18. 18
Control (String Version) by Zoe Wees
M aple Street Bakery is the kind of place that smells like childhood.
Vanilla-laced pastries. Burnt espresso. Yeast, cinnamon, and butter, folded into every breath of air.
But all I feel is tension. A tightness across my shoulders that won’t budge, no matter how many times I shift in my seat.
Imogen coaxed me into coming. Claimed the kids were getting restless and she needed a caffeine hit.
That it would do me good to try their pastries.
And, against my better judgement, I agreed.
I don’t fit here. I can feel it in the way heads tilt ever so slightly when I pass, in the way voices dip when I step into earshot.
My baby blue trousers cling in neat, tailored lines; my crisp white shirt nips in at the waist, all structure and no softness.
Each tap of my cream Chanel ballet flats against the tiled floor feels too loud.
Jeff mailed them up—along with my skincare—when Dani tipped him off that Liam had taken a day trip to Melbourne.
I’d given Jeff my apartment code, and he’d gone full scavenger, stuffing a duffel with whatever he could grab.
Including half my lingerie drawer, apparently.
The bastard. I could kill him. He even included the dress, unbeknownst to him, that I’d bought for my anniversary dinner two years ago—the one that never saw the light of day because Liam had cancelled at the last minute for a work trip.
Lying fucking piece of shit.
Fresh outfit or not, I still feel like the wrong puzzle piece—polished and pressed in a place built on scuffs and denim.
Across from me, Imogen is the opposite. Effortless.
Denim overalls over a white baby tee, a soft ribbon—pink today—threaded through her hair.
There’s colour in her cheeks from the heat, maybe from wrangling two kids under five.
She looks flushed, a little messy, completely at home. And happy.
Hope is settled in her pram, calmly drinking her milk. Joseph kicks his feet in a high chair, sticky hands grabbing for a toy in Imogen’s handbag.
“I do miss doing hair,” she says, swiping at Joseph’s cheek with a napkin. “Some days, I even miss the drama. Hair salons are wild, you know. But being with them?” She flicks a crumb off his shirt. “I wouldn’t trade it.”
Her hands never stop moving—adjusting a strap, brushing hair off Joseph’s forehead, checking Hope’s bottle.
“When he was born, it was rough,” she says softly.
“Postnatal stuff hit hard. I was a mess. Harrison—” Her eyes go somewhere else for a second.
“He never made me feel like a burden. That man’s got his flaws, sure.
But when it comes to showing up? He’s unmatched.
” Her whole face lights up when she talks about him.
It’s in the way her mouth curves, how her eyes soften.
“You two seem perfect for each other.”
She beams at me. “Harrison would love to hear you say that, and he never lets me forget it. But… I guess things worked out the way they were meant to. Even when I didn’t want to admit it.
We just… clicked. I thought I hated him at first, but turns out, I was just mad he got under my skin.
” Her smile deepens; it’s more private now.
“He’s good. As a husband. As a dad. Better than I thought he could be.
And Michael—well, he’s been the best brother-in-law I could ask for. The best uncle, hands down.”
Something about the way she says it stirs a strange flicker in me. Familiar, but not in a way I can easily name. Like she’s unknowingly skimming the surface of something I’ve been avoiding—this quiet, unspoken shift between Michael and me that I can’t seem to define.
“You two seem close,” I say before I even realise it’s out.
“We are. And, you know, just like Harrison, he’s got his flaws.
But I’ve always believed he just needs the right person to bring out the best in him.
Someone who sees past the walls he puts up.
” Then she blinks rapidly as if she’s finally coming back to herself.
“Shit, sorry. Listen to me go on. What about you? Any special lover hiding in the wings? I don’t think I’ve even asked. ”
I wish she hadn’t.
I draw in a breath and hold it before letting it out slowly. Before I can answer, the waitress brings our coffees to the table, along with a small, warmed croissant. Imogen slides it to Joseph, who grins up at her.
“Fank you, Mama.”
