12. February 4, Friday
Chapter twelve
Zoey
Nina: survived.
Little Cyclones camp: despite Nina’s doom and gloom attitude was officially happening.
Foster parent research: deep enough that her algorithm now served foster tips instead of dog videos.
She even managed not to replay launching herself at Ilya in the cafeteria, and how warm and solid he felt against her.
She took a satisfied sip of wine, opened social media, and let herself drift through other people’s foster success stories. Dream scrolling, not doom scrolling.
Three swipes later, the world tilted.
Mitchell Collins half laugh, half dying accordion.
Not jealousy. Not oh no, he moved on.
More like...had she ever actually made anything better?
Money to charities was easy. Showing up, doing the work—that was different.
“So sorry you had to ‘heal’ from my toxic presence,” she muttered at the screen. “But thanks for the alimony.”
The front door opened. “I brought takeout and emotional support carbs!” Kayla called.
Zoey didn’t answer. She just lifted her phone, eyes still glued to Mitch’s stupid, camera-ready face.
A pause. Boots thudded off. A bag rustled.
“Ew,” Kayla said flatly. “Who let him near sequins?”
Zoey wheezed, twisting the phone toward her. Yep. Sequined button-down. She’d missed that earlier. “Read the caption.”
Kayla leaned in, warm and steady, smelling like soy sauce and cold air. Her eyes scanned, then sharpened.
“Oh, absolutely not. ‘Rejuvenated bachelor’? ‘Cut ties with his past’? Mitch, sweetheart, you didn’t cut ties. You signed divorce papers because you were a selfish dick.”
Zoey’s throat burned. “Next time he texts me for the landscaper’s number, I’m telling him I can’t help. I need to cut ties.”
Kayla snorted, but her voice softened underneath it, the tone she used when she saw the bruise under the joke. “Okay.” She clapped her hands once. “Pause. Therapist hat on for thirty seconds, best-friend privileges still intact.”
Zoey made a vague, defeated sound.
“That headline isn’t about you. It’s about Mitch auditioning for the role of Man Who Is Definitely Fine. That’s branding. PR. A guy insisting he’s healed because he refuses to sit still long enough to be uncomfortable.”
She gently took Zoey’s phone and set it face-down on the coffee table. Not snatching. Just disarming.
“And here’s the part you’re actually reacting to,” Kayla continued. “Not that he’s dating someone new. The caption makes you sound like something he recovered from.”
Zoey swallowed.
“Which is bullshit,” Kayla said. “You didn’t drain him. You outgrew him. And instead of keeping up, he outsourced his growth to a younger woman and a publicist.”
Zoey sat up. “What if he’s happier because I was too much? Too distracted. Too heavy. Too...me.”
“Then he was never built for life with you,” Kayla said without hesitation.
“That doesn’t make you too much. It makes him a chapter in your book, but not the HEA.
” She brushed her thumb over Zoey’s head, like a mother soothing a worried child.
“You don’t make the world better by being decorative.
You make it better by showing up. Sometimes by choosing people and systems and unglamorous work that doesn’t photograph well. ”
A beat.
“And any man who says he ‘cut ties with his past’ is absolutely going to call his therapist bro, quit after three sessions, and say therapy isn’t his thing.”
Zoey laughed wetly. Her stomach still felt sick, but noodles sounded survivable.
“Now,” Kayla said, popping a container open, “do you want to vent, spiral responsibly, or eat lo mein and stalk his girlfriend until we find something mildly annoying?”
“All three?” Zoey sniffed.
“Perfect. Healing is multi-modal.”
“I spent ten years organizing my life around his career,” Zoey whined, staring at the ceiling. “I stepped back from work because he said we’d start the adoption process soon. Then when my nonprofit work started getting framed as PR stunts for him, I was asked to step away from that too.”
The word baby lodged behind her sternum.
“And now I’m what? A phase he outgrew?”
“You’re the protagonist who tried to co-star in someone else’s story,” Kayla said. “Which is fixable.”
“With noodles?”
“With noodles. And possibly a smoking-hot rebound.”
“I do not need a rebound.”
“Your phone thinks you do,” Kayla argued. “Your brain thinks you don’t exist unless you’re in his narrative. You need data.”
“On what?”
“On men. On attraction. On the fact that you…” pausing, she gestured at Zoey, unapologetic, “are a smoke-show.”
“You’re the worst therapist.”
“I’m off the clock. Tonight, I’m your hot, single friend who drags you to a bar.”
“Single?”
Kayla paused, studying her. “Ah, young padawan. Too much you see, hmm? But yes...probably single.” The lift at the end suggested even she wasn’t fully convinced.
The idea of a rebound was...tempting. Her last real flirtation had been college.
A flash of broad shoulders and steady blue eyes crossed her mind.
Nope.
She shoved Ilya out of her head. “What if I don’t know how to flirt anymore?”
“Anymore? Girl, I love you, but you were never good at flirting. You’re overfriendly, overthinking, and easily distracted. Luckily, where we’re going, you don’t need skill. You just need to be hot and vaguely available. Easy.”
Zoey twirled the ring on her thumb, staring into space, weighing the idea. Then she slapped her hands on her thighs. “Okay. Let’s wake up my inner sexy beast.”
Kayla grinned. “I’ll grab the makeup bag.”
Zoey stood and her gaze snagged on the thick foster paperwork folder on the dining table. Application. Background check. References.
Soon.
She straightened, squared her shoulders, and went to find the sexiest dress she owned that didn’t require tape or a prayer.