25. 25
W attle Creek still hasn’t mastered the art of a decent matcha latte.
I learned that yesterday. After twenty minutes of weaving through side streets and polite nods from people I don’t know—and have no interest in knowing—I gave up and settled for a lukewarm cappuccino handed to me by a man who said, “Stick to real coffee, love,” with a wink and absolutely zero shame.
On the way back, I passed a narrow glass-fronted nail salon tucked between the florist and the bakery.
Lulu’s Touch . The lettering was hand-painted in gold, a little crooked, but charming.
I paused, stared through the window at a girl getting her tips dipped in lilac gel, then glanced down at my own neglected cuticles.
A fresh manicure might not fix my life, but it’d be something. I made a mental note to come back—if not for my nails, then just to feel a bit more like myself again.
After the call with Dani and Jeff, I needed the distraction.
I needed something—anything—that didn’t remind me of the life I’d built, then lost. So I drove back to the place I used to run from.
The tyres crackled over the driveway gravel, the familiar creak of the gate catching the breeze as I pulled in.
I cursed under my breath, again, at the piece-of-shit car I’d been lent.
Each gear change sounded like a death rattle.
Another reminder I needed to message Michael about those parts.
Mum was calm this morning. There was a steadiness to her that hadn’t been there last time. As though, beneath the clutter and the fog, something had clicked into place without warning.
I didn’t sit to stay. That wasn’t why I chose to show up—to drink tea and trade memories or hold hands like nothing had gone wrong. I came for proof of life. Hers. Mine. I needed to stand in that house and remind myself that I could.
That I still existed outside the shadow of everything I’d lost. The rest of the visit was brief.
I still couldn’t bring myself to linger.
Couldn’t risk the shift in tone, the unspoken rules breaking down into something too raw, too unprotected.
I didn’t want her to ask questions I couldn’t answer, or worse, offer advice I never asked for.
My legs were already halfway to standing when she spoke.
“Liam rang.”
My spine straightened in an instant. “What? When?”
“A few days ago,” she said, still calm. “I told him not to call again. To stop bothering us.”
The words hung between us, quiet but certain.
It caught me off guard. A flicker of something warm bloomed in my chest. Not trust. Not exactly pride.
But something small and fleeting. An invisible thread tugging at a bond that had been frayed too long to name.
I nodded, said nothing more, and left before the moment could turn into something too fragile to hold.
In the car, I sat with it for a while. That split-second of solidarity. The briefest moment of being on the same side. It wasn’t a fix. It didn’t rewrite the years between us. But it stayed with me. Even if it would never come again.
Now, sitting here in my rental, with Sprinkles’ long hair on my leggings, half a coffee left cold on the windowsill, I think of that. Of her. Of Liam.
Of Michael.
Because he’s there too. In the silence. In the space between distraction and clarity.
He’s worked his way into my head with that crooked grin and those annoyingly gentle eyes.
I hate it. I don’t want to be friends with him.
Friends mean check-ins. Shared space. Emotional proximity.
Friends mean frequency. And frequency turns into comfort.
Into intimacy. And I don’t know what I’d do if I started craving that again.
I regret agreeing to that truce. Regret every civil exchange since.
But then again… self-sabotage and I are old friends.
I sigh, reaching for my phone before I can talk myself out of it. Scroll to his name. My thumb hesitates… then taps.
Me : This car sounds like it’s on its last breath. Can you let me know when those parts come in?
Michael : What’s wrong, princess? Not up to your standards?
Me : It shouldn’t be up to anyone’s standards. You said it’d get me from A to B. It’s struggling.
Michael : I’ll follow up for you, Freckles. Want me to see if we can get you a different car?
Me : No, don’t bother. I wouldn’t want to impose. I’m sure your job is busy enough.
Michael : Oh, you know. Another day of existential dread, greasy hands, a bloke named Dave yelling about his transmission. The usual. You’re not imposing, though. I’ll ask anyway.
Me : No need.
Michael : Whatever you say. So, how are you? And how’s my girl Sprinkles?
The message sits there, so simple, but weighty. Too much in too few words. Of course, it’d come now, when I’ve just finished telling myself that being friends is the worst idea I’ve ever agreed to.
Me : She’s currently squished between my lap and the pillow and refuses to move.
Michael : Cute. You didn’t answer my question, though.
I sigh, leaning back into the cushions. Sprinkles shifts against my hip, stretches her paws, then curls in tighter.
A slow inhale fills my lungs. Then another.
But it doesn’t settle the nerves that have started to dance in my stomach again.