“You’re welcome, baby,” she murmurs, kissing the top of his head before unlocking her phone and handing it to him. Bluey starts playing at half volume.
“So… where were we?” she asks, cutting back to me.
Dread creeps in. I stare down at my latte, heart sinking. I can’t explain it. Not here. Not now. Not to someone so open and grounded. Someone who glows.
“It’s… complicated.”
Imogen frowns. Not in a prying way, just a gentle nudge.
“Sorry. Let me just burp her,” she says, scooping Hope from the pram, who’s now fussing, and settles her against her shoulder.
Her hand rubs small, patient circles across the baby’s back.
I nod. Or at least I think I do. Because I’m already drifting. Already staring out the window.
Until I hear it.
My name.
I turn my head slightly. Why am I not the slightest bit surprised? It’s Jazzy. And her triage of pension-age piranhas. They’re seated three tables away, loud enough to hear without trying.
“Well, I know she didn’t run back home for the scenery,” Jazzy croons.
Another chuckles. “Some women mustn’t be cut out for marriage.”
My throat tightens, and heat creeps up the back of my neck. How the hell do they know anything? Who’s been talking? My mother? No, surely not. Not after the supermarket ordeal. She’s been… different since then. Checking in without pushing. It can’t be her.
But Jazzy? Jazzy knows everything.
“Zoe?” Imogen’s voice slices through the fog in my head.
I flinch and do my best to drag my focus back to her.
“Sorry, what?” I ask, but I can’t hear her properly—not over the steady drip of their words bleeding into me.
The worst part is… some of it’s true. And fuck them for assuming I’m not good enough for my marriage.
Liam can rot in hell for all I care. It’s the running part.
The fact that I left. That I get the blame.
How easily women are painted as the problem, the quitter, the one who couldn’t hold it together, while men walk away with their reputations intact.
The thought of it all burns right through me, curling into my chest, becoming something heavier—embarrassment, humiliation—until it sits at the base of my throat. Imogen follows my gaze, and her eyes instantly roll inwards.
“Why am I not surprised they would be here?”
My eyes widen. “You know those ladies?”
“Unfortunately. One of them, Shelly Bryant, gave me some grief for years until I put her in her place. I’m not surprised she’s at it again.” As she speaks, another comment drifts through the room, enough for me to hear it, and this time, so does Imogen.
“Some women are better at walking away than sticking it out.”
The table ripples with faux-gasps and smug chuckles. It’s the kind of sound that feels aimed like a dart. Imogen looks at me then, her eyes softening, reading the hit before I can hide it.
Imogen looks at me, and her expression softens instantly. “Zoe.”
But I’m already coming undone. My vision smears at the edges, and my chest locks up tightly. “I-I need to go. Sorry.” I shove back from the table too fast, knocking my knee into the leg, jostling my latte.
Imogen reaches for me. “Zoe, wait—”
I can’t. I weave between tables, heart pounding, air thinning around me by the minute. By the time I reach the door, the unmistakable rise of her voice hits me—heated and bitter, aimed directly at them. But I don’t stay to hear it. I don’t want to.
I just need air. I need out. I need to disappear.
I slam through the front door harder than I mean to, my shoulder clipping it as it swings shut with a dull thud. The house greets me with silence, pressing in from every side. The air feels wrong, too warm, too dense, like it’s fighting me for every breath.
My chest is already tight. My eyes already burn. I barely make it two steps before the thread I’ve been clinging to finally snaps.
My knees give out, and I slide down the nearest wall until I’m on the floor, my back pressed to the cool plaster.
The tears come before I can even think to stop them.
They blur the edges of the room until it’s nothing but shapes and shadows.
I press my palms into my eyes, like I can push it all back inside, but it’s useless.
My breathing turns shallow, sharp. Each gasp scratches down my throat like it’s snagging on something jagged. My fingers clutch at my shirt, twisting the fabric tight in my fist as if it’s the only thing anchoring me to the ground.
Why does it matter so much?
Why do I care what those women said?
