Chapter Two ZOE
Chapter Two
Z OE
One of the weirdest things about life is how you change without even realizing it’s happening. Change comes in such tiny increments, water dripping slowly into a bowl, and before you know it, everything is overflowing. The mess materializes before you realize you’ve got something to clean up.
It’s not always like that, of course. Sometimes you’re stuck in a situation where some cosmic asshole cranks the hose on full blast, and you have no choice but to try not to drown in the wake of what’s been unleashed in your face.
I’d experienced the first kind of change throughout my failed marriage and the years that followed, where I had to figure out who I really was.
I was Zoe Valentine—party of one, expert third wheel to my best friend and her husband, with all the time in the world to do whatever I damn well felt like.
But the second kind of change—the asshole hose to the face—was the only way I could describe the last two weeks of my life.
It would’ve been hard enough if it were just me.
But it wasn’t just me anymore.
Hell, I hardly recognized myself in the mirror most days. Speaking of mirrors, there was one across the lushly decorated room, so perfectly clean that I was doing my absolute best to avoid looking in that direction, because it showed everything.
The lawyer’s office—home to the spotless mirror and the nice decor—was shiny and immaculate.
I was not.
Sure, I’d swiped on a coat of mascara and some passably clean clothes for this last-minute meeting, but my already wild hair was pushing the limit of what dry shampoo could do for it, and from the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a macaroni noodle buried in some messy waves.
I batted at it, sighing in defeat when my fingers got tangled.
When I finally plucked the noodle out and didn’t immediately spy a trash can, I had no choice but to tuck that sucker into the pocket of my jeans.
Apparently, this was something I’d have to get used to. And I’d gotten used to having a lot thrown at me the last couple of weeks.
When a rotating list of those things started spinning on a carousel in my head, I rubbed at my chest, which had begun to feel tight and heavy with worry. That drowning, sputtering sensation came back with a screaming vengeance.
No. No one was going to take her away from me.
There was no stifling the loaded sigh that came in the wake of that singular thought. I needed a nap. And a shower. And something signed in blood that would allow me to keep her.
This time, my sigh was heavier, slower, and weighted down with all the worries that crept into my brain when I tried to get to sleep.
Those two sighs were deafening in the hushed space.
It was different from the pockets of quiet I’d gotten at my house the last two weeks, and those had been strictly confined to the spotty naptimes she’d allowed, and the very limited window of time in which I managed to stay awake after I got her into bed.
Most nights, I face-planted onto my pillow less than twenty minutes after she was lights out, which was hardly enough time to fully appreciate the lack of noise.
Mira Grace Spencer was particularly talented at decimating any quiet that existed.
And, really, I was thankful for that, because if I’d had to sit in my house alone, next door to Chris and Amie’s empty, quiet one, I’d probably lose my frickin’ mind.
Mira was the best distraction in the entire world, even with the lack of sleep and the mountain of worry that now came with every single decision I made.
Wasn’t that funny?
You could want something for decades , think about what it would be like, think that you’d fully prepared, but when someone actually plops a child into your lap and says, Here you go—she’s your responsibility now , all that want and thinking and preparation is absolutely fucking worthless.
And on that desolate thought, the missing office manager entered the room through a door disguised as a bookshelf.
She didn’t notice me at first. I studied her tailored suit, a pretty shade of purple, and vaguely remembered the days when I also looked like a functioning human being when I walked out the door.
When I didn’t have bags the size of Samsonites under my eyes.
When I had clean hair, free of orange-coated pasta.
When I didn’t occasionally eat ice cream for dinner because it was easier that way.
Oh yes, the Zoe of old was a bit more on top of things when she faced the world. Not that I’d left my house in the last two weeks, but still ...
The office manager’s eyes lit up. “You’re a bit early. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”
I waved the apology away. “It’s fine. I was just ... enjoying the quiet.”
