2. January 15, Saturday #2
Kayla gave her a look, sharp but kind. “It was his job to notice too.”
“I know that…theoretically.”
“Good. Someday we’ll work toward emotionally.”
“Can that be after wine?”
“Most breakthroughs are.”
Kira rose and went to the kitchen with surprising quiet. She returned with the bottle and refilled Zoey’s glass without comment.
The tenderness of it nearly undid Zoey.
Kira, thankfully, ruined the moment immediately. “Also, you were never cut out for trophy wife life. You complained about every party Mitch wanted to throw.”
“They were such a waste of money,” Zoey said.
“And yet you made them gorgeous.” Kira complimented.
“I have a disease.”
“You have competence,” Kayla argued. “Different thing. Equally inconvenient.”
Kira nudged Zoey’s knee with her foot. “You were never just the organizer or the plus-one. You were the glue.”
Zoey blinked rapidly.
“Oh, no.” She pointed at both of them. “No more saying things in nice voices. I am very vulnerable to that right now.”
“That’s what best friends are for,” Kayla said, raising her glass.
“To emotional ambushes,” Kira toasted.
Zoey clinked with them. “To terrible boundaries.”
“Former terrible boundaries,” Kayla corrected.
“Improving terrible boundaries,” Zoey amended.
“Boundaries in beta,” Kira said.
That made Zoey laugh for real.
The conversation loosened after that, shifting back toward boxes, college photos, and Kira finding a single glittery stiletto and demanding to know whether Zoey had murdered its mate.
They ordered Thai food. Ate pad see ew on the floor because the dining table was buried under towels, printer paper, and one suspiciously heavy box labeled CANDLES / MAYBE TAXES.
Fed up with the chaos, Kayla disappeared into her already unpacked––and neatly organized––bedroom and returned with a notepad, color-coded stickers, and the determined expression of a woman finally allowed to indulge a socially judged compulsion.
“Where’s the label maker I gave you last Christmas?” she asked, scanning the chaos.
Zoey gestured vaguely at the cardboard skyline. “In a box.”
Kayla closed her eyes for one pained second. “Right. Okay. Never mind. We’ll use mine.”
Kira leaned toward Zoey. “She’s been waiting for this.”
“I know.”
“It’s erotic for her.”
“I heard that,” Kayla said, returning with her own label maker.
“Good,” Kira replied. “Stand in your truth.”
For three hours, they sorted.
Kayla created a system involving colored dots, numbered boxes, and an index that Zoey would absolutely lose within forty-eight hours.
Kira kept getting distracted by old photos, questionable fashion choices, and a box of party favors from a charity auction Zoey had planned during Mitch’s third season in the NHL.
Zoey unpacked pieces of herself she somehow managed to carry across state lines.
A framed photo of her college feminist group.
A stack of hockey clinic proposals she’d written years ago and never sent anywhere because Mitch’s schedule had gotten complicated.
A folder from the Department of Children and Families, already creased from how many times she had opened and closed it.
Kayla paused when the folder emerged and Kira went still.
Zoey held it against her chest. “Orientation is next Thursday.”
“I know,” Kayla said.
“I’m excited.”
“I know that too.”
“I’m also terrified.”
Kayla’s smile was soft. “That would make you sane.”
Kira lifted her wine glass. “I, for one, would have loved having you as a foster mom. It certainly would have been better than anything our parents did. So, on behalf of the kids who won’t grow up like Ilya and me, thank you.”
Zoey smiled her thanks, it felt weak.
Foster care.
Adoption.
Motherhood.
Even the words felt too big.
She wanted to be a safe place. She wanted that so badly it scared her.
A place where kids had clean sheets, food that wasn’t conditional, and someone who didn’t flinch when grief came out sideways.
A home with nightlights and snacks and enough room for sadness to sit at the table without taking over the whole house.
But wanting something did not make her ready.
Wanting something did not guarantee she wouldn’t mess it up.
That was the part that terrified her most.
Her life with Mitch had trained her to believe that love worked best when she anticipated every need before anyone had to ask. Kids deserved better than a woman trying to earn her place by becoming indispensable.