I shouldn’t. God, I shouldn’t. I’m not her anymore—the woman who spent years tiptoeing through her own life as a child, who swallowed betrayal after betrayal because starting over felt harder than staying. I was supposed to be free.
But right now, I don’t feel free at all.
I feel exposed.
Stripped bare.
And maybe I won’t feel any different until I’m completely severed from him—from the man I’m spending every last scrap of strength that I have, trying to erase from my life.
The woman who arrived here with her lipstick perfect, her smile rehearsed, telling herself she could rebuild from ruin—she’s gone.
That confidence? Gone.
That poise? Gone.
The last pieces of dignity I’d been holding onto? Shattered, somewhere between the gossip dripping from those women’s mouths and the truth that I’ve spent too long pretending none of this hurts. It does.
God, does it hurt.
Now I’m here, in a house that feels too still, too hollow.
I fold in on myself, arms wrapped tight around my legs, forehead resting against my knees.
I try to breathe, but every inhale snags.
The room tilts, and the pressure building behind my eyes threatens to cave me in from the inside out.
It’s been two years since the last time this happened—since that kind of panic came tearing through me without warning.
And back then, it was worse. So much worse.
Because I hadn’t seen it coming. I didn’t have the scar tissue I do now, nothing to brace against the blow.
We’d just come home from dinner with his friends.
I’d said something he didn’t like—nothing big, nothing cruel, just a casual disagreement.
I can’t even remember the exact words now.
All I know is that it embarrassed him, made him look weak, at least in whatever warped version of reality he lived in.
The second the door shut behind us, his voice was no longer measured, no longer charming. It was sharp, slurred, venomous with every insult he could throw, every name he could spit.
His backhand had come fast after that. The sting cracked across my cheek before I even registered what was happening. I stood there, frozen in the middle of our apartment, ears ringing, vision pulsing. Not because of the pain, but because I couldn’t quite believe it had happened.
I remember thinking—he hit me.
He’d actually hit me.
The moment felt suspended in time, held still by disbelief.
He’d apologised, of course, once he sobered up.
Said he didn’t mean it. Said I pushed him too far.
And I, like a bloody idiot, had believed it.
Believed it was an isolated moment. All because he was drunk and embarrassed, and needed to reassert his ego in the only way he knew how—violence. It wasn’t frequent. But once is enough.
Once should have been too much.
Once is all it takes to know who someone really is.
And now, two years later, I’m on the floor again. This time, in a different place, in a different context.
But the same goddamn feeling, nonetheless.
That same choking, suffocating pressure in my chest. That same cold sweat running down the back of my neck.
That same inability to breathe, to ground myself, to remember who I am outside of what’s been taken from me.
Because no matter how far away I get, no matter how fresh the start or how pretty the clothes or how many damn iced coffees I sip with smiling women at local bakeries, I’m still her.
The woman who stayed, who tolerated the lies. The cheating. The manipulation. The bruises that weren’t always physical but somehow left deeper marks.
I’m humiliated. I’m angry. And I’m so fucking tired of acting like I’m okay.
And fuck them—fuck every single one of those women—for making me feel this small, this exposed, this stripped bare in the first place. The kitten watches me from across the room, head tilted, tail flicking low. Her eyes track every gasp, every sob that wracks through me.
After a moment, she pads over, slow and cautious, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed. “Go away,” I whisper, voice breaking. I don’t want her to feel this. Ridiculous, maybe, to think a cat could absorb pain, but the thought of spilling this ache onto a helpless animal feels cruel.
At what age is a person supposed to have their life together? Because at thirty-six, I’m most definitely not there. I don’t even know if I’m close.
And right now, that truth burns almost as much as the shame.
My hand crawls across the floor, shaking, searching for something—anything—until it hits the leather of my handbag.
I drag it toward me, tear the zip open, rifling through the mess until my fingers close around my phone.
Tears blur my vision, but I push through them anyway, and I don’t think. I just press buttons.
Until the screen lights up with his name.