Page 100 of Daddy's Ring
Zola's watching me from across the room, Maeve still on her hip, and I catch her eye. Mouthlove youwhere no one else can see.
She doesn't say it back, but she smiles. Soft and real and maybe—finally—starting to believe this could actually work.
I head into the kitchen to start final dinner preparations, Stellan following to help, and for the first time in eight years I'm looking at my future and seeing something other than emptiness.
People are settling into the living room, conversation starting to flow, and I think maybe—maybe—we can actually do this. Build something real. Something permanent. Something worth fighting for.
27
ZOLA
The house smells like garlic and rosemary and something else—memory, maybe. I stand in the living room holding Maeve while everyone settles in, and I can't stop looking at the details Declan never changed. The throw blanket I bought at a thrift market is still draped over the back of the couch, faded but clean, like it's been waiting for me to come back and use it. The books on the shelf are organized the way I organized them eight years ago—by color first, then height, a system that made no logical sense but pleased something in me aesthetically. He kept it all.
Maeve squirms against my chest and I adjust my grip, watching Declan move through the kitchen with Stellan beside him. They're comfortable together in a way that suggests they've done this before, though I suspect Stellan's version of helping mostly involves standing nearby looking intimidating while occasionally handing over ingredients.
Naomi's on the couch with Nilos, his arm draped casually across her shoulders, and Jordan's examining Declan's record collection with the careful reverence of someone who actually appreciates vinyl. Jamie—Stellan's friend, though I think heworks for them—leans against the wall near the kitchen doorway, looking relaxed in a way that suggests he's used to Stellan's particular brand of intensity.
"Dinner in fifteen." Declan calls from the kitchen, and everyone makes acknowledging sounds.
I need air. Or space. Or something that isn't this house full of ghosts and possibilities and evidence that Declan Wolfe spent eight years carrying me with him everywhere he went.
"I'm going to put Maeve down for a bit." I announce to no one in particular, heading toward the bedroom that used to be ours.
The door's open and I step inside, breath catching. The bed's different—bigger, newer—but the dresser is the same. The mirror. The way the curtains hang. Even the small crack in the corner of the ceiling that we used to joke looked like a rabbit.
I settle Maeve in the portable crib Declan set up earlier, and she goes down easily, exhausted from being passed around and cooed at. Her little fist curls against her cheek and I stand there watching her breathe, trying to get my own breathing under control.
He kept the house. Didn't change anything. Locked it up like a shrine and bought other places to live in because he couldn't stand to be here without me but couldn't stand to let anyone else have it either.
That's not normal. That's not healthy. That's not what someone does when they've moved on or accepted that a relationship is over.
That's what someone does when they're still in love eight years later, still hoping, still believing that maybe?—
I press my palms against my eyes, pushing back the sting of tears. I can't do this here, can't fall apart in his bedroom with a dinner party happening ten feet away and Maeve sleeping peacefully and everyone waiting for me to come back and pretend I'm fine.
But I'm not fine. I'm so far from fine I can't even see it from here.
I slip out of the bedroom, pulling the door mostly closed, and nearly run directly into Naomi in the hallway.
"Hey." She reaches out to steady me. "You okay?"
"I need a minute." My voice sounds strained even to my own ears. "Can we?—"
"In here." She nods toward the door at the end of the hall. She guides me inside the large bathroom and closes the door behind us, leaning against it like she's prepared to physically block anyone who tries to interrupt.
I turn on the tap, letting the water run while I grip the edge of the sink. The bathroom's different—new tile, updated fixtures—but the mirror is the same and I can see my face in it, see the way my eyes are too bright and my breathing's too fast.
"He kept the house." I say it to my reflection, to Naomi, to the universe. "The entire house. Didn't change anything. Just locked it up and left everything exactly like it was when I walked out."
"So you used to live here then?" Naomi's voice is gentle.
"I never fully lived here, but I was here all the time. And he didn't change anything. Like the books." I gesture vaguely even though we're in the bathroom and can't see them. "I organized them by color because it looked prettier that way and he thought I was insane but he never changed it. Eight years, Naomi. Eight fucking years and he kept my organizational system for his books."
"Zola—"
"My coffee mug is still in the cabinet." I turn to face her, and her expression is sympathetic in a way that makes my chest hurt. "I saw it when he was getting glasses earlier. That stupid mug with the chipped handle that I bought at that corner store because it was cheap and I liked the color. He kept it."
"Of course he kept it." She says it like it's obvious, like I should have known. "He never stopped loving you."