They deserved someone present. Honest. Solid.
Zoey wasn’t sure she was all those things yet. But she was willing to become them. That had to count for something.
By midnight, the apartment had transformed from crime scene to semi-inhabitable. The kitchen had categories. The bathroom had towels. The couch was free of boxes. Kira built a nest of blankets in one corner of the living room and fallen asleep with one hand still resting on a bag of tortilla chips.
Kayla hugged Zoey as they got ready to retreat to their own rooms.
“You did good today,” she said.
“I unpacked six boxes and ignored two texts from my ex-husband. Let’s not alert the press.”
Kayla squeezed her harder. “I mean it.”
Zoey let herself lean in for one second. “Thank you. For all of this.”
“You’re welcome.” Kayla pulled back and gave her a look over her glasses. “Drink water before bed. Don’t doom-scroll. Don’t text Mitch. And if you have a feelings emergency, wake Kira. She enjoys chaos.”
From the blanket nest, Kira mumbled, “I am chaos.”
“See?” Kayla grinned.
Zoey smiled. “Good night, Kay.”
“Good night.”
The apartment was quiet now, save for the low hum of central air, the distant murmur of traffic outside, and Kira’s soft, ridiculous snore from the living room.
Alone with her thoughts, Zoey wandered into her new bedroom.
The space was stylish and strange. The bed was made with sheets she had bought herself, in a color Mitch would have called “a little much.” The curtains were still tied up with temporary string.
A stack of boxes still lined one wall, including the one Kayla had labeled FUTURE KID STUFF with a purple sticker and absolutely no commentary.
Zoey stood staring at it for a long moment.
Future kid stuff.
A few picture books. Extra blankets. A stuffed giraffe she had bought at an airport years ago because its face had made her laugh.
A nightlight shaped like a moon. Things she collected quietly, guiltily, like wanting motherhood was something she had to hide until it became convenient for everyone else.
Not anymore.
She crossed to the box, rested one hand on the top, and let the ache move through her without trying to organize it.
Her thoughts drifted to Ilya and her guilt at letting their friendship fizzle out.
She didn’t know what it would be like to see Ilya again, especially without the safe distance of old friendships and careful group conversations.
The thought unsettled her more than it should have.
Her phone buzzed in her back pocket.
For one weary second, she assumed it was Mitch again and considered throwing the phone directly into one of the unlabeled boxes, where it would never be found unless civilization collapsed.
But when she pulled it out, the name on the screen stopped her.
Ilya Sergechev.
Her breath caught.
Not dramatically.
Not romantically.
Just enough to annoy her.
The text was easy.
Ilya: Kira said you helped her with a ton of photos for the new project she’s working on.
She said it saved her “a metric shit-ton of heartache,” which I assume is an official nonprofit measurement.
She also said she now owes you a kidney.
Or possibly volunteered mine. That part was unclear, but not surprising.
Anyway, thanks for having her back, Zo. Hope to catch up soon.
Zoey stared at the words.
Hope to catch up soon.
Not, How are you holding up?
Nor, Do you need anything?
Not even, I heard you blew up your entire life and moved to Springfield like a very pretty emotional grenade.
Just a quick passing thanks and a hope to catch up soon, like he already knew she wasn’t going to reply.
Like soon meant someday.
He had no idea soon meant Monday morning.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
There were a dozen safe things she could say.
No need for the kidney yet; keep it on ice for me.
Definitely will catch up soon—I have some big news to share.
Or, most dangerously: See you Monday.
She stared at that imaginary sentence until her pulse did something stupid.
Absolutely not.
Instead, because exhaustion apparently made her reckless but not suicidal, she typed: Please tell your sister I accept all major organs as payment, but I prefer them lightly used and ethically sourced.
His reply came faster than she expected.
Ilya: Kira’s are probably already spoken for, but I’m sure she’ll offer mine. My kidney requires a formal request in writing.
Zoey smiled despite herself.
Zoey: Does it have to be notarized?
Ilya: Obviously.
Zoey: Your kidney seems very high-maintenance.
Ilya: Well…it’s been through a lot.