21. Zola
ZOLA
Iwake up alone in the morning, which shouldn't surprise me. Declan left. Said he'd see me tomorrow and then walked out the door like he hadn't just made me fall apart on my own couch.
Maeve's still asleep—actual miracle—so I let myself lie there and stare at the ceiling, trying to process what happened last night. The way he apologized. The way he touched me like I was something precious. The way he left before I could even reciprocate.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Text from Naomi.
Naomi: Coffee at 10? I can help with inventory but also want to check on you
I respond quickly.
Zola: Yes please. Bring food
She shows up right on time with coffee and pastries from the Italian bakery on Passyunk, and more importantly, with the kind of expression that says she knows something happened.
"Spill." She settles into the armchair, coffee in hand, while Maeve plays with her elephant on the floor. "You look different."
"Different how?" I'm deflecting, which we both know.
"Like someone who got some last night." She takes a sip, watching me over the rim. "Or at least got something."
Heat floods my face. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Uh huh." She sets down her cup. "So Declan hasn't come by again?"
I break off a piece of croissant, focusing very hard on the flaky layers. "He came by."
"And?"
"And we ate dinner. He took care of Maeve. We talked." I pause. "And then he... apologized. Properly."
Naomi's eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "Properly?"
"With his mouth." The words come out strangled. "And then he left."
"Wait." She leans forward. "He went down on you and then just... left?"
"Said we were starting slow." I shove pastry in my mouth to avoid elaborating.
Naomi stares at me for a long moment, then starts laughing. Not mean laughter—warm and genuine, the kind that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners. "Oh my god. He's courting you."
"He's not—" But she's right. That's exactly what he's doing. Showing up, taking care of things, making sure I know he's serious without pushing for more than I can give. "This is a bad idea."
"Why?" She picks up her coffee again. "Because you might actually be happy?"
"Because I already tried this once and it didn't work." I watch Maeve shake her elephant, delighted by the rattling sound. "What if I'm making the same mistake? What if I'm still not what he needs and it all falls apart again and this time Maeve gets hurt?"
"Or what if it works out?" Naomi's voice is gentle. "What if he's exactly what you need and you're exactly what he needs and you get to be happy together? Because it sounds like you both regret the breakup last time."
I want to believe that. Want it so badly it physically hurts. But years of running has made me very good at protecting myself, and I'm not sure I remember how to stop.
"I don't know if I can do this." The admission comes out quiet. "Let him in. Trust that he's not going to leave or change his mind or realize I'm not worth it."
"Zola." Naomi sets down her coffee, reaches over to take my hand.
"I've known you for over a year now. Watched you take care of Nia, raise Maeve, keep the bookstore running.
You're one of the strongest people I know.
But sometimes strength means letting yourself be vulnerable with someone who's earned it. "
"And you think Declan's earned it?"
"I think you said been miserable for eight years without him." She squeezes my hand. "I think he shows up every day and takes care of you both. I think it took him one look to realize he can't live without you. And I think if you don't give this an actual chance, you're going to regret it."
Maeve crawls over, pulls herself up using my leg, babbling something that might be words or might just be sounds. I lift her into my lap and she immediately reaches for Naomi's necklace.
"I'm scared." The words feel too honest, too raw. "That I'll fall and he'll catch me but then drop me anyway. That he'll realize I can't give him what he needs. That his life will hurt us and it'll be my fault for letting him in."
"Those are all valid fears." Naomi gently redirects Maeve's grabbing hands. "But you can't live your whole life protecting yourself from getting hurt. Sometimes you just have to take the risk."
"What if it doesn't work?"
"Then you'll handle it. Same way you've handled everything else." She meets my eyes. "But what if it does?"
Declan shows up at nine the next morning with bagels, cream cheese, and that careful expression that says he's not sure what kind of reception he's going to get.
"Morning." He holds up the bag like a peace offering. "Everything bagel with vegetable cream cheese. Coffee the way you like."
I should probably play it cool. Should make him work for it, protect myself better. Instead I open the door wider and let him in because I'm apparently terrible at self-preservation where he's concerned.
Maeve sees him and immediately starts bouncing in her playpen, arms up, demanding to be held. He grins and scoops her up before even setting down the food.
