Page 8 of Make the Play

“No.” She rolls her yes. “Love.”

The way she says it—flat and unimpressed, as if it’s the most overhyped product on the market—gets to me.

I glance over at Eli and Tamara again, completely wrapped up in each other. The moment is sweet, but it hits me like a puck to the ribs instead.

Because for the last few years, I’ve been looking at someone the same way Eli’s looking at Tamara, and she’s sitting right next to me. Oblivious. Sipping a martini and hiding behind her bulletproof brand of bravado.

I clear my throat. “You don’t believe in love?”

Zoe lets out a soft laugh as she swirls her drink. “I mean sure,loveexists. But not like this.” She gestures toward the dancefloor, shaking her head. “Not in someepic, meant-to-be, let’s-promise-foreverway.”

My stomach pulls tight. I should let this go, I really should. Instead, I shift to face her fully.

“Huh.”

Her eyes flick to mine. “What?”

“Just interesting, that’s all.”

“That I don’t believe in fairytales?”

“No.” I smirk. “That you think you’re too cool to want one.”

Zoe lets out a sharp laugh, tipping her head back. “Oh, Walton, that’s cute.” She places a hand on my arm, mockingly sincere. “But I’m good, thanks. I’ve got a dream job, great friends, and the ability to Irish exit any event I don’t want to be at.” She leans in slightly, voice dropping. “You ever notice how married people can’t do that?”

I laugh along, but it doesn’t reach my chest.

Because it’s bullshit. All of it. She’s selling a lie on a performance loop. I bet she’s given this speech a hundred times before, and she’s trying to convince herself just as much as me.

She slowly slides the olive from her martini into her mouth before taking another sip, watching me over the rim of her glass.

“What now?”

I shrug, setting my beer down. “Nothing.”

Zoe narrows her eyes. “That’s a liar’s face.”

“Me? A liar? Rude.”

She raises one brow, which is all warning and no patience.

“I just think it’s funny,” I offer.

“What’sfunny?”

“You act like you don’t care about love, but you’re the most ride-or-die person I know.”

She freezes, and for a split second, the mask slips. It’s the smallest shift, but I catch it—the flicker of something raw and unguarded, a version of her I don’t see often. It’s gone just as fast, replaced with her usual sharp smirk, but I saw it.

Zoe leans in slightly, a slow grin spreading across her lips. “You psychoanalyzing me, Walton?”

“Just calling it how I see it.”

“Mm.” She sips her drink, considering me. “You really think I’m some secret romantic?”

I think you’re everything, and you don’t even realize it.

“I think you’re full of shit,” I grin. “And I think you’d Irish exit this conversation if I was wrong.”

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