2. January 15, Saturday #3
A laugh slipped out before she could stop it.
Quiet.
Soft.
Dangerous.
For a second, she could almost see him on the other end of the exchange.
The faint, dry curve of his mouth. The way he probably had his phone in one large hand while pretending he wasn’t watching it.
Ilya had never been a rapid-fire texter.
He was more of a stare-at-the-message-for-a-full-minute-and-then-send-four-devastating-words kind of man.
Another message appeared.
Ilya: Seriously. Thank you. She acts like she doesn’t need people. She does.
Zoey’s smile slipped.
Something warm and familiar opened in her chest, and she hated it a little.
Because of course that was where Ilya went.
Not only teasing.
Not only dry humor.
But noticing.
And gratitude with a quiet little blade under it.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
Zoey: Of course. That’s what friends are for.
Ilya: Still. Thank you.
She swallowed.
Then another text appeared.
Ilya: I hope you’re okay, Zo.
Oh.
The apartment seemed to go still around her.
I hope you’re okay.
Not welcome back.
Not I’m glad you’re here.
Because he didn’t know.
He didn’t know she was sitting in a bedroom ten minutes from the arena, surrounded by boxes and nerves and the faint smell of takeout. He didn’t know her new job started Monday morning. He didn’t know she was close enough now that running into him wasn’t just a possibility. It was an inevitability.
Her thumb hovered.
She could tell him.
Right now.
She could type, Funny story, I’m actually in Springfield.
Or maybe, I start with the Cyclones on Monday.
She could say, Surprise, your best friend’s ex-wife is now professionally adjacent to your life, emotionally unstable, and apparently having a midlife crisis.
Instead, she looked at the box Kayla had labeled FUTURE KID STUFF.
And at the bare place on her left hand. Then, at the closed bedroom door, beyond which Kira snored softly from her tortilla-chip nest, blissfully unaware that her brother had just wandered into Zoey’s phone like an emotional jump scare.
Zoey: Working on it.
The three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Ilya: Good. You deserve it.
Her eyes burned.
She read the words once. Twice. Then a third time, which was unnecessary and therefore legally embarrassing.
You deserve it.
It was such a small sentence. It shouldn’t have mattered. But after months of lawyers, signatures, moving quotes, pitying looks, and people asking whether she was sure, the uncomplicated kindness of it nearly knocked her sideways.
She sat on the edge of the bed.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
Zoey: You too, you know.
She stared at the message before sending it.
Then she did.
No take-backs.
Her phone remained quiet for several seconds before it vibrated again.
Ilya: Working on it.
Zoey stared at the screen. The echo of her own words made her chest ache.
Then, because apparently she had not learned a single thing about self-preservation, she typed:
Zoey: Hope to catch up soon too.
She almost added See you Monday.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. The words were right there. She could picture his face when he read them. The pause. The narrowing of his eyes. The slow realization.
Her stomach swooped.
No.
Not like this.
Not alone in her bedroom at midnight, half-drunk on wine and exhaustion, with Kira unconscious in the next room and her courage held together by packing tape and Thai food.
Monday would come soon enough.
So, she sent only what she had already written: Hope to catch up soon too.
His reply came a moment later.
Ilya: I’d like that.
She set the phone facedown on the table to prevent herself from texting more.
Then she stood, crossed to the mirror above the dresser, and looked at herself.
No wedding ring.
Smudged mascara.
Hair frizzing around her face.
Wine mouth.
A sweatshirt with a bleach spot on the sleeve.
Not exactly the triumphant heroine of her own reinvention montage.
But maybe that was fine.
Maybe choosing herself wasn’t supposed to look polished.
Maybe it looked like ignoring a text she didn’t need to answer.
Or like taking a job in a building full of potential ghosts because the work mattered more than the discomfort.
Like letting an old friend hope she was okay without immediately making the feeling smaller.
And like holding one enormous piece of news back until she was ready to stand in front of him and say it out loud.
Zoey touched her bare ring finger.
Her life had been small for a long time.
Comfortable, pretty, and small.
She was done mistaking smallness for peace.
Outside the bedroom door, Kira snored again, then muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Puck bunny revolution.”
Zoey laughed under her breath.
Then she turned off the lamp and climbed into her new bed, in her new apartment, in her new city, with her terrifying new life stacked in boxes around her.
She didn’t know what came next.
For the first time in years, that felt less like failure and more like possibility.
She was here.
She was done waiting.
And this time, she was going to take up space.