!” Isla beams, eyes bright beneath oversized sunglasses. She’s holding a cardboard tray of iced coffees. Imogen stands beside her with a tray of pastries in hand.
“We brought sustenance,” Isla chirps, already stepping closer.
Imogen lifts her brow. “And thank goodness we did. You look like you could use some, babe.”
“I—uh—”
They don’t wait for an invitation. Imogen breezes past me into the living room, and Isla follows, pausing just long enough to offer me a soft, one-armed hug. I stand there stiff, both arms pinned to my sides, caught between surprise and discomfort.
“How did you—” I stop myself. I already know.
Michael.
Of course. The thought chews at me. What is his deal?
It’s infuriating. He’s too nice. Too thoughtful.
And it stirs something in my chest that I don’t want to examine too closely.
I swallow hard, closing the door behind them.
They settle in like this is their Sunday ritual—Imogen unpacking the paper bag of pastries, Isla setting down the iced coffees on the table, their voices threading together in easy conversation.
I hover by the edge of the room, unsure if I should sit, stand, or just… disappear. My hands can’t decide what to do, so I shove them into my pockets and take a seat on the lounge.
“Have you been into town much?” Isla asks, tearing off a neat bite of muffin.
“Not really.”
“You should,” she says with an easy smile. “There are so many cute nooks and shops to see.”
Imogen takes a long sip of her coffee, her gaze flicking over me before the two of them slip into conversation.
They do most of the talking, but they keep me looped in as they bounce between topics—catching up about the race, the weather this week, and some mishap at the vet that has Imogen throwing her head back in a loud, unrestrained cackle.
It pulls a smile out of me before I even realise it’s there .
“Oh, how’s the cat?” Isla asks suddenly, her tone warm. Who knows where she is now though. No doubt up to good somewhere, or hiding under my bed. She does that a lot.
“She’s… good,” I say, and the corner of my mouth twitches. “Bossy as hell, but I guess she’s settling in. She’s already learned to climb the curtains… just like you warned.”
“That sounds about right,” Isla laughs.
Imogen tilts her head. “So, no name for her yet?”
“No. Nothing’s really come to mind.” I shrug, though part of me hates admitting it. I should’ve named her by now. But somehow it feels like more than just picking something cute—it’s like committing to keeping her. To staying. “I’ll decide soon.”
“If you ever need anything for her, just let me know,” Isla says with an easy smile. “We’ve got half a pet store’s worth of supplies at home, and plenty more at the clinic.”
I mutter a quiet “Thanks,” and take a sip of my iced coffee. The conversation drifts, and I brace myself for the kind of questions I’ve learned to sidestep. But surprisingly, Isla starts light.
“You know, it really surprised me to hear I know your mum. When my mother was here, she used to go over for tea on Saturdays.” She tilts her head. “Does your mum still host that?”
Her phrasing lands in my stomach like a stone—when my mother was here.
Has her mum passed? The thought lingers, but I don’t pry.
It’s strange, picturing Isla’s mum and mine sitting at the same table, sipping tea and swapping stories.
Then again, maybe it’s not so strange. This is a small town, after all.
“Well,” Imogen cuts in, taking the words straight out of my thoughts, “small town after all.”
That makes Isla laugh. “Can’t escape anything, really.”
She’s not wrong. People here collect history like pressed flowers—tucked away but never forgotten. The thought leaves me uneasy.
I shift the focus. “So, do you have any kids?”
“Yes!” Her face brightens instantly. “I’ve got two beautiful girls—Callie and Gracie.” Her voice softens. “Callie’s named after my dad. He passed away suddenly a few years ago. And Gracie’s named after Xavier’s mum, Grace. She’s done so much for me. For our family.”
My stomach dips at the thought of her having lost her dad—and, I assume, her mum too.
My mind flickers to my own parents. The tangled mess of it.
The distance. The unspoken things that fill every gap between us.
