33. April 4, Monday #3
If Ilya came back—and that was a galaxy-sized if—it couldn’t be because she dragged him there with the perfect argument. It couldn’t be because of some grand speech that made his fear evaporate.
He hadn’t reasoned himself into believing love was dangerous. He wasn’t going to be reasoned out of it.
He had to decide.
Whether he was willing to stop using fear as a verdict. Whether he wanted to do the work. Whether he wanted to walk toward her with his eyes open instead of loving her from whatever safe distance hurt least.
Zoey couldn’t walk him there.
She’d spent years walking Mitch through his life.
She deserved a man who wanted to do the work and wanted to get there.
Not that she wouldn’t want to hold his hand if he offered it…if he really meant it.
She lifted one shoulder. “I guess it is.”
Mitch nodded, then looked past her toward the window. Late-winter sun flashed off a passing car, bright enough to make him squint.
“This really is it for us, huh?” he asked.
The question held no strategy this time.
No pitch. No attempt at reconciliation.
Just grief.
Zoey’s heart twinged. “Yes. It really is.”
He breathed out slowly. “I don’t know how to be friends with you yet.”
“You don’t have to know today. Or ever. We can figure it out. Or not.”
“I don’t know if I can watch you with him,” he added quietly.
“You may not have to,” she said, her own heart twisting. “But whatever happens, it isn’t going to be decided by your discomfort.”
He winced, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
She reached for her wallet, slid a twenty under the edge of her plate, and stood.
Mitch gazed up at her, older and more rumpled than he looked yesterday.
“If it helps,” Zoey said, “I hope you do change. For you. Not for me. Not because you’re losing something. Because someday you might decide comfort isn’t the same as happiness.”
She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and stepped away from the booth.
She made it three paces before he called out, “Zoey?”
She turned.
Mitch’s face was open in a way she hadn’t seen in years.
“I really am sorry,” he said. “For last night. For the marriage. For him.”
She nodded. “I know.”
His expression tightened. “And I really did love you. I just didn’t know how to love you more than I loved me,” he admitted.
“I know that too,” Zoey replied. “And I really did love you. We were good friends. We just weren’t good as a married couple.”
He looked down at his coffee, nodding once like that sentence might finally be one they could both live with.
“I’ve gotta go see about a kid,” she said, voice softening. “Or fifty. See you later.”
She left him there with his coffee, his choices, and maybe, if he was brave enough, the beginning of an apology to Ilya forming.
Outside, the air was bright and brisk, the kind of late-winter sun that lied about how cold it was. Zoey squinted into it, inhaled deeply, and felt something unlatch between her ribs.
It wasn’t elation.
It wasn’t cinematic, slow-motion walking away from an explosion.
It was quieter than that.
A door, finally closed with care instead of slammed in a panic.
It felt freeing not to be tethered to Mitch anymore.
Not in anger. Not in guilt. Not in hope.
He was part of her history. A real part. But he was not part of her future. At least not anything outside of friendship, if they ever got there.
Her phone buzzed for the third time in her pocket, so she pulled out.
Ilya with another update: All four puppies were reunited with Fido. All hydrated, warmed up, and supplemented with a puppy milk replacement.
Zoey closed her eyes.
Relief moved through her, warm and painful.
Her heart did the terrible thing hearts did when they were trying to heal around someone who still mattered.
Then she typed: Thank you. I’m so relieved you found them.
She paused, then, added: Please keep me updated.
She hit send before she could overthink it.
Ahead, the city sprawled—messy, loud, full of kids she hadn’t met yet who might someday roll their eyes at her jokes and still reach for her hand.
Zoey unlocked her car and slid into the driver’s seat.
For one ridiculous second, she wondered whether she should upgrade to something larger. Not for Jayden specifically. Not for some fantasy timeline she could bully into existence with Pinterest boards and desperation.
For her future life.
Her future goals.
For whoever might need a ride someday.
A car seat. A booster. A hockey bag. A trash bag she’d replace with a real suitcase and backpack the second she could.
The thought hurt.
It also made her smile.
Small, but real.
She could build this.
She was building this.
Not perfectly. Not quickly. Not with every answer already lined up and notarized.
But brick by stubborn brick.
And Ilya—
Her smile faded into something softer.
Ilya was a question her heart still wanted answered. But she was no longer building her future around the possibility that he might choose a future with her.
She hoped he would.
God, she hoped he would.
Zoey started the car.
Whatever happened next—with fostering, with work, with love, with all the messy, inconvenient pieces of a life that refused to arrange itself neatly—those choices were hers now.
But for now, she had some kids to perform some magic tricks for.