31. 31 #2
I finally glance around. Amelia shifts closer and places her hand gently over mine.
Her warmth anchors me, but I can feel their eyes on me—wide, uncertain.
They’re trying to process it all—the pieces of me I laid out on the table—and I can feel the sympathy brimming behind their silence. It makes my skin crawl.
But it’s not the pity that unnerves me most. It’s Imogen. Her expression isn’t sympathetic. She sees more than I meant to show.
“I don’t even know what to say,” Olivia murmurs. “That’s… that’s a lot, Zoe.”
Amelia nods, her voice barely above a whisper. “I genuinely can’t comprehend going through that. I’m so sorry.”
“Are you okay now?” Olivia adds. “I mean… are you safe?”
That question gets me. Not because I don’t know the answer, but because yes feels both true and unfamiliar. I do feel safe. Here back in my hometown. With these women. With… Michael.
“I’m getting there,” I say. “One day at a time.”
“Oh, I want to key his fucking car,” Isla snaps, sitting upright, eyes narrowed like she’s already visualising it. The laugh that bursts from me is startled, ungraceful, and laced with something that might be gratitude.
Imogen drains the rest of her wine. “I want to carve dickhead into his bonnet. In capital letters.”
Olivia crawls across the cushions and wraps her arms around me before I can stop her. Her hug is warm, completely dramatic, and entirely unsolicited. “I want to be you when I grow up,” she says, squeezing tighter. “Butttt… with less trauma.”
It’s clearly her attempt to lighten the mood. And it works. The laugh that escapes me is messy and cracked around the edges. But it tastes like something close to relief.
She continues, “But seriously, it’s because of the way you carry yourself. The way you’ve walked in here, held your head high, and kept going. You’re one strong fucking woman, Zoe.”
These women—loud, chaotic, beautifully unfiltered—haven’t just made space for me, they’ve folded me in.
No hesitation. No judgement. Just love. Somewhere between my third—or maybe fourth—glass of wine, and Isla retelling the story of Xavier getting locked out of the house in nothing but a towel, my phone buzzes on the armrest beside me.
Michael: You alive, Freckles?
Michael: Need rescuing? They can be a lot, and let’s be honest…I’m way better company.
Michael: Need me to refresh your memory?
My smile must give me away before I can hide it. Amelia leans in. “Look at her—grinning at her phone like a teenager.”
Imogen’s eyes sharpen instantly. “Alright. Spill. What’s going on with you and my emotionally unavailable brother-in-law?”
I blink, wide-eyed. “Nothing.”
A popcorn kernel hits me in the forehead. “Try again.”
“I’m serious,” I say, swiping the popcorn off my lap.
“Mm-hmm,” Isla drawls, dragging out the sound like she’s heard this kind of denial before. “So, nothing… but you’re sitting here smiling like he just told you he misses you.”
“I’m smiling because I’ve had wine.”
“Bullshit,” Imogen mutters.
“Fine. He’s just… checking in.”
“Uh-huh. And did his checking in involve anything dirty?” Olivia arches an eyebrow.
My mouth opens. Then closes. She gasps. “Wait. Wait. Did you two…?”
I sip my wine. “I’m not confirming anything while I’m still sober.”
“Oh, she definitely did.” Isla grins, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. “Look at her face. She’s glowing. I bet it was hot.” The teasing becomes relentless; hands on hearts, fake gasps, dramatic reenactments. And honestly? I don’t mind it.
The large white envelope sits on the table long after the girls leave.
It arrived not long after they walked out the door—like the universe couldn’t wait a single damn second to remind me of reality.
I’d been anticipating it, bracing myself, but still…
seeing Jeff’s neat handwriting on the front made my stomach dip.
My fingers fumble with the flap until it rips, papers spilling across the wood in messy stacks.
I skim. Just enough for the words to sting.
Settlement. Assets divided. Decree absolute.
Cold, legal language breaking down years of my life into paragraphs and clauses, as if a marriage could be dismantled with bullet points.
My throat tightens. God, is this what it’s come to?
The girl who once thought she’d found forever, now reduced to initials and signatures. A wife turned into a case file.
I steady my breath, then reach for the pen.
The scratch of ink is louder than it should be, and my hand trembles when I set the pen down.
For the first time in years, my chest feels…
lighter. Not free. Not yet. But looser. Like the rope that’s been strangling me has finally slackened a fraction.
I press the papers flat with my palms, close my eyes, and whisper into the silence.
“That’s it. No more.”
Steam still clings to my skin as I step out of the bathroom, towelling my hair. My body’s warm, clean, and smells like coconut from the lotion I just worked in.
My skin’s been cleansed, smoothed, and is marinating in every drop of moisture applied. I’m halfway to my dresser when my phone chimes on the bed.
Michael: You up?
Me: No, I’m asleep.
Michael: Don’t be smart with me, Freckles. You’ll get me hard.
My mouth curves, because of course, he’d go straight for it.
Me: Wow. That quick?
Michael : That’s what you do to me.
Me : Tragic for you.
Michael : Not tragic. Urgent.
Me : You’re ridiculous.
Michael : And you’re avoiding the fact that I’m lying here, hard as a rock, thinking about you.
Michael : Naked.
