15. Zola
ZOLA
He shows up the next morning at eight-thirty, and I'm mortified by the state of myself.
There's spit-up on my shoulder from where Maeve threw up her morning bottle.
My hair's in a messy bun that's more mess than bun, held together with what might be a pencil.
I'm wearing the same leggings I've had on for three days and one of Nia's old cardigans that smells faintly of lavender because I can't bring myself to wash it yet.
Declan walks through the door carrying coffee and pastries like he always does, but this time he stops. Just looks at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
"Bad night?"
"Every night's a bad night." I take the coffee gratefully, not meeting his eyes. "Thanks for this."
He sets the pastries on the counter, reaching for Maeve where she's fussing in her carrier. "Let me take her."
I should argue. Should maintain some kind of boundary. But I'm exhausted and he's offering and Maeve immediately quiets when he lifts her, pressing her face into his neck with a contented sigh.
Traitor.
"Have you had enough time to think?" His voice is careful, neutral.
My stomach drops. Right. Yesterday's conversation. When I cried and he said impossibly perfect things and I ran away like a coward.
"We need to talk." I force the words out. "Actually talk."
"Okay." He shifts Maeve to his other shoulder, watching me. "About what?"
Everything. Nothing. All the things I've been too scared to ask for because asking makes them real.
I take a breath. "Why are you here now?"
His brow furrows. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—" I gesture between us, helpless. "Eight years, Declan. You didn't come after me. Not once. And I get it, I told you not to in the letter, but you've never been great at following instructions when you think I'm wrong." The words taste bitter. "So why now? Why show up after all this time?"
He's quiet for a long moment, his hand rubbing circles on Maeve's back in that automatic way he has.
"I was trying to give you what you wanted.
" He takes a deep breath. "In the letter, you said to let you go, that it was better for both of us.
So I did." His jaw tightens. "I thought I'd pushed too hard.
Thought maybe you really felt like I was trying to force you into something.
I genuinely believed I'd destroyed you by being selfish enough to keep you when you deserved better. "
The coffee turns to lead in my stomach. "Declan—"
"I spent all this time thinking I'd lost you and still I couldn't let go.
" He looks at me then, and the raw pain in his eyes makes my breath catch.
"But then I saw you again. I didn't go looking.
I just saw you, and I couldn't do it anymore.
And being around you..." He trails off, shaking his head.
"I don't believe the letter anymore. I don't believe you thought we weren't right for each other or that you left because you didn't love me. "
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is it—the moment where I can keep lying or tell him the truth. Where I can protect him or destroy us both.
"Can you admit that?" His voice is soft but insistent. "Can you tell me you didn't leave because we weren't right?"
I should lie. Should stick to the story I wrote in that letter, the one that let him move on and build a life without me dragging him down.
But I'm so tired of lying. So tired of carrying this alone.
"I left for you." The words come out broken, barely a whisper. "I left because you were going to give up everything—your family, your business, your whole future—because I couldn't give you children. Because staying with me meant losing everything you'd worked for."
He closes his eyes briefly. "Zola—"
"Don't." I can't look at him, can't watch whatever expression is on his face. "Don't tell me it didn't matter. I know it mattered. I saw what it cost you when you told your uncle no. I saw—" My throat closes. "I couldn't be the reason you lost everything."
"I really wish you hadn't done that."
The words are so quiet I almost miss them. When I finally look up, he's watching me with an expression I can't name—grief and frustration and something that might be hope.
"Done what?"
"Made that decision for me. Decided what I needed, what I could handle." He adjusts Maeve, his movements gentle despite the tension in his voice. "I would have chosen you, Zola. I did choose you. You're the one who left."
Shame burns through me, hot and acidic. He's right. I did leave. I made the choice for both of us because I was so convinced I knew better, so certain I was protecting him.
Maybe I was just protecting myself.
I force myself to ask the question that's been eating at me since he walked back into my life. "Did it at least work out for you?"
"What?"
"Taking over the family. Running things with Stellan.
