12. Declan
DECLAN
All I can think about is Zola.
The way she held that baby against her chest like she was terrified someone might take her. The way her eyes went cold when she looked at me, building walls I used to be allowed past. The way her voice stayed flat and distant even though I could see her pulse jumping in her throat.
She's not over me. Not any more than I'm over her.
The knowledge sits in my chest, warm and dangerous.
I climb to my office on the second floor, overlooking the garden I've never stepped foot in.
I handle the night's business there—check in with the crew running the north distribution point, approve a shipment coming through the ports, deal with a payment dispute that requires me to make three phone calls and remind someone exactly why disappointing me is a poor life choice.
The work is efficient. Mechanical. I've been doing this for so long without really being present for any of it.
But tonight something shifts.
Tonight I have a reason to finish quickly. A reason to get everything handled so tomorrow I can go back to that bookstore and see if Zola will let me stay a little longer.
Stellan calls around midnight. "How'd it go?"
"She said we could be friends."
A pause. "That's good."
"Is it?" I lean back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. "She looked at me like I was a stranger."
"You basically are. It's been eight years." Stellan's voice is pragmatic as always. "You can't expect her to just—what, fall into your arms?"
No. I can't expect that. Can't expect anything except what she's willing to give, which right now is barely civil tolerance.
But it's more than I had yesterday.
"I'm going back tomorrow."
"Good." Stellan sounds almost approving. "Keep showing up. Let her remember who you are."
Who I am. Who I was. Who I want to be again if she'll let me.
I end the call and sit in the dark office, thinking about Zola holding that baby, thinking about the way she said fine like the word cost her something.
I can do this. I can be patient. I can show her that the man she left is still here, still hers if she wants him.
Even if it takes months. Even if it takes years.
I'm not walking away again.
The next morning I'm dressed and out of the house before Bianca wakes up, which isn't unusual. What is is the buzz of actual energy I feel.
I stop at the café three blocks from Storybound Books—the one I remember Zola used to love because they made their croissants fresh every morning and didn't burn their espresso.
It's still there. Still serving the same pastries in the same paper bags.
I order two coffees—one black, one with cream and two sugars the way she used to take it—and a chocolate croissant because she used to eat them for breakfast when she thought I wasn't paying attention.
The barista hands them over without making eye contact. Smart. I'm not in the mood for small talk.
Twenty minutes later I'm standing outside Storybound Books, staring at the front window. It's early—just past nine. The sign says they open at ten but I can see movement inside, Zola's silhouette passing behind the displays.
I knock.
She freezes. Turns. Her expression goes from surprised to guarded in half a second.
But she crosses to the door. Unlocks it. Opens it just enough to look at me with those amber eyes that used to soften when she saw me and now stay carefully neutral.
"We're not open yet."
"I know." I hold up the coffee and pastry bag. "Thought you might want breakfast."
She stares at the offering like it might explode. "You remembered."
"I remember everything."
The words land heavier than I intend. Her jaw tightens and for a moment I think she's going to shut the door in my face.
Instead she steps back. "Fine. Come in."
Victory tastes like stale air and old books.
I follow her inside, taking in the space properly this time. Floor-to-ceiling shelves, organized by color in some sections and by genre in others. A reading nook near the window with mismatched chairs and soft lighting. Children's section in the back with low shelves and bright covers.
It's exactly the kind of place Nia would have built. Warm and welcoming and carefully curated.
Zola takes the coffee from my hand, wrapping both palms around it like she needs the warmth. "Thank you."
"Chocolate croissant's in the bag."
She glances inside. Something flickers across her face—memory, maybe, or pain—before she sets it on the counter without taking it out. "I should get back to work."
"Where's the baby?"
"Her name is Maeve," she tells me, and I act as if I don't already know. "And she's sleeping." She nods toward the small office behind the register. "She was up most of the night. I'm trying to let her rest."
I move closer, peering into the office. The baby's in a portable crib, curled on her side with one tiny fist pressed against her cheek. Dark curls spread across the pale blanket, little chest rising and falling with steady breaths.
She's exactly the kind of little girl I would have wanted to have with Zola one day. And I'm not letting this chance go.
Something in my chest cracks open looking at her.
"She's beautiful."