Me : And you’re assuming I’m naked.
Michael : Don’t tell me you’re wearing clothes. I’ll be personally offended.
Me : A silk robe.
I grab my phone and, before I can overthink it, snap a quick selfie—silk robe hanging loose over my flimsy cotton PJs. The shorts are indecently short, but they make my ass look great, and I know he’ll appreciate that. I send it, then flop back onto my bed, settling into the pillows.
Michael : Fuckkkk. You’re trying to kill me.
Michael: I’m coming over!! Now!
Me: No you are not.
Michael: Fine… then leave the door unlocked so I can sneak in like a criminal.
Michael: Actually, no. Do not do that.
Michael: You’re killing me. Please. I need you.
I giggle at his texts, loving every second of knowing he’s squirming over there. But the moment I picture him lying in his bed naked, all riled up, my stomach starts doing Olympic-level flips. The sudden sound of my phone ringing causes my breathing to falter.
His name appears on the screen, and I freeze for a second. I hesitate, but before I can talk myself out of it, I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
“Don’t sound so sweet,” he drawls. “You’re the reason my cock’s this hard right now.”
I snort, though my pulse spikes. “I’m flattered. Really.”
Soft, rhythmic sounds filter through the speaker on his end. Like skin against skin. His breathing is uneven, punctuated by a low hum, like he’s holding himself back. Holy fuck… is that what I think it is?
“Touch yourself for me, Zoe.”
My brows lift. “And why would I do that?”
“Because I’m gonna make myself come right now… and you’re gonna do it with me.”
My heart thuds. “What? Right now? On the phone?”
“Yes.”
I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “No.”
“You said I can’t come over. You’re so mean.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Please, Freckles.”
The phone must be so close to his mouth because I can hear every groan, every heavy breath. I bite my lip, glancing at the closed bedroom door like someone might walk in, even though I live alone. “Only if you go first.”
His chuckle is pure sin. “I’ve been palming my cock since you said ‘robe,’ baby.”
A thought hits me then. The truth is, I’ve only ever seen one man’s cock in my entire life, and the thought of seeing another’s— his —makes something twist in my stomach.
Not in fear exactly, but in the strange, unsettled way change always does.
His sharp inhale cuts through the line, sparking heat low in my belly.
The image of his hand working over his cock flashes in my mind, and an involuntary sound escapes me before I can catch it.
“Hm. I heard that,” he murmurs. “Is this turning you on?”
I swallow. “Maybe.”
“Fuck, Zoe… you have no idea how much I want to hear those sounds in front of me. I need to hear you come with me. Now, be good and slide your hand down for me.”
I sigh in defeat, and his answering chuckle is gravelly. My fingers slip beneath my robe, under my flimsy shorts, instantly finding the heat between my thighs.
“That’s it,” he says, voice rough. “You touching that perfect little clit yet?”
I start circling it, tentatively at first, because this has to be the most outlandish thing I’ve ever done—touching myself for someone over the phone. “Yes.”
“Atta girl.” His own movements are louder now, more insistent. “Is it nice and wet for me?”
“Yes.”
“Prove it.”
“What?”
“Put a finger inside and hold the speaker next to it.”
I hesitate, but the filthy command makes my hips roll. “You’re impossible.”
“Uh-uh. I’m painfully hard. Big difference.”
I do what he says, sliding a finger inside, holding the phone lower. The wet sound fills the space between us as I work my finger in and out, letting him hear exactly what he’s doing to me without even being here.
His groan is guttural, rough enough to vibrate down my spine. “Fucking hell, Zoe. If you were here, I’d have you on your back in seconds, driving my cock into you.”
The image slams into me, stealing my breath away. My fingers move faster before I can even think, chasing the sharp, desperate edge building low in my belly.
“That’s it. Don’t hold back. I want to hear you.”
My hips lift, chasing it. “Michael…”
“I’m close, Freckles. You gonna come with me?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’ll come with you.”
My thighs tense up as my hand works faster. “Michael—”
The phone suddenly vibrates, cutting off my words. He’s FaceTiming me. Shit.
“Answer it,” he says. “I want to see that beautiful face when you come on your fingers.”
I do, and his stupidly handsome face fills my screen for half a second before he flips the camera. His big, veiny hand is wrapped around his cock, and yet his size still makes it look almost small.
“Look at me, Freckles, and say my name when you come,” he grits out through shaky breaths. “I’m close. You’ve got me so fucking close, Freckles.”
I don’t know if it’s the command or the thought of him coming at the same time, but the orgasm rips through me fast. My back arches, and his name tumbles from my lips on a breathy moan. His groan crashes over mine a second later, and for a few seconds, the only sound is our breathing.
“That,” he says finally, “is the best goodnight call I’ve ever had.”
I’m still holding the phone, feeling wrecked in the best possible way, when his face fills the screen. His expression is lazy but intent, eyes dragging over me. “Have I ever told you you’re fucking beautiful?”
I huff a breath. “You’re only saying that because you’re all blissed out and smug right now.”
“No. I’m saying it because it’s the truth.”
My lips curl upwards. “Goodnight, Michael.”
“A good night indeed,” he murmurs, and I hang up with my heart pounding and my body still humming.