Chapter One
December
Dublin
“Can I buy you a drink?”
I sigh inwardly as a man’s shoulder appears in the corner of my eye.
Sometimes I hate being the shortest girl in the room.
Even in heels I’m only at chest level to most people around me.
Great for space on airplanes and the extra three years I was able to go trick or treating.
Bad for reaching things on shelves and situations just like this.
“Hey. Can I buy you a drink?” The question is slightly louder this time, and I realize he thinks I didn’t hear him. Or maybe that I didn’t notice him. Him, standing directly beside me and now brushing deliberately against my arm.
“That’s okay,” I say, glancing up. Cleanshaven. Recent haircut. Eyes a little bleary from a few after-work pints. “I’m with my friends.”
“So am I.” He leans a little closer. He smells stale. “I’m Karl.”
“Great. Honestly, I’m good. Thanks, though.”
“What’s your—”
“Did you know I have an almost four-year-old at home?” I ask, turning to him. “And that he’s had a cough and a runny nose for what feels like seventy-five years, which is weird because again, he’s not even four?”
“I … no.”
“Well, I do,” I tell him. “I also have a pretty demanding job that I love and that I sometimes put above people in my life because it pays for my nice apartment and I like nice things. Despite that, I can’t run more than three miles no matter how hard I try, my hair’s been thinning since my pregnancy, I pee a little every time I sneeze, and do you see this zit?
” I point to the volcano on the side of my chin. “I think it’s gaining consciousness.”
The man stares at the monster for a beat too long before his eyes snap back to mine.
“Also, I think one my ears is slightly bigger than the other. I don’t know if I should be worried about that or not.”
Karl glances down at the zit again. “Is that a no?”
“It’s a no,” I confirm. “Appreciate the offer, though.”
As if on cue, the bartender hands me my receipt and I pick up the drinks, ignoring my new friend as I push my way slowly into the crush of people behind me.
“Excuse me. Zit woman coming through. I will spill this on you. I will absolutely not hesitate to— thank you.”
I squeeze through the crowd; the glasses balanced expertly in my hands. One whiskey. One red wine. And one ice water with a slice of lemon.
Not a drop is spilled as I make it to the snug I had the genius idea to reserve yesterday, where my friends Christian and Megan sit.
“For the lady and her boring man,” I announce, placing the drinks before them.
“I can cancel you for that,” Christian says. “It’s cool not to drink now.”
“Not if it’s because you’re on a juice cleanse.”
“It’s not a juice cleanse,” he says calmly. “It’s a Winter Reset.”
I pull my seat in, blowing a strand of hair from my face. “How much have you paid someone to tell you to do stupid stuff, because I want that job?”
“It’s just a phase,” Megan says, patting his arm. “Ignore him. He’s grumpy.”
“Yeah, because he’s been drinking celery juice and eating salmon fillets three times a day.”
Christian gives me a look. “It’s a nutrition based—”
Both Megan and I groan as she clinks her glass with mine.
“So,” she says, waggling her eyebrows at me. “He was cute.”
“Who?”
“The guy you were talking to at the bar.”
“The bartender?”
“No.” Megan looks to Christian, who just shakes his head.
“She means the one obviously trying to flirt with you,” he says.
“Oh.” I shrug, taking a sip of my drink.
“You don’t think he’s cute?” Megan presses.
Christian smirks. “Zoe doesn’t date.”
“Ever?”
“God no,” I say. “Just on Thursdays.”
Megan’s frown deepens, giving her an adorably confused look.
Christian looks less patient. I know he thinks I’m playing with her, but I can’t help that my go-to reaction is sarcasm.
Especially when it comes to this line of questioning.
I think everyone would find it more normal if I was a serial dater.
Those people can be understood. Pitied, yet understood.
But someone who simply doesn’t? Puzzling. Bad. Burn her at the stake.
“I’m fine as I am,” I tell her. “Single and not ready to mingle. Besides, do you know how much I paid for my vibrator? I am more than satisfied.”