As she took her seat behind the desk, she smiled. “Just to clarify, you’re Mrs. Valentine, correct? What a sweet name. You must love Valentine’s Day.”
“Zoe,” I told her. “Please call me Zoe.”
It was much easier to leave the Valentine’s Day comment untouched. For years, my dick of a (then) husband had ignored it because he thought it was too commercialized, and this last one had been spent with a sweet, thoughtful date who’d brought me my favorite flowers and cooked a delicious dinner at his house before cuing up my favorite movie.
Two weeks later, he had unceremoniously bolted after the surprise arrival of my best friend’s child.
Too much pressure, and nothing he was ready to deal with. So, no, Valentine’s Day didn’t have a great track record in my book.
As quiet covered the office again, I started picking at my nails, a habit I’d successfully curbed in college but taken up again in the last couple of weeks.
It was either that or drinking, and drinking didn’t seem like the wisest life choice, so ugly nails was the winner.
“You didn’t bring the little girl with you?” she asked.
Now my smile was easy, no internal sighing or repressed urge to bolt from the room. Mira made it easy to smile, which was about my only solace in this giant clusterfuck.
“No, she’s at home with a neighbor. I wasn’t sure what the lawyer wanted to discuss, so I thought it would be better to come alone.”
Her eyes widened, big and brown, just like the wood paneling covering the wall behind her. “I’ve been hearing so much about her since we started sorting through your friends’ paperwork. What a tragedy,” she added quietly. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” As I managed a weak smile, I picked off an edge of my nail, and it fell soundlessly into the plush carpet. Even if she meant well, even if the words were delivered with the very best of intentions, I kinda wanted to scream when someone told me they were sorry for my loss.
Which was unfair, of course. But the thought bloomed every single time I heard it.
And I’d heard it a lot lately.
What were they sorry about? They hadn’t done it. They hadn’t been drunk out of their minds and driving into oncoming traffic.
I’d rather have someone look me in the eye and say, This sucks, and there’s nothing I can say to make it better.
It was hard to swallow around the lump in my throat. It had been hard for me to know what to say those first few nights I’d rocked Mira to sleep because she was crying for Mommy and Daddy.
She missed them. A different way than I did, because she didn’t—couldn’t—understand. It took enough out of me just to keep my own tears quiet while I wiped away hers.
All of this—the slow changes and the big, furious changes—had me feeling horribly on edge and ready to burst. Into tears or screams or I didn’t even know what anymore. All day long, I tiptoed that fine line between wanting to bawl my eyes out and wanting to punch someone. I wasn’t sure which would make me feel better.
The receptionist must have read the tension in my face. She gave me a small, polite smile. “Byron will be out in just a minute. We’re waiting for one other person, and then you’ll get started.”
My stomach went cold, like someone had shoved a giant block of ice in there. “Who are we waiting for?”
She glanced down at the computer screen. “Liam Davies.”
The ice in my stomach bottomed out, settling somewhere in my feet.
“What?” I whispered.
Thinking I hadn’t heard her, she repeated the name with a courteous smile on her face.
I did not smile back, which was a really big deal because I was nice. I was friendly. I always smiled back. But not when someone casually dropped his name like everything was going to be fine and dandy.
As I conjured an image of him in my head, he walked through the door, looking like a human embodiment of the grumpy emoji. Dark hair, green eyes, scruff-covered jaw, and a furrowed brow that never quite seemed to go away. If he was capable of smiling, I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen it. Definitely not aimed at me.
He sure as hell wasn’t smiling at the receptionist, and when he caught a glimpse of me, his brow furrow somehow deepened.
His eyes dropped to the Washington Wolves shirt I was wearing, and something in his gaze flickered.
Once upon a time, wearing a Washington shirt or sweatshirt or hat was a lighthearted joke. Something Chris teased me about endlessly. Something that always garnered a reaction out of Liam.
But it didn’t feel so funny today.
