27. 27
I f there’s anything more exhausting than being emotionally cornered by your best friends, it’s being emotionally cornered by your best friends while they lounge across your couch, eating Thai takeaway, and interrogating your love life like it’s a true crime podcast.
Dani and Jeff didn’t stay long after Michael left—just enough to polish off two bottles of wine, rifle through my pantry for snacks, and grill me like they were prepping a case file.
“So, Zoe,” Jeff had said, legs crossed, wine in hand, voice dipped in something far too smug. “Anything else you’d like to share with the group? Perhaps about the hot mechanic who looked at you like you were his last meal?”
I’d dodged their questions with skill and sarcasm.
Not that it mattered. They were already convinced I was hiding something.
Or someone. The rest of the week passed in a haze of work calls, awkward grocery runs, and too many almost-texts to Michael.
I didn’t send any. Mostly because I didn’t trust myself to stop at one.
Sprinkles knocked over a water glass and mauled a USB cord, which felt poetic considering how everything in my life is unravelling slowly, dramatically, and with a hint of feline flair.
And now it’s Saturday morning. The dreaded deadline Jeff had given me— “You need to be in Sydney on Sunday, no exceptions” —has finally arrived.
I’m crouched on the living room floor, surrounded by the mess of half-hearted packing.
My Louis Vuitton oversized tote slumps open beside me, half-full with an extra change of clothes, some underwear, and my toothbrush.
Nothing fancy. Just in case I need to stay longer.
Just in case shit blows up and I can’t get back to Wattle Creek fast enough.
Dani’s already offered up her couch. And by “couch,” I mean the Italian leather L-shaped monstrosity in her apartment.
Not because it’s convenient. But because I refuse to set foot in my own place.
I’d rather sleep on Dani’s couch, under the ceiling fan that squeaks every time it moves, than walk back into a space that reeks of everything I let happen.
Even if I were planning on returning to Sydney, it wouldn’t be there. I’d find somewhere else. Smaller. Quieter.
With a heavy sigh, I sit back on my heels and take a breath that doesn’t quite reach my lungs.
My eyes skim over the open bag, the soft folds of cotton, the barely-there contents that feel heavier than they should.
I’m mid-fold—knees crossed on the floor, suitcase yawning open beside me, a shirt I don’t even want to bring clenched between my hands—when the front door creaks open.
“I swear to God. Why the fuck is this door not locked?” Michael’s voice rings out before he even steps inside. “Anyone could’ve walked in here and murdered you.”
It’s become a thing with him. The showing up unannounced. The texts at odd hours. The drop-ins under the guise of “car updates” or whatever excuse he’s latched onto for the day.
Same with the girls, especially Imogen. They’ve all wormed their way in.
Thread by thread. Step by step. Until I couldn’t tell where their boundaries ended and mine began.
Until saying “back off” started to feel more effort than it was worth.
And now, they’re here. In my space. In my life. Whether I asked for them or not.
Michael rounds the corner, two iced coffees in hand, and freezes.
His eyes land on the mess in front of me. The open bag. The half-packed clothes. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just sets the coffees down on the kitchen bench behind him. The sound is soft. Muted. But something in his expression isn’t.
I hold my breath.
Because I know what this looks like.
It looks like I’m packing up my shit and running again. Fleeing the moment things get uncomfortable. Disappearing the second someone gets too close. It looks like the exact thing I’ve spent the past month pretending I don’t always do.
His whole face shifts—jaw tight, shoulders stiffening beneath his shirt—as it hits him.
“Are you going somewhere?”
My fingers hesitate on the shirt. “To Sydney.”
He squints. “When? And for what ?”
My mouth is suddenly dry. “Today. Legal stuff. Jeff needs me to sign some papers. My… ex-husband, Liam, is trying to claim our shared apartment.”
Michael’s brow pulls taut. “So you’re going back to see that fuckwit?”
I don’t look up. My fingers press into the shirt still folded in my lap, creasing the cotton. “It’s… complicated.”
He scoffs. “Complicated? That’s what we’re calling it now?”
I exhale slowly. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Silence.
His voice is lower now. Firm. “I understand enough. Enough to know he doesn’t deserve another minute of your time, let alone a legal meeting.”
“I’m not defending him.” The words snap out quicker than I mean them to. “I’m not defending any of it. I just want it over with. I want him out of my life in every possible way.”
Michael leans against the kitchen counter, arms folded, jaw ticking.
