27. Zola
ZOLA
The house smells like garlic and rosemary and something else—memory, maybe.
I stand in the living room holding Maeve while everyone settles in, and I can't stop looking at the details Declan never changed.
The throw blanket I bought at a thrift market is still draped over the back of the couch, faded but clean, like it's been waiting for me to come back and use it.
The books on the shelf are organized the way I organized them eight years ago—by color first, then height, a system that made no logical sense but pleased something in me aesthetically. He kept it all.
Maeve squirms against my chest and I adjust my grip, watching Declan move through the kitchen with Stellan beside him.
They're comfortable together in a way that suggests they've done this before, though I suspect Stellan's version of helping mostly involves standing nearby looking intimidating while occasionally handing over ingredients.
Naomi's on the couch with Nilos, his arm draped casually across her shoulders, and Jordan's examining Declan's record collection with the careful reverence of someone who actually appreciates vinyl.
Jamie—Stellan's friend, though I think he works for them—leans against the wall near the kitchen doorway, looking relaxed in a way that suggests he's used to Stellan's particular brand of intensity.
"Dinner in fifteen." Declan calls from the kitchen, and everyone makes acknowledging sounds.
I need air. Or space. Or something that isn't this house full of ghosts and possibilities and evidence that Declan Wolfe spent eight years carrying me with him everywhere he went.
"I'm going to put Maeve down for a bit." I announce to no one in particular, heading toward the bedroom that used to be ours.
The door's open and I step inside, breath catching. The bed's different—bigger, newer—but the dresser is the same. The mirror. The way the curtains hang. Even the small crack in the corner of the ceiling that we used to joke looked like a rabbit.
I settle Maeve in the portable crib Declan set up earlier, and she goes down easily, exhausted from being passed around and cooed at. Her little fist curls against her cheek and I stand there watching her breathe, trying to get my own breathing under control.
He kept the house. Didn't change anything. Locked it up like a shrine and bought other places to live in because he couldn't stand to be here without me but couldn't stand to let anyone else have it either.
That's not normal. That's not healthy. That's not what someone does when they've moved on or accepted that a relationship is over.
That's what someone does when they're still in love eight years later, still hoping, still believing that maybe—
I press my palms against my eyes, pushing back the sting of tears. I can't do this here, can't fall apart in his bedroom with a dinner party happening ten feet away and Maeve sleeping peacefully and everyone waiting for me to come back and pretend I'm fine.
But I'm not fine. I'm so far from fine I can't even see it from here.
I slip out of the bedroom, pulling the door mostly closed, and nearly run directly into Naomi in the hallway.
"Hey." She reaches out to steady me. "You okay?"
"I need a minute." My voice sounds strained even to my own ears. "Can we—"
"In here." She nods toward the door at the end of the hall. She guides me inside the large bathroom and closes the door behind us, leaning against it like she's prepared to physically block anyone who tries to interrupt.
I turn on the tap, letting the water run while I grip the edge of the sink. The bathroom's different—new tile, updated fixtures—but the mirror is the same and I can see my face in it, see the way my eyes are too bright and my breathing's too fast.
"He kept the house." I say it to my reflection, to Naomi, to the universe. "The entire house. Didn't change anything. Just locked it up and left everything exactly like it was when I walked out."
"So you used to live here then?" Naomi's voice is gentle.
"I never fully lived here, but I was here all the time.
And he didn't change anything. Like the books.
" I gesture vaguely even though we're in the bathroom and can't see them.
"I organized them by color because it looked prettier that way and he thought I was insane but he never changed it.
Eight years, Naomi. Eight fucking years and he kept my organizational system for his books. "
"Zola—"
"My coffee mug is still in the cabinet." I turn to face her, and her expression is sympathetic in a way that makes my chest hurt.
"I saw it when he was getting glasses earlier.
That stupid mug with the chipped handle that I bought at that corner store because it was cheap and I liked the color. He kept it."
"Of course he kept it." She says it like it's obvious, like I should have known. "He never stopped loving you."