It’s not the idea of friendship I’m afraid of.
I’ve had friends. I have friends. Ones who’ve seen me at my worst and still picked up the phone the next day.
The problem isn’t friendship.
It’s him.
It’s the way his words inch past my walls without warning. The way he sees too much without asking for anything. And now, it’s playing out in real time. And I hate that it softens something in me to respond. I double-click on his text and hit the reply button.
Me : Not bad. Annoyed with this town, though. No one here knows how to make a decent matcha. Or carry oat milk.
Michael : What’s matcha?
Me : It’s tea.
Michael : That’s vague.
Me : It’s powdered green tea, made from ground leaves. Bright green. Rich in antioxidants. Happy?
Michael : So… grass.
Me : No. It’s not grass.
Michael : Sounds a lot like grass, Freckles.
Me : You’re impossible.
Michael : Mm. You love it. I mean, Sprinkles does. Which is basically the same thing.
Me : Sprinkles tolerates you. Barely.
Michael : Better than you do, I guess. So… how’s your day been so far?
Me : Quiet. For once.
Michael : You say that like it’s a bad thing.
Me : I’m just not used to it.
Michael : Want me to come stir things up?
Me : Don’t you have to deal with Dave?
Michael : Sort of, but I can multitask. Especially if it means I get a cuddle.
My breath snags in my throat. From Sprinkles? Or… me? Do not entertain that thought, Zoe. My fingers hesitate. He’s joking. I know he is. Mostly. But the way my heart flutters annoys me. I start typing a reply, then delete it. Then retype. Then delete again.
Michael : I can practically hear your thoughts. I mean from Sprinkles, Zoe.
Michael : Unless, of course, you’re down for a cuddle too. I would happily oblige.
I blink. How does he do that? How does he know? That scares me more than I want to admit. Because this man—this stranger, technically—knows what I could be thinking. How I react. And that’s more than Liam ever learned in all the years we were married.
Me : No thanks.
Michael : Mhm. We’ll see. I give excellent cuddles. And before you assume I mean other women… I mean my niece and nephew can attest to it.
Me : Whatever. I didn’t assume anything.
Michael : Sure, you didn’t. So, are you okay?
Me : I’m fine, Michael.
Michael : Really?
Me : What do you want me to say?
Michael : The truth. Always.
Before I can respond, a knock echoes from the front door. My head snaps up. I glance at the time. Michael’s definitely at work. And yet my pulse trips.
Don’t think I won’t come find you.
Sprinkles bolts under the couch as I stand. I move toward the door slowly, my breath stuck somewhere between my chest and throat. I unlock it and pull it open.
“Surprise, bitch!”
“What the—”
Jeff throws his arms around me with zero hesitation. “Miss me?”
“I—what—” I stammer, still in shock.
Dani slips in from behind, slinging her arms around my waist. “Did you miss both of us, or just the tall one?”
“What, no warning?” I finally manage, voice flat.
“Surprise visits are our love language,” Dani chirps, already walking into the house like she owns the place. Jeff follows, setting two paper bags on the kitchen counter and immediately turning in a slow circle, surveying the room.
“This is cute. Fucking tiny. But cute. The couch is a crime, though.”
“I’m aware,” I mutter, shutting the door.
Sprinkles peeks out from under the couch, then slinks toward Jeff.
He jumps back a step. “Oh my god. It is real.”
“She hates people,” I offer dryly.
“She has taste,” Dani says, watching Sprinkles hiss at Jeff before darting back beneath the couch.
Jeff sighs dramatically. “I have that effect on women.”
“So, this is your little place, huh? Why aren’t you staying with your parents?” Dani asks, flopping onto the armchair.
Jeff answers before I can. “Oh sweetie, that’s a whole other can of worms.”
Dani blinks. “Why don’t I know about this can of worms?”
“I just needed space,” I say with a shrug. “Time. I didn’t want to move backwards after walking out. I needed to hold onto something of mine. Even if it’s this shoebox.”
They both go quiet for a moment. Jeff is the first to speak with a grin. “That’s fair.”
Dani nods. “And very you.”
We sit, and they make themselves as comfortable as they can in the small lounge and armchair. We crack open the overpriced wine they brought and eat from paper containers. For the first time in what feels like days, months, the tension in my chest eases.
“Why the surprise visit?” I ask eventually.
Jeff doesn’t answer right away. He’s too busy swirling the wine in his glass. He finally tops it up, then gestures toward my half-empty glass as if to say, You’ll need it.