13. Zola
ZOLA
I'm cataloging new arrivals when the bell above the door chimes and Naomi walks in carrying two paper bags that smell like Indian food.
"Lunch delivery." She sets them on the counter, glancing around. "Where's Maeve?"
"Napping. Finally." I close the catalog, grateful for the interruption. My brain feels like static today—too little sleep, too much coffee, too many thoughts circling the same impossible problem. "You didn't have to come all the way here."
"I wanted to." She starts unpacking containers—samosas, chicken tikka masala, garlic naan. "Plus I wanted to check in. Make sure you're actually eating."
"I eat."
"Coffee and whatever pastries that guy brings you doesn't count." She hands me a fork, her expression pointed. "Speaking of which—when's he usually show up?"
My stomach drops. "What guy?"
"The tall, dark, and brooding one who's been coming by every day for the past two weeks." Naomi leans against the counter, studying me. "He looks all hot and bossy. You need that."
Declan. She's talking about Declan, and of course she saw him. I should have known she didn't just get busy. She probably left whenever she saw him here through the window.
"He's just—he's an old friend."
"An old friend who brings you breakfast and holds Maeve like she's made of glass and looks at you like you're the only person in the room." Naomi's smile is knowing. "That's some friend."
My throat tightens. "It's not like that."
"Why not? He's clearly interested. And you deserve something good, Zo. You've been through hell this past year."
I focus on opening a container, anything to avoid her eyes. "It's complicated."
"Everything's complicated. Doesn't mean you can't—"
The door chimes again.
Declan walks in carrying coffee and what looks like lunch from the Italian place three blocks over. He freezes when he sees Naomi, his expression going carefully neutral.
"Didn't know you'd have company."
"Naomi was just—" I gesture vaguely at the food. "She brought lunch."
"So did I." He sets down his offerings, glancing between us. Something shifts in his face when he looks at Naomi—recognition, maybe, though I'm not sure how he'd know her. "I can come back later."
"No, actually, I should head out." Naomi grabs her purse, shooting me a meaningful look. "Someone has to pick up Jordan from his friend's place. Plus you two clearly have... whatever this is to figure out."
She has no idea. She probably thinks Declan is some hot, normal guy with a crush.
My face burns. "Naomi—"
"Call me later." She squeezes my arm as she passes. "And Zola? Don't overthink it. Sometimes good things just happen."
She leaves before I can argue, the bell chiming her exit.
The silence stretches between Declan and me, heavy with everything unsaid.
"She seems nice," he offers finally.
"She's my friend." I start consolidating the food, stacking containers. "I guess my only friend now."
His expression softens. "You have me."
Do I? I want to ask. Because friends don't make my pulse race when they walk in. Friends don't make me remember what it felt like to be touched like I mattered. Friends don't haunt me for eight years after I leave.
Instead I just nod. "Right. You brought lunch?"
"Thought you might be hungry." He moves closer, that familiar confidence in every step. "How's Maeve?"
"Asleep. She was up most of the night."
"You look exhausted."
"Thanks. Really selling my best features." The words come out sharper than I intend.
He doesn't flinch. "You're always beautiful. Even when you're running on no sleep and trying to do everything alone."
My chest tightens. This is what breaks me—not the grand gestures but the quiet observations, the way he sees me even when I'm trying to disappear.
"I should check on her."
I escape to the office before he can respond. Maeve's still sleeping, curled on her side with her thumb halfway to her mouth. She looks peaceful. Innocent. Everything I'm trying to protect her from.
Declan follows me, his presence filling the small space. "Can I ask you something?"
"Depends on the question."
"Why didn't you introduce me and Naomi?"
Because I haven't told her about you. Because explaining you means explaining why I left Philadelphia, why I spent all that time in New York pretending I was fine, why I came back and still avoided every place you might be.
Because telling her about you makes it real, and I can't handle real right now.
"I don't—I haven't talked about you. About us." I adjust Maeve's blanket, needing something to do with my hands. "It's easier that way."