"That's the problem." I press my hands against my face, breathing into my palms. "I thought—when I left—I thought I was doing the right thing.
Protecting him. Letting him build the life he was supposed to have.
And he just... didn't. He kept everything.
Kept the house, kept my things, kept this space where I used to exist like maybe I'd come back and fill it again. "
It's worse than knowing he missed me. He literally preserved our life and waited for me to come back so he could resume living. That's how much he loves me.
How do I handle that? How do I know that I fucked it all up before, and I might again?
"And now you have." Naomi crosses her arms, watching me carefully. "So what's the problem?"
"The problem is I don't know what to do with that.
" I drop my hands, meeting her eyes. "I spent so long convincing myself I made the right choice.
That leaving was better for both of us. That he'd move on and I'd move on and eventually it would stop hurting.
But he didn't move on. He married someone he didn't love because his uncle asked him to and he thought I didn't want him, and he kept this house like a museum to what we used to have. "
"He loves you." Naomi says it simply. "He's always loved you. What are you actually afraid of?"
Everything. I'm afraid of everything.
"His life." The words come out raw. "The things he does, the world he lives in. I've always been scared of that. Scared that one day someone's going to put a bullet in him because of what he is, what he does. Scared that I'll lose him the way Nia lost Owen, the way you could lose—"
I cut myself off but it's too late. Naomi's expression shifts, something sharp moving behind her eyes.
"The way I could lose Nilos." She finishes for me. "That's what you were going to say."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"No, you did." But she doesn't sound angry, just tired. "You warned me about him. Remember? When I first started at The Cracked Cask and he kept coming around. You told me exactly what kind of man he was, what kind of life he led. You told me to be careful."
"You were just getting away from Caleb." I'm defensive now, knowing I'm wrong but unable to stop. "You were vulnerable and Nilos was dangerous and I didn't want to see you get hurt."
"And yet here I am." Naomi gestures at herself. "Living with that dangerous man. Letting him be a father to my son. Building a life with him despite all the risks you warned me about. And I'm happy, Zola. Genuinely happy in a way I haven't been since before Caleb destroyed everything."
"I know." My voice cracks. "I know you are, I can see it, and I'm so glad you have that but—"
"But you think you can't have it." She steps closer, her voice going softer. "You think that because you're scared, because the world is dangerous and people die and nothing lasts forever, you have to protect yourself. Keep everyone at arm's length. Never let yourself actually want something."
I want to argue but the words stick in my throat because she's right. She's completely right and I hate it.
"I've spent my entire life being independent.
" I force the words out. "My mom died and I learned that people leave, that you can't rely on anyone else to stick around.
So I took care of myself. Worked multiple jobs, put myself through school, never asked for help because asking for help means admitting you need someone and needing someone means they can hurt you when they go. "
"Zola—"
"And then Declan happened." I'm crying now, tears sliding hot down my cheeks.
"And he was everything I was supposed to avoid.
Dangerous and possessive and from a world I didn't understand.
But he loved me anyway. Took care of me anyway.
Made me feel safe in a way I'd never felt safe before.
And when his uncle told him to choose between me and his entire future, I left because I couldn't be the reason he lost everything. "
"But that wasn't your choice to make." Naomi's in front of me now, hands on my shoulders. "He wanted to choose you. He did choose you. You're the one who walked away, and he kept choosing you."
"I thought I was protecting him."
"And now?" She searches my face. "What are you protecting now? Because he's here. He's shown up every single day for weeks. He's proven he wants this, wants you and Maeve and the life you're building together. So what's stopping you from letting him in?"
Fear. Bone-deep, paralyzing fear that if I let myself have this—have him—the universe will rip it away just like it's ripped away everything else I've ever loved.
"I'm scared I'm not meant for him." The admission tastes like blood.
"I'm scared his world will destroy me, that I'll lose him to violence or betrayal or just the reality of what he does.
I'm scared that I'll let myself love him fully and then I'll end up like Nia, alone with a baby and a hole in my life I can never fill. "