I crossed my arms tight across my chest. It wasn’t much of a barrier, but it was better than nothing.
The receptionist smiled, undeterred by the cloud of foreboding that wafted in after Liam. “Mr. Davies, if you’d like to take a seat, Byron will be out in a moment to meet with you and Mrs. Valentine.”
“Miss,” I corrected. They both looked down at my bare ring finger. “It’s Miss Valentine,” I said. “Or Zoe. No Mrs. ...” My voice trailed off, and they were both staring at me. I cleared my throat as I tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear.
Liam’s eyes narrowed, and after a brief hesitation, he took a seat, leaving one open in between us. His legs, covered in black athletic joggers, were about a million miles long when he stretched them out in front of him. He settled his hands over his trim waist, and I studied him openly. His Denver shirt stretched over his chest, the sleeves snug around his thick arms, where the ink-covered skin never failed to do annoyingly fluttery things to my stomach. Even now, even with everything, I saw the tattoos and felt that flutter. The last time I’d seen him was at the funeral; I’d caught a brief glimpse of him standing in the back by his teammates, a row of dark suits and somber expressions.
The difference for Liam was that his expression always looked funereal.
Silence stretched between us, so tense that I could practically feel it snapping at the edges. I rolled my lips between my teeth and fought the urge to pick at my nails again. My mind was clogged with racing thoughts, and I could hardly make sense of a single one.
Why would he be here too?
I tried to recall my conversation with Amie, when she’d told me about the plans they were making ... in case.
There aren’t very many people I’d trust to raise my daughter, Zoe. You’re one of them.
The remembered statement, accompanied by a very inconvenient flashback of the day Mira was born, had my stomach churning.
But that couldn’t mean . . .
Oh gawd, it could.
It could .
Behind my ribs, my heart clanged awkwardly, unable to settle into a normal rhythm.
Liam closed his eyes, tipping his head back to exhale audibly. “If you don’t stop staring at me, I’m going to lose it,” he muttered under his breath.
Now it was my turn to narrow my eyes. “Hi, Liam. It’s nice to see you too. I’ve been okay the last couple weeks,” I said smoothly.
His eyes opened, snapping over to mine. It was almost impossible not to want to shrink back from the force of that gaze. But I refused to give in. For so many years, we’d existed in a space of snarky back-and-forth, something that straddled an indefinable line. It wasn’t flirting, but it wasn’t outright disdain either.
“Mira is fine,” I continued. “I’m so glad you asked. Your concern for your goddaughter is overwhelming.”
It wasn’t my most gracious opening. Even if it came from a never-ending pool of grief, a place of little sleep and lots of stress, I fought the urge to apologize, barely managing to swallow it down.
Liam leaned in, the roped muscles of his arms popping underneath his white Denver T-shirt as he did. “Zoe,” he said, voice low and smooth, “I know you well enough that I’m not going to sit here and spew bullshit niceties when I don’t want to be here. I don’t know what this is about, but your presence makes it seem about a hundred times more complicated than I’d like it to be.”
My pulse thundered in my ears because ... I wasn’t even sure why I was having such a visceral reaction. It was almost like his brutal honesty made the air around us vibrate with a higher frequency, something that couldn’t be comfortably sustained.
The waiting room had seemed dark before, with no windows letting in any of the Colorado sun. But with the addition of Liam, it was like someone dimmed the lights even further.
I sat back in my seat, mimicking his posture by crossing my arms over my waist. My legs weren’t nearly as long as his, so I kept one crossed over the other.
As I usually did when I had nothing to distract me, I thought about Mira. The responsibility of raising her.
And this meeting would likely change every single thing I’d planned. There was no other reason he’d have us both here.
My hands trembled, and I clenched them together tightly to keep it from being obvious.