"Easier for who?"
"Both of us." I turn to face him. "What do you want me to say? That we dated when we were young? That it ended badly? That we're trying to be friends now even though—"
I cut myself off. Can't finish that sentence without admitting too much.
"Even though what?"
"Nothing. Forget it."
But he's closer now, trapped in the office doorway, looking at me like he used to—like I'm a puzzle he's determined to solve.
"You can't keep doing this, Zola."
"Doing what?"
"Pushing me away. Pretending there's nothing here." His voice is low, careful. "I see you. I know you're struggling. Let me help."
"You are helping. You bring food, you hold Maeve, you—" My throat closes. "You're being a good friend."
"Is that what you want? Friendship?"
No. God, no. I want everything we had and more. I want him to stay, to be here, to help me raise this baby and run this bookstore and build something that doesn't feel so impossibly lonely.
But I can't have that. I made my choice when I left him that letter. When I walked away to save him from a life tethered to someone broken.
"It's what we can have."
His jaw tightens. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I'm giving you."
He comes back the next day. And the day after that.
Always with coffee. Always with that patient determination that used to drive me crazy because he'd wait me out until I gave in, until I let him past my walls.
I'm trying to hold them up. Trying to maintain distance.
But it's getting harder.
Three days after the conversation with Naomi, I'm restocking the children's section when Declan arrives. Maeve's in her carrier strapped to my chest, fussing because she's teething again and everything makes her miserable.
"Here." He sets down coffee and reaches for her. "Let me take her."
"I've got her."
"You've been up since five. I can see it in your eyes." He gently unhooks the carrier, lifting Maeve free. "Go take a break."
"I don't need—"
"Zola." His voice is firm but not harsh. "Take. A break."
Maybe it's the exhaustion. Maybe it's how Maeve immediately settles against his chest, her crying tapering to sniffles. Maybe it's how easy he makes it look, holding her like he's done it a thousand times.
I nod and escape to the back office, sinking into the chair and pressing my palms against my eyes.
This is killing me.
Watching him with Maeve. Watching him show up every day with exactly what I need before I ask for it. Watching him be patient and kind and everything I remember but somehow more because he's giving it all to me when I don't deserve it.
When I pushed him away.
When I'm still the same broken thing I was eight years ago.
I hear him out front, humming that tuneless melody while he walks with Maeve. Hear the soft sounds she makes, content now, safe with him.
He'd be such a good father.
The thought hits me hard, sharp enough to make my breath catch. He would be amazing—patient and protective and capable of the kind of love that doesn't come with conditions.
But not with me. Not with a woman who can't give him children. Not with someone who walked away once and would probably do it again if it meant protecting him from herself.
My phone buzzes.
Naomi: How's the hot guy situation?
Me: There's no situation.
Naomi: You're a terrible liar. I literally saw him there yesterday. So yeah. Situation.
I stare at the message, not sure how to respond. Not sure how to explain that this isn't a situation—it's torture. It's wanting something I can't have and having it shoved in my face every single day.
Me: We're just friends.
Naomi: If you say so. But Zo? Friends don't look at each other the way you two do.
I lock the phone, pressing it against my forehead.
She's right. Naomi's always right about this stuff. But being right doesn't change reality, doesn't make this any less impossible.
Twenty minutes later I emerge from the office to find Declan manning the register like he works here, Maeve asleep against his shoulder. He's just finished ringing up a customer—an older woman who's smiling at him like he hung the moon.
"Thank you so much, dear. You're very good with that baby."
"She makes it easy." He hands over her bag, then notices me. "Hey. Feel better?"
"I didn't feel bad."
"Liar." He adjusts Maeve carefully. "But you look less like you're about to collapse, so I'll take it."
The customer leaves. I move behind the counter, reaching for Maeve. "I can take her now."
"She's fine where she is." He shifts, keeping her secure. "Why don't you actually take a lunch break? I can watch the store."