And I wonder, just for a second, if that’s something you ever stop feeling.
Isla must catch whatever’s flickered across my face, because she offers a small, steady smile.
“It’s okay. I’ve grown through it. If I didn’t have Xavier through all of it… I don’t know where I’d be.”
Imogen reaches over, rubbing her shoulder in a way that seems familiar. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t. I just listen. Between sips of coffee, I learn more. Like how Imogen eloped with Harrison two years ago, their start anything but smooth.
“God, I hated his guts,” she says with a laugh, biting into a croissant. “But I also wanted to jump his bones. It’s the Price effect. The price you pay, being around them. Pun intended.”
I keep my face still, but the words stick. Is that what’s happening to me?
No. Absolutely not .
Imogen continues to talk, now mentioning her kids, Joseph and Hope. “Joseph’s all me. Hope? That girl’s her father through and through. And she’s already giving him a run for his money.”
“They were destined to be girl dads,” Isla teases.
“Amen to that.” Imogen grins.
The conversation thins. They keep tossing questions my way, but I let most pass. Isla tilts her head. “You don’t like talking much, do you?”
Imogen smirks. “Starting to think you might outshine Amelia in the shy department.”
My eyes narrow slightly. I remember Amelia from the race—quiet, sweet, almost unassuming. “I’m not shy,” I say, sharper than I mean. “I just don’t talk unless I have something worth saying.”
The room pauses. Just long enough for discomfort to settle over my skin.
Then Isla smiles. “Fair enough.”
“Absolutely,” Imogen agrees, and just like that, they move on.
No awkward laughs. No side-eyes. No flinching at my tone.
They just… let me be. They talk about the town’s market day next weekend, a bonfire on Saturday night, and the bakery on Maple Street, where the jam drops apparently change lives.
And it throws me. Because even when I’m being blunt—maybe even bitchy—they don’t pull away. They lean in.
I don’t know what to do with that.
I mean, it’s not like I don’t have caring friends. Jeff and Dani have always been my constants, my safe people. But this feels different. These women don’t know me. And still, they act like they want to. Like they’ll stand outside the fence even when it’s lined in barbed wire.
Like they’re fine with waiting, unbothered by the risk of getting scratched. At that thought, my phone buzzes beside me.
Michael : How’s your girl time?
I roll my eyes. Of course, he set this up.
Me : I don’t really appreciate you sending people to my house unannounced. Sweets and coffee aren’t incentives to invade my space just because you think I need company.
Michael : I’ll take that as “Thank you, Michael, for suggesting the girls visit me. You’re such a great friend.”
Michael : I didn’t send them FYI. And they brought the stuff on their own accord.
Michael : FYI means ‘For Your Information.’
Zoe : Gee. Thanks, Einstein. I’m not that old.
Michael : Not implying you are. I don’t actually know how old you are.
Me : Too old to be texting you.
Michael : I doubt that.
Me : Are you always this irritating?
Michael : Only with people who pretend not to like me.
Me : Pretend?
Michael : You tell me.
The nerve. The smug, self-satisfied nerve. My thumbs hover over the screen, caught between firing something back and tossing the phone onto the couch.
“Is that Michael?” Isla’s voice cuts in, curious but far from subtle.
I keep my eyes on my phone, pretending I didn’t hear her.
Imogen smirks knowingly. “That totally means yes.”
Isla grins. “So, you’re on a texting basis now?”
“It’s just about my car,” I say quickly, which earns me a lifted brow from Imogen.
“Mhm,” she hums.
I pointedly look back down at my phone and type.
Me : Not having this conversation now.
Me : Oh, and FYI, I’ll be bringing the car in tomorrow.
Michael : About time, Freckles. Can’t wait.
Me : Stop calling me that.
That one word—freckles—sits there, staring up at me, mocking me. I lock my phone before I can overthink it, but the damage is already done. He’s under my skin, and I hate that I’m starting to notice.