He’s not pacing. Not raising his voice. But I feel the tension in every inch of him.
A coil waiting to snap. He drags a hand through his hair.
“So, you’re just gonna drive there, sign your name, and pretend it doesn’t open up those wounds? ”
I meet his eyes. “That’s the plan.”
A long pause stretches between us.
“And you’re going alone?”
There’s something different in his voice now. Not quite a question. Not quite approval, either.
I nod. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t plan on staying.”
His features soften for a moment. Just enough to knock the breath from my chest. I don’t know what to do with the way he looks at me.
I don’t understand why he keeps showing up.
Why he always seems to know when I’m about to come undone.
Why the other day, on my doorstep, he looked at me with the kind of quiet intensity that’s been echoing in my head ever since. Like he wanted me.
The moment seared itself into my memory—his hand in my hair, eyes flicking to my mouth, breath caught between us—and I’ve been haunted by it since.
He swipes his iced coffee from the counter, sips, then sets it down without a word. His gaze drags across the room before returning to me. “You shouldn’t have to go alone.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know you can,” he mutters. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
He exhales through his nose. “The car. I don’t trust it.”
“You gave me the car.”
“Yeah.”
“You said it could get me from A to B.”
He shrugs. “To an extent. Or a certain number of kilometres. It’ll probably shit itself if you breathe wrong.”
My head tips back on a groan. “Are you serious?”
He straightens, steps closer, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips now. “Completely.”
My stomach churns. Not because of the car, but because he’s offering. He’s inserting himself into something that feels too messy. Too heavy. Because deep down, I don’t want to go through this alone. He watches me carefully, and when I don’t argue again, his voice drops, steadier now.
“Come on. I’ll drive.”
“Absolutely not. I’m driving.” I stand, brushing my hands down the front of my shorts like it’ll do something to steady me. It doesn’t. I glance toward the half-zipped suitcase, to the emptiness that feels way too familiar. My heart’s not packed. My courage, even less so.
Still, with a dramatic sigh, I jab a finger toward him. “You either sit in the passenger seat, or you stay here.”
His grin spreads, slow and dangerous. “Would it be a bad time to tell you that just turned me on?”
My eyes roll so hard they nearly get stuck. “That’s it. No. Absolutely not.”
His response comes fast. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I had to.” Our eyes meet. That roguish grin reappears, brighter this time, a flash of perfect white teeth behind it. “I like you being bossy.”
He’s testing me. I can feel it. Pushing to see how far he can go, how close he can get before I snap or retreat. But I’m too tired to retreat today. So I don’t say a word. I just plant a hand on my hip and give him a look that would make anyone flinch.
Michael doesn’t flinch.
He just lifts both hands in surrender, laughing under his breath. “Yes, ma’am. Passenger princess, it is.”
My eyes narrow. “You’re an idiot.”
“Maybe. But you’re quite fond of this idiot, aren’t you?”
The truth is already there, simmering beneath the surface.
It’s in the way my chest tightens at the thought of driving into the city alone.
In the way his voice cuts through the fog in my head and makes the world feel a little less overwhelming.
In the way I keep watching him—too long, too much, too often.
“Don’t lie to me, Freckles.” His voice drops low. That crooked grin curves his mouth, and the bastard winks. “You know you like me. Plus, I brought coffee for the ride.”
I didn’t expect him to gawk.
But he did.
The second I stepped out of the bedroom—dressed, packed, and already regretting every choice I’d made—Michael turned from where he was lounging in my kitchen and froze. His eyes dragged down the length of me, slow and stunned. Jaw slack. Mouth parted slightly. He didn’t say anything. Just stared.
My Gucci pencil skirt clung to my hips in a way that used to feel powerful.
Now it just felt… tight. The matching belt was a stupid impulse buy because I couldn’t not get the belt to match the skirt.
My shirt was crisp, white, and one of my favourites from Zara.
The stockings were black and sheer, the kind that used to make me feel pulled together.
Today? They were suffocating.
He’d let out a low whistle, shaking his head, and mumbled, “Jesus Christ, Zoe. You’re gonna make this drive hell.”
I lifted my chin and grabbed my bag. I didn’t let it show, but my pulse jumped in my throat. The moment he saw my shoes, he physically recoiled.
“Hold up. There is no way in this world you’re driving in those, love,” he said, eyes wide with genuine horror.
“What? They’re fine.”