" I can't bring myself to ask the other question—if he found someone else, if he moved on, if he built a life with a woman who could give him everything I couldn't. I think he must not have if he's here, but I need to know if any of it was worth it.
"Did you—did your uncle let you take over? "
His laugh is sharp and bitter. "Let is a strong word. Vittorio died a year ago, but yes, he left it all to me."
I hadn't known that. The information hits me sideways, unexpected. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"
"Don't be. He was an manipulative old bastard who cared more about bloodlines than people." He shrugs, the gesture dismissive. "I've been running everything with Stellan since. Making all the decisions."
All the decisions.
The words hang between us, weighted with meaning. If he's in charge now, if there's no uncle pushing him to marry strategically, to produce heirs, to sacrifice love for duty—
"So you got what you wanted," I manage.
"Did I?" His eyes find mine, holding them. "Because from where I'm standing, I spent years stuck here while the only person who ever mattered walked away thinking she was doing me a favor."
The accusation stings because it's true. Because I did walk away. Because maybe I was wrong about everything.
"I thought you'd move on." My voice cracks. "Find someone who could give you a family."
"I had someone who could give me a family. She left."
"Declan—"
"You and Maeve are a family, Zola. I already told you that." He steps closer, Maeve content between us. "And if you ever thought for one second that I wanted anything in this life without you?" He shakes his head. "That's never once been true."
The confession breaks something in my chest. Because I'm the same. Because I spent all that time in New York working dead-end bartending jobs and telling myself I was fine when really I was just waiting for something that would never come.
Waiting for him.
"I didn't either," I whisper. "I did everything for you."
Something shifts in his expression—relief maybe, or hope. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I swallow hard. "Turns out it's hard to forget someone that you fell so hard for."
"That's why I'm doing this," he says softly. "Because it's impossible to forget."
"I should have talked to you," I admit. "Instead of just leaving. Should have—should have trusted you to make your own choices."
"Yeah. You should have." He shifts Maeve to his shoulder, studying me. "But you're talking to me now. So let's start there."
He stays.
All day, helping me with inventory that needs doing. Boxes of new arrivals pile up in the back room, and normally I'd tackle them alone while Maeve napped in her carrier. But today Declan's here, unpacking shipments and checking titles against order forms while I catalog everything in the system.
"You don't have to do this," I tell him for the third time.
"I know." He doesn't look up from the box he's opening. "But you need the help and I'm already here."
Maeve's in her playpen behind the counter, surrounded by the toys Declan's bought her over the past two weeks.
She's discovered the stacking cups today—bright primary colors that nest inside each other—and she's completely fascinated by them.
Grabs one, shakes it, throws it across the playpen with a delighted shriek.
"She's got an arm," Declan observes, grinning.
"She gets it from Nia. Owen used to say she could throw a football halfway across the park." The words hurt to say. Everything about Nia hurts still, this raw ache that won't fade.
Declan glances at me, his expression softening. "You miss her."
"Every day." I enter another book into the system, blinking hard. "She should be here. Should be watching Maeve grow up and running this bookstore and—" My voice breaks. "It's not fair."
"No. It's not."
The simple agreement helps somehow. He's not trying to fix it or offer platitudes about how she's in a better place. Just acknowledging that it's awful and unfair and wrong.
We work in silence for a while, the only sounds Maeve's babbling and the rustle of cardboard. It feels almost normal—domestic in a way that makes my chest ache. Like we're a couple running a bookstore together, taking care of our daughter, building something.
Except we're not a couple. And Maeve's not ours. And this can't be real no matter how much I want it to be.
Around noon a customer comes in—a middle-aged woman looking for a specific title. I help her locate it while Declan stays with Maeve, who's decided the elephant is her new favorite toy. She shakes it, delighted by the rattle, then shoves it in her mouth.
"That's disgusting," I tell her after the customer leaves.
She grins at me, drool running down her chin.
Declan laughs—this real, genuine sound that makes something warm bloom in my chest. "She's not concerned with your hygiene standards."
"Clearly."
He picks her up, elephant and all, settling her on his hip. "You want to sing her the cup song? She loves that."