“Okay,” Christian begins with a grimace, but I’m on a roll.
“It came with a little travel pouch. And it has a flutter function.”
“So does mine,” Megan says, jerking her thumb towards Christian, who promptly coughs into his drink.
“I’ll send you a link later,” I stage whisper, and she grins as some new arrivals peer into the snug before moving on.
“It’s always so busy in here,” she mutters.
Christian gives me a see look because he hates this pub, but I don’t care because I love this pub, and it is my choice to pick for pub night. It’s also literally five minutes from my apartment, but that’s beside the point.
“You two wouldn’t even be sitting here if it wasn’t for this place so show some respect,” I say, ignoring them as they make goo-goo eyes at each other.
It’s been just over two years since they got together and fell madly in love.
It would be incredibly annoying if I didn’t care for them both so much.
I met Christian first because his brother Andrew got together with my twin sister, Molly.
But while theirs was a romantic love, what I shared with Christian was even deeper.
Platonic sarcasm and a love of money. Honestly, I thought our friendship couldn’t get any better, but then Megan burst onto the scene with her brightly colored hats and occasional charming chaos, and it was like the best 2 for 1 deal ever.
“So,” I say. “How do you guys feel about kids?”
Now it’s Megan’s turn to splutter as she chokes on a mouthful of wine.
Christian glances back to me. “You timed that.”
“Maybe. You going to help her?”
“Nah.”
She grabs his glass of water and throws him the finger.
“I presume you’re talking about one kind in particular?” Christian asks. “Aka yours?”
“A bunch of them, actually. It’s Tiernan’s birthday party next week and I’ve invited all his friends to come and get high on sugar. I need help herding them.” I smile innocently. “It will be good practice for you.”
Neither rise to the bait.
“Next Friday?” I ask. My son was born on Christmas Day, so I always try to do something a few days before. “You’re not going home until the weekend, right?”
Megan’s face is already falling. “Oh, Zo, you know we would, but Christian’s got a big industry awards dinner then.”
“Someone’s giving you an award?”
“Rising profits,” he says.
“Disgusting.” I turn my attention to Megan for more important matters. “What are you going to wear?”
She immediately whips out her phone and we spend the rest of the evening going through her shortlist of eleven options.
Eleven.
After another hour, we call it a night. Outside, they turn left, and I turn right to make the short walk back to my apartment.
“Hold on,” a voice calls softly as I let myself in the door. “I’m scrubbing Bolognese from your rug.”
Sinead. I head down the hallway and into the living room as my best friend in the whole wide world stands with an exaggerated stretch from my couch.
The television’s on low, playing a crime drama, and my rug remains spotless bar the chocolate stain from two months ago that may or may not have been my fault.
“I don’t understand,” I say as she waves. “Where’s the chaos? Where’s the anarchy?”
“What can I say? I’m the toddler whisperer.”
“Sorry to break your heart, but I gave him a hit of weed before you left.”
“No, you didn’t. It’s my calming maternal presence.” She grabs her bag. “Did you have a nice evening?”
“I did,” I say. “And it was needed, so thank you. How about you guys? Did you get on okay?”
“We had spaghetti and read some stories. He also drew some pictures. I left them by his bed for you.”
“There’re no creepy little girls in them, are there? Last week he kept giving me pictures of the two of us and a creepy little girl hovering in the doorway.”
“Zoe.”
“He gave her red eyes and then just kept drawing these black circles over and over—”
“I’m going now.”
“Crayon practically tore through the page.”
“I think they’re dinosaurs today.”
I nod thoughtfully. “He does like dinosaurs.”
Sinead yawns, stretching her arms above her head again. For real this time.
“You want to stay over?” I ask. “It’s late.” But she shakes her head.
“Rory’s taking the morning off tomorrow. We’re going to go look at blinds.”
“Thrilling.” I hang up my coat and grab some crackers from the cupboard.