"You can't just—you have your own job. Your own life."
"My life is flexible." He meets my eyes, and it reminds me that I know far too many of his secrets. That he knows so many of mine. "And right now I want to be here."
"Why?" The question bursts out before I can stop it. "Why are you doing this? Showing up every day, bringing food, holding Maeve, acting like—like this is normal?"
"Because I care about you."
"You keep saying we're friends," I snap, feeling defensive. He's getting too close, and I'm too tired. I can't do this. I can't let him in. "Friends don't do this. This is—" I gesture helplessly between us. "This is something else and we can't be something else."
His expression doesn't change. "Why not?"
Because I'm broken. Because you deserve better. Because I already destroyed us once and I can't do it again.
"Because nothing's changed." My voice cracks. "I'm still the same person I was. Still—"
I can't say it. Can't force the words past my lips.
"Still what?"
"Sterile." The word tastes like ash. "I'm still sterile, Declan. Still can't give you what you need. What you—what anyone would want."
I wait for him to flinch. To pull back. To finally show me the truth—that he came back because he thought maybe things had changed, maybe I'd somehow been fixed.
It's something that's been circling in my mind.
Declan conveniently showed up right after I got custody of Maeve.
After he supposedly saw me with her. I've always wondered if he let me go because it did solve all his issues, if he only showed back up now because he thought I somehow found a way to have a child.
If he only wants me because he thinks I'm not broken.
It's not entirely logical when I'm the one that broke us, but it's a question I've had none the less. A reminder to why he should just let me go.
But he doesn't move. Doesn't even blink.
"You think that matters to me?" His voice is impossibly gentle. "You think I'm here because I believe you can have biological children?"
"Why else would you—"
"Because I never stopped caring about you. Because watching you leave was the worst thing that ever happened to me. Because—" He shifts Maeve to his other shoulder, stepping closer. "Because I spent so long barely existing and then I saw you again and I remembered what it felt like to be alive."
Tears burn behind my eyes. "Don't."
"Don't what? Don't tell you the truth?" He's so close now I can smell his cologne, feel the warmth radiating off him.
"You're not broken, Zola. You never were.
And you're an incredible mother to Maeve.
I see how you are with her—how you put her first, how you keep showing up even when you're exhausted, how you're doing everything alone because you think you have to. "
"I do have to." My voice breaks. "I'm all she has."
"You don't have to be." His free hand comes up, fingers brushing my cheek so gently I barely feel it. "Let me help. Let me be here. Let me—"
"What?" I'm crying now, can't hold it back anymore. "Let you what? Throw away your life again? Tie yourself to someone who can't give you a family?"
"You are a family." He says it like it's fact, like there's no argument. "You and Maeve. That's a family. And if you'd let me, I'd like to be part of it."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I want to lean into him, to let myself believe this could work. That maybe I didn't ruin everything. That maybe there's still a chance for us.
But the fear is louder. The certainty that I'm not enough, that eventually he'll realize what he's missing, that loving me means sacrifice and compromise and giving up things he doesn't even know he wants yet.
"You don't know what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying." His thumb traces my cheekbone, catching a tear. "I've had eight years to think about this. Eight years to realize what I lost. And Zola—" His voice drops. "I don't want to lose you again."
Maeve stirs against his shoulder, making a soft sound. He automatically adjusts her, still watching me with those dark green eyes that see too much.
"I can't—" I pull back, putting distance between us because if I don't, I'll do something stupid like kiss him. Like believe him. "I need to think."
"Okay." He doesn't push. Just stands there holding my daughter—not my daughter, Nia's daughter, but mine now—looking at me like I'm something precious. "Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere."
That's what I'm afraid of. That he'll stay, and I'll let him, and eventually it'll all fall apart again because I'm fundamentally not what he needs.
But right now, with him standing in my bookstore holding Maeve like she's his, I can't remember why that matters.
I can't remember anything except how much I want this to be real.