"Hey, babygirl. Did you miss me?" He kisses her forehead, settles her on his hip like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Were you good for your mama?"
She grabs his face with both hands, babbling something emphatic. He laughs—actual laughter that lights up his whole face—and my chest does something complicated.
"I'll take that as a yes." He carries her to the kitchen, somehow managing to unpack the food one-handed while keeping her entertained. "Zola, you need to eat. When's the last time you had breakfast?"
"Yesterday." Probably. I think. Time's been weird lately.
He gives me a look—flat and unimpressed—then plates a bagel and slides it across the counter. "Eat. Please."
I eat because arguing seems pointless and also because I'm actually hungry.
He's already cut the bagel, spread the cream cheese exactly how I like it, even remembered to bring the kind of coffee I prefer.
It's those small details that get me—the proof that he's been paying attention, that he remembers, that he cares.
"You busy today?" He's feeding Maeve pieces of banana, wiping her sticky hands with practiced ease.
"Inventory in the back room. Nothing exciting." I take another bite. "You?"
"Meeting at eleven. Should be done by three, then I'm free." He glances over. "Thought I could come back after. Help with whatever you need."
"You don't have to—"
"I know." He wipes Maeve's face with a damp cloth, gentle despite her protests. "I want to."
And that's the problem, isn't it? He wants to be here. Wants to help, wants to take care of us, wants to build something. And I want to let him so badly I can barely stand it.
The first week establishes a pattern. Declan shows up in the mornings with breakfast. Stays until he has to leave for work—sometimes that's an hour, sometimes it's four.
Then he comes back in the afternoon or evening, helps with Maeve, makes sure I eat, does all the small things that add up to feeling cared for.
He never pushes. Never asks for more than I offer. Some nights he leaves right after Maeve goes down. Other nights I let him stay longer, let him pull me down onto the couch and make me forget why I was so determined to protect myself.
He never kisses me though. I'm not sure if that's his boundary or if he's waiting for me to ask for it.
Either way, there's something achingly tender about the way he touches me everywhere except my mouth—like that's reserved for something more permanent than whatever this tentative thing between us is.
Two weeks in, I'm doing inventory in the back room when Naomi appears with lunch.
"How's it going with Declan?" She settles onto a stack of boxes, unpacking sandwiches. "You've been quiet about it."
"It's going." I scan another barcode, add it to the spreadsheet. "He's here a lot."
"That's good, right?"
"I don't know." I set down the scanner, accept the sandwich she offers. "It's good but it's also terrifying because I keep waiting for something to go wrong."
"Has anything gone wrong?"
"No." I unwrap the sandwich—turkey and avocado from the deli down the street. "That's the problem. It's all been perfect and that can't last."
Naomi takes a bite of her own sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. "You know perfection isn't the same as unsustainable, right? Sometimes things work out because both people want them to work out."
"Maybe." I'm not convinced. "Or maybe I'm just setting myself up to get hurt again."
"You've been hurt for so long." She points at me with her sandwich. "At least this way you get to be happy for a while first."
I don't have a good argument for that.
Three weeks in, Declan's gotten Maeve on a better sleep schedule. She goes down at seven-thirty most nights now, sleeps until six or seven in the morning. It's revolutionary—I'm actually getting sleep, which means I have the energy to think clearly.
Which is both good and bad because thinking clearly means acknowledging how completely I'm falling for him again.
It's the small things that get me. The way he always brings my favorite coffee. How he anticipates when I'm about to be overwhelmed and steps in before I have to ask. The way he talks to Maeve like she's a person who deserves real conversation, not just baby talk.
Tonight he's on the floor with her, building block towers for her to knock down. She's delighted every single time, cackling like it's the funniest thing she's ever seen. She babbles at him in a way that definitely means she's bossing him away.
"Again?" He stacks the blocks carefully. "You sure? This one's going to be really tall."
She claps her hands, bouncing with anticipation. He makes a show of adding the last block, then sits back. She lunges forward and destroys it with one swipe, laughing so hard she tips over.
He catches her before she can face-plant, lifts her up and blows a raspberry against her stomach. She shrieks with joy, grabbing at his hair.