I watch as he demonstrates, stacking the cups while singing some tuneless melody that makes zero sense but has Maeve completely captivated. She reaches for the cups, knocking them over, laughing when they scatter.
"Again," Declan tells her solemnly, restacking them. "But this time try not to destroy my hard work."
She immediately knocks them over again.
"You're a menace." But he's smiling, rebuilding the tower. "A tiny, adorable menace."
It's unfairly adorable. He's unfairly adorable with her—patient and playful and completely unself-conscious about singing ridiculous songs in the middle of my bookstore. I should look away, should focus on work, but I can't stop watching them.
Can't stop imagining what it would be like if this was real.
Usually he leaves around three—some vague excuse about work or meetings. I never ask for details because I remember too well what those details look like. Blood and bruises and things I can't unknow.
But today he doesn't leave.
Four o'clock comes and goes. Then five. Maeve's getting tired, rubbing her eyes and whining. I'm about to start closing up when Declan shifts her to his other hip.
"You need dinner?"
"I have stuff upstairs." A lie. I have crackers and maybe some yogurt that's close to expiring.
His expression says he knows I'm lying. "Come on. Let me cook for you."
"You can't just—"
"I can. And I am." He heads for the door, forcing me to follow. "Lock up and let's go upstairs."
I should argue. Should maintain boundaries. But I'm tired and hungry and the thought of him cooking—of not being alone for one night—is too tempting to resist.
So I lock the bookstore and lead him up to the apartment.
Declan takes one look at my refrigerator and raises an eyebrow. "This is tragic."
"I've been busy."
"You've been starving." He's already pulling out his phone. "I'm ordering groceries."
"You don't have to—"
"Zola." He looks at me, his expression firm. "Let me do this. Please."
The please breaks me. Because he's not demanding or pushing. Just asking. Giving me the choice I never gave him eight years ago.
"Okay," I whisper.
He orders enough food to feed an army, then starts working with what I have—pasta and some jarred sauce I'd forgotten about, frozen vegetables that are somehow still good. While he cooks, I give Maeve her bottle and change her into pajamas.
By the time I come back to the kitchen, he's plated dinner and is setting the small table. It's such a domestic scene—him in my kitchen, moving like he belongs here, the smell of garlic and tomatoes filling the apartment.
"This is too much," I manage.
"It's dinner." He pulls out a chair for me. "Sit. Eat. Stop arguing."
I sit. Eat. And it's the best meal I've had in weeks because I'm not alone, because he's across from me watching to make sure I finish everything, because for one night I can pretend this is real.
After dinner he takes Maeve while I shower and get ready for bed. When I emerge in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, he's walking the floor with her, humming that same tuneless melody. She's almost asleep, her face peaceful against his shoulder.
"She likes you," I say quietly.
"I like her too." He glances at me, and the look in his eyes makes my breath catch. "She's amazing. Like her mother."
"I'm not her mother."
"Yes, you are." No hesitation. Just certainty. "Biology doesn't determine that. Love does. And you love her."
I do. So much it scares me sometimes—this fierce protectiveness, this overwhelming need to keep her safe and happy and whole.
He gets Maeve down in her crib, then joins me in the living room. I'm curled on the couch, exhausted but wired, not ready for him to leave yet.
I'm nervous as I stare at him, words on the tip of my tongue that could send me free falling. But I need to take this leap. "Do you want to stay?"
He goes very still. "Zola—"
"I know we're not—I'm not asking for—" I stumble over the words, face burning. "Just stay. Please. I don't want to be alone tonight."
Something shifts in his expression. He crosses to the couch, sitting beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth.
"I'll have to leave in a few hours," he says quietly. "I have work I have to deal with."
Right. His work. The kind that happens in darkness and leaves marks.
"That's fine. Just—stay as long as you can."
He reaches for me, pulling me against his chest. I go willingly, tucking myself into his side like I used to. He's solid and warm and real, his heartbeat steady under my ear.
"I'm not going anywhere," he murmurs into my hair.
It's a lie. He'll have to leave eventually. But for tonight, I let myself believe it.
For tonight, I let myself have this.