“You really need some more Christmas decorations in here,” Sinead says. “You have a Christmas child. It’s in his blood.”
“Yes, that’s exactly how the Gregorian calendar works.” I shove a cracker into my mouth. “I’ve got a wreath.”
“You’ve got a magnet-shaped wreath on your fridge.”
“That I bought especially for the occasion,” I say as she rolls her eyes.
“The best thing about having a kid at this time of the year is all the fun stuff. At least get him a tree.”
“He’s a city boy,” I protest. “He doesn’t even know what a tree is.
” But I do need to get one. I never intended to deprive him of the season, but my family never really celebrated Christmas growing up.
At least not the glitzy, flashing side of it.
But we’ve started to change our tune in the last few years and Sinead’s right.
Tiernan’s old enough to start remembering some of this stuff now.
“What are you going to do anyway?” she asks.
“For Christmas?” I shrug. “This.”
“You can’t spend Christmas alone.”
“I’m literally not,” I say, gesturing toward his bedroom. “Le child. His party is next week before everyone disappears and on the day itself we’ll probably visit my parents for dinner.”
“Yeah, but …” She trails off, shrugging on her coat, and I brace myself eternally. Sinead might not remember it but, just like with Megan, we’ve had this conversation before. In many different situations and iterations. It’s the same one I’ve had with friends and family and full-on strangers.
It’s not about celebrating Christmas.
It’s about doing it while being single.
No matter how much it’s my choice, no matter how well I’m doing, it still comes up. And it always goes the same way. I just haven’t met the right guy. I need to care less about work. I’m being too picky. I don’t know what I want.
But that was never the problem. The problem was I knew exactly what I wanted for a very long time. And I wasted a lot of time thinking something was wrong with me for it.
I wanted my job. I wanted my apartment. I wanted that couch and these boots and the hiking trip to Iceland.
I wanted to be a mother. More than anything I wanted that.
And that confused them most of all.
Most people my age were still on the fence about becoming parents. Or knew it wasn’t for them. You’d think people would be glad I was trying to improve the declining birth rate, but even my family were unsure at first.
My sister, Molly, came all the way back from Chicago to talk to me about it. Not out of it. But just to make sure.
And I was sure. More than sure.
And yes, sometimes I’d like help tidying up the toys or picking him up from nursery. Someone else to read him to sleep when I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. But that’s a nanny. Not a partner. And I’m smart enough to know the difference.
“I’ll take him to Lapland next year,” I promise, and she takes the hint and drops it.
After she leaves, I finish my late-night snack and chug a glass of water before checking in on my sleeping offspring and his evening’s work. Dinosaur pictures as promised. If you squint your eyes a little. He’s not Picasso. Some mismatched circles, three big lines and—
Oh, wait, maybe he is Picasso.
“You’re a genius,” I whisper. He doesn’t stir.
I lean over to kiss him, hesitating as I brush the hair from his forehead. I don’t know why. The sight of him, probably. My whole world.
The feeling reminds me of those first few weeks after I had him when I would stand above his crib, terrified.
Even watching him sleep, making sure he was still breathing, I was terrified.
Convinced that the world would take him away from me.
Thank god he never woke up or he probably would have developed a deep-rooted trauma of sleep demons or something. But I couldn’t help it.
I thought I was ready. I thought I was so ready.
I’d always managed to do everything I’d ever set my mind to, but I felt so out of my depth it was like I was a different person.
I couldn’t even understand how I was allowed to take him home from the hospital.
Surely they should have made me do a degree first. Or sent a Garda to my house every three hours to make sure I wasn’t messing everything up.
I still feel like that sometimes. I don’t tell people, but I worry. That I won’t be enough. That he’ll need so much more than I can give him. I know it’s normal. I know I’ll get through it. But it’s hard. It’s draining. It’s motherhood.
I press a kiss to his cheek, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
I guess it’s just kind of scary how much you can love another person.
Especially one who squirts ketchup into your pockets.