The door to the office opened, and a tall, thin man wearing wire-rimmed glasses greeted us with a reserved smile. We stood as he approached, and he shook Liam’s hand, then mine. “I’m Byron Cogswell. Our firm took over Chris and Amie’s trust after their last lawyer retired. I apologize that it took us a couple weeks to get everything sorted out. It’s been ... hectic,” he said with a sad look in his eyes. “Please join me in my office, and we’ll get started right away.”
For a brief moment, I locked eyes with Liam. He towered over me, and the thoughtful look on his face was just about my undoing. It didn’t take much to make me cry these days.
Mira smiling, reminding me so much of Amie that it knocked the breath from my lungs.
A song or a smell that stirred up memories of weekend hangouts at their house.
If he looked at me much longer, trying to untangle all the same things I was, I’d start crying in earnest.
As Byron showed us to a small table in the corner of his office, I graciously accepted his offer of coffee, which Liam waved away.
“Ahh,” Byron said. “You’d probably prefer tea.”
“Because Brits don’t drink coffee?” he asked, sarcasm thick in his accent.
Byron coughed. “Of course they do. My apologies.”
Liam shook his head. “It’s all right. I’m a bit on edge.”
I snorted, but it wasn’t quiet enough, because Liam pinned me with that glare again.
Instead of doing something really mature, like sticking my tongue out, I pinched my eyes shut and clasped my hands in my lap. When I opened them again, I studied what was in front of us. On the glossy table were two thick binders with Chris’s and Amie’s names printed on the spines in black ink, as well as two manila folders, each holding a handful of papers. There were also two pens. Expensive pens.
One tab had my name on it.
One tab had Liam’s.
My heart kick-started with a jerk. For a brief moment, I wondered if I’d pass the hell out right there at the fancy table, with the fancy lawyer and the asshole football player as my witnesses.
“This about the house they bought?” Liam asked. His eyes held a strangely hopeful gleam.
I had to blink at his sudden question. I’d almost forgotten about it, with all my focus on Mira.
The lawyer smiled. “No. The Michigan property was left to someone else,” he said. “One of Chris’s friends from college—Burke Barrett. I was just on the phone with him before our meeting.”
Liam’s jaw tightened, but he managed a short nod.
That hopeful gleam was gone. My gut screamed at me that this meeting was going to end up in a massive shitstorm, but there was no way to swerve out of the way.
Byron handed me the coffee as he took his seat, and I let the heat of the cup warm my frigid hands. Liam’s face was inscrutable, but he tracked Byron’s every move with interest.
I tore my gaze away from Liam’s rugged features, because even if I had a really good guess as to what the lawyer was going to say, I wanted to watch him too.
Byron settled his hands on the table and let out a deep breath. “There’s no easy way to go about this, given the tragic loss of your friends.” He gave us both a sympathetic look, and I could see the kindness in his eyes. Already, my ribs squeezed uncomfortably tight. So did my throat. “But I think it’s best if we get straight to the point, and then I’ll answer any of the questions you might have.”
Liam shifted in the chair, clearing his throat in a show of nerves.
I set the coffee down, afraid to spill it on my lap, and then ran my hands through my hair.
Byron nodded. “Okay, then.” With crisp movements, he opened up the first manila folder and then the second, sliding one in front of each of us. “Even though their trust was extensive and it took us a couple weeks to get everything sorted, these few pages are what matter when it comes to both of you.”
I didn’t look. I didn’t need to.
Liam snatched up the folder before him, his mouth moving slightly as he read through the words. “ What the bloody hell?” he breathed.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. I knew. Without Byron saying a word, I knew .
The lawyer gently cleared his throat. “The two of you were chosen by Chris and Amie to share guardianship of their daughter, Mira.”
I exhaled in a hard puff, then felt my ribs quaking as I tried to suck in a quick breath to fill my frozen lungs.
Liam snapped the folder shut and tossed it down on the table. “Absolutely fucking not,” he yelled.
My eyes slammed shut, and I leaned forward, dropping my head into my hands.