"She is." Zola's voice is tight.
I glance back at her. The grief is written all over her face, barely concealed behind that cold mask she's wearing. "I'm sorry. About Nia." I don't elaborate how I know that she's gone or that's how Zola has Maeve and the bookstore. I'm not sure if she thinks I believe they are both hers.
"Everyone's sorry." She takes a sip of coffee, avoiding my eyes. "Doesn't change anything."
No. It doesn't. Death never does.
I learned that when my parents died. When Uncle Vittorio died. When I thought I'd lost Zola and realized dying might have been easier than living without her.
"How old is she?" I ask, because pushing about Nia feels wrong.
"Eight months."
That's so young. Nia barely got to know her daughter before she had to leave Zola with Maeve and a business and probably more grief than one person should have to carry.
"Must be hard. Raising her alone."
Zola's expression hardens. "I'm managing."
She's drowning. I can see it in the way her hands shake slightly when she sets down the coffee, in the tightness around her mouth that means she's holding herself together through sheer stubborn will.
But I can't say that. Can't push. Can only show up and hope she lets me help eventually.
Maeve makes a sound—soft and questioning. Zola immediately moves toward the office but I'm closer.
"Can I?"
I'm not even sure where the question came from. Most people wouldn't expect a man like me to be a decent father, but I always wanted this. And this little girl—blood or not—is Zola's, and I want to hold her.
She hesitates. Looks like she wants to say no. But then Maeve's face scrunches, bottom lip trembling, and Zola nods once.
I step into the office and lift the baby carefully, supporting her head the way I've seen people do. She's so small. Warm and solid and real against my chest, blinking up at me with huge brown eyes that are trying to focus.
"Hey there, love." The endearment slips out automatically. "You're alright."
She stares at me. Makes that huffing sound babies make when they're not sure if they should cry or not.
I walk slowly, swaying slightly, and her face gradually relaxes. She tucks against my shoulder, tiny fist curling into my shirt, and just—settles.
Like she trusts me.
When's the last time anyone trusted me like this? When's the last time I held something this fragile and didn't break it?
I look up and find Zola watching us. Her expression is unreadable but something in her eyes isn't quite as cold.
"She likes you."
"She's perfect." I adjust Maeve slightly, keeping her secure. "Must have good taste."
Zola's mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Don't push your luck."
But she doesn't take Maeve back. Just stands there drinking her coffee while I hold the baby, and for five minutes we exist in the same space without walls or weapons.
It's the best five minutes I've had in eight years.
I come back the next day. And the day after that.
Always with coffee. Sometimes with pastries from the café she used to love. Once with lunch from the Italian place that makes fresh mozzarella.
Zola accepts them with wary gratitude, like she's not sure what game I'm playing. She keeps her distance, keeps her walls up, but every day she lets me stay a little longer.
I learn Maeve's schedule. She naps around eleven and again at two. Gets fussy around four unless someone walks with her. Loves being held but hates being confined to the carrier for too long.
I start showing up right before naptime. Zola doesn't ask me to help but she doesn't stop me when I take Maeve from her, when I walk the floor with her until those big eyes drift closed and her breathing evens out.
The baby fits against my chest like she belongs there. Warm weight and soft sounds and complete trust that I won't drop her or hurt her or let her fall.
I buy her toys. Nothing big—just small things I notice in shop windows. A stuffed elephant that rattles when you shake it. Board books with bright pictures. A teething ring because Zola mentions she's cutting teeth and seems miserable about it.
"You don't have to do this," Zola says one afternoon, watching me hand Maeve the elephant. The baby immediately shoves it in her mouth, gumming it enthusiastically.
"I know."
"So why are you?"
Because I need a reason to be here. Because watching Maeve smile makes something in my chest feel alive again. Because every moment I spend in this bookstore with Zola is proof I still exist as something other than the hollow shell I've been.
But I can't say that.
"She's a good kid. Deserves nice things."
Zola's expression softens fractionally. "Yeah. She does."
Maeve drops the elephant. I pick it up, wipe it on my shirt, hand it back. She grabs it with both hands and immediately tries to eat it again, making happy gurgling sounds.
I could do this forever. Just sit here with this baby and the woman I never stopped loving, pretending we're something normal.