11. Zola #3
I make notes. Add items to the order list Nia started but never finished. Try to think about what customers have been asking for, what gaps I've noticed in the shelves.
It's tedious work. Mind-numbing. But it keeps me occupied, keeps my brain too busy to spiral into all the ways I'm inadequate for this life I've inherited.
Maeve stirs in the crib. Makes a soft sound that isn't quite crying but signals she's waking up. I glance at the clock—nearly two hours of sleep. Decent for her lately.
I save my progress on the spreadsheet and cross to the crib, peering down at her. Those huge brown eyes blink open, unfocused and confused for a moment before they land on me. Her face scrunches, bottom lip trembling.
"Hey, sweet girl." I lift her carefully, supporting her head the way Naomi showed me. "You're okay. I've got you."
She settles against my chest, tiny fist curling into my shirt. Not crying yet but considering it, that little huff of breath that could go either way.
I walk the floor with her, swaying slightly, humming something I don't quite remember the words to. Nia used to sing to her—actual songs with melodies and lyrics. I just hum and hope it's enough.
Gradually Maeve relaxes. Tucks her face against my shoulder and makes that soft sound that means she's content. For now.
I breathe through the relief. Another minor victory in a day full of tiny battles.
This is my life now. Holding a baby while trying to run a business, measuring success in moments instead of milestones, hoping I make it to bedtime without completely falling apart.
The bell above the door chimes.
I glance up, already shifting into customer service mode—the smile, the helpful tone, the pretense that I have any idea what I'm doing.
Then I freeze.
Because Declan Wolfe is standing in the doorway, looking at me like I'm something that hurts to see.
My heart stops. Actually stops beating for a full second before slamming back into rhythm so hard I can feel it in my throat.
He looks—
God, he looks exactly the same and completely different all at once. Still tall, still broad-shouldered, still moving with that careful control that used to make me feel safe. But there's something hollowed out about him now, something in his eyes that wasn't there before.
Dark circles. Sharp cheekbones. The kind of tired that goes bone-deep.
He's in a suit. Charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, the kind of expensive clothing that used to make me tease him about looking like a mob boss from a movie. His hair is still dark but there are threads of silver now, just at the temples.
He's thirty-one. Should still look young. Instead he looks like someone who stopped sleeping years ago and never bothered trying again.
We stare at each other. The silence stretches, heavy and loaded with years of unfinished conversations.
Maeve shifts against me, drawing his attention. His gaze drops to her, something flickering across his face—surprise, maybe, or confusion—before moving back to me.
"What are you doing here?" My voice comes out steadier than I expect. Flat. Like I'm asking a stranger for directions.
He takes a step forward. Then another. Moving slowly like he's approaching something wild that might bolt.
Maybe I am wild. Maybe I am going to bolt. My entire body is screaming at me to run, to get Maeve out of here, to not let him close enough to destroy me all over again.
But I stay frozen. Watching him approach.
"I came to see you." His voice is rougher than I remember. Deeper. Like he's been smoking or screaming or just stopped using it for anything that mattered.
In my heart, nothing has changed. That's the worst part. Eight years of distance and grief and building a completely different life and one look at him unravels all of it. One sentence and I'm twenty-one again, desperately in love with someone I knew I couldn't keep.
But I can't be with him. I've known that since the moment I walked away. He needs someone who can give him children, someone who can stand beside him in his world without flinching, someone who isn't fundamentally broken in all the ways that matter.
And now I have Maeve. This tiny perfect person who needs stability and safety and a life that doesn't include men with violence under their fingernails.
So I force my expression into something cold. Annoyed. Like his presence is an inconvenience instead of a gut punch. Because I can't want him.
No matter how much of my life has changed, that hasn't.
"I told you not to come looking for me."
"I didn't." He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can see the fine lines around his eyes. "I saw you on the street the other day. Thought I'd come by. Say hello."
I just stare at him, not sure what to say. I'm not sure if he's lying or not.
It hits me that I once knew him better than anyone, and now he's a stranger that can still rip my heart from my chest. How do I handle that?
"We're old friends after all." He says it like he's testing the words. Seeing if they'll fit around whatever we used to be.
I scoff. Can't help it. The sound comes out bitter and sharp.
Inside, this is killing me. Every second he stands here is peeling away layers of carefully constructed armor, exposing wounds that never properly healed.
"We aren't."
"Maybe we could be." His gaze doesn't waver. "Friends. I know you said we weren't right for each other. But there's no reason to avoid each other, right? Philadelphia's a small city. We're bound to run into each other eventually."
The logic is sound. The logic is completely reasonable. Two adults who used to date learning to coexist in the same city without drama or complications.
Except there's nothing reasonable about the way my pulse is racing or the way Maeve's weight against my chest is the only thing keeping me grounded or the way every instinct I have is screaming that letting him back into my life in any capacity will destroy me.
But I can't explain that without admitting how much power he still has. How completely he wrecked me. How eight years wasn't nearly enough time to get over him when I'm the one that ended it and left.
So I swallow hard. Force myself to nod.
"Fine."
His face changes. Something that might be relief, might be hope, might be nothing at all because I've forgotten how to read him.
"Fine," he echoes.
Then he smiles. Small and careful and so familiar it makes my chest ache.
"I'll be seeing you around, Zola."
He turns. Walks toward the door. Pauses with his hand on the frame and looks back at me one more time like he's memorizing my face.
Then he's gone.
The bell chimes. The door closes. The bookstore falls back into silence.
I stand there holding Maeve, staring at the empty doorway, trying to remember how to breathe.
That just happened. Declan Wolfe just walked into my bookstore and asked to be friends and I said yes like an idiot because I couldn't think of a single valid reason to say no.
Except all the reasons that matter. Except the fact that being near him feels like standing too close to a fire—warm and dangerous and inevitably going to leave me burned.
Maeve makes a soft sound, pulling my attention back. She's watching me with those huge brown eyes, innocent and trusting, completely unaware that her entire world just shifted.
I press a kiss to her curls. Force my heart to slow down. Force myself to move, to walk to the register, to set my phone down with shaking hands.
I'm fine. I'm going to be fine.
This changes nothing. He's moved on I'm sure. I have Maeve. We can be civil. We can be friendly. We can coexist without it meaning anything.
The lie tastes bitter.
But I hold onto it anyway because the alternative—admitting that seeing him again shattered every defense I've built—is too much to handle right now.
So I hold Maeve close and return to my inventory spreadsheet and pretend my entire foundation didn't just crack.