Page 1 of About That One Night
Chapter One
Zoe
And just like that,my life became a series of cardboard boxes and half-hearted pep talks. As it turns out, my emotional baggage is the only thing that doesn’t require bubble wrap.
While packing, my fingers trace the edge of a framed photo. Suddenly, I’m transported back to Cabo. The phantom warmth of the sun kisses my skin, and I can almost feel Tom’s arm around my waist. We’re grinning at the camera,blissfully unaware that our happiness came with an expiration date.
It feels like a lifetime ago. With a sigh that seems to come from my very bones, I wrap the frame in an old newspaper and gently place it in the box labeled “Memories” in my loopy handwriting. Then I pause, gnawing on my lower lip. Is it even worth saving?
Maybe I should just remove our picture and donate the frame. It’s a cute ornament . . . I think. Then again, I could be completely wrong. If there’s something I’ve learned in the past couple of weeks, it’s that my judgment is about as reliable as a chocolate teapot.
There’s a huge difference between what I believe and what is real.
I believed Tom and I were heading to a happily ever after.
Reality check: here I am, packing my life into boxes and preparing for a glamorous new chapter on my parents’ lumpy futon. If only I could kick out the people who are currently renting my brownstone.
“Look at the silver lining, Zoe. This is only temporary,” I remind myself, eyeing the mountain of boxes. “Nine months, and you’ll be back in your cozy and beautiful brownstone. Assuming the renters don’t turn it into a frat house.”
At least I didn’t do something as stupid as selling my place when I agreed to move in with Tom. It made more sense to treat it like an investment property to lease and manage. Now, I can just wait for it to be available and . . . then what?
I don’t have a plan or a goal anymore. Ugh, this situation can’t get more pathetic. Can it?
“It could, so don’t jinx it, Zoe Isabella Harper. Get it together,” I mutter, blowing a strand of hair out of my face with an exasperated puff. “This is just a moment that’ll be over soon. It might look scary, but there are new possibilities out there and opportunities to reinvent yourself.”
I nod, this is right. I’m doing the right thing. Probably.
My fingers linger on the cardboard flap, a mix of nostalgia and nerves swirling in my stomach. This marks the end of an era. An era I thought would end up different. I don’t even know if I should keep the souvenirs. This reminds me of the whole, “been there, done that, and got the t-shirt” bit but do I really need to bring all this stuff with me?
Who keeps a box of relationship mementos anyway? Nobody, that’s who. I should just toss everything away. But what if I save it to destroy in a rage? Isn’t that what exes are supposed to do? Dramatically burn all the leftover crap in trash cans?
I snort at the mental image of myself in my parents’ living room, sipping a pineapple mojito and watching everything turn to ashes. Until, of course, the ceiling catches fire and I’m royally screwed. “Yeah,” I mumble, “because nothing says, ‘I’m totally over you’ like arson charges,” I mutter.
My eyes drift to the pile of boxes mocking me from the corner, their cardboard faces mocking me from the corner. “Right. Packing,” I mutter, saggingas I realize it’s yet another evening wasted on this task.
Grabbing another box, I plaster on a smile that wouldn’t fool anyone. “Living the dream. Thirty-two, single, and moving back in with the ’rents. Take that, high school guidance counselor.”
As I fold what feels like my millionth sweater (seriously, when did I become a knitwear hoarder?)
I search for the bottle of tequila I’ve been downing for the past couple of hours. That’s when my traitorous mind wanders to Tom. Is he drowning his sorrows in cheap beer wherever he’s at? Or is he already swiping right on some cute, young and fun yoga instructor who’s totally cool with his commitment-phobic ways?
“Stop it,” I hiss, shaking my head like an Etch A Sketch trying to erase unwanted thoughts.
It doesn’t matter. We want different things. He wants adventure, spontaneity, and the chance to chase his dreams before settling down. I want . . .
“To fall in love. Start a family,” I whisper to the empty room. “And a dog or a cat or . . . some pet,” I add, almost as an afterthought.
My lip trembles traitorously, and I blink back tears, and I’m not sure what hurts more: that I spent years thinking I had it all or that I have to start all over. Either way, this is for the best. It has to be.
I square my shoulders and reach for another box, determined to pack away more than just my belongings. With each item I wrap and store, I’m boxing up a piece of my old life, making room for whatever comes next—even if that “next” is currently amystery wrapped in a bottle of tequila and some hopes and dreams.
The apartment feels different now, as if it’s holding its breath. Every corner holds a ghost of what used to be—the old couch where we’d binge-watch terrible reality TV, the kitchen where I tried to teach Tom how to cook anything more complicated than toast.
“At least I won’t be here when he burns down the kitchen,” I mutter, reluctantly smiling as I try to find a silver lining.
My gaze lands on the corkboard by the door, a collage of our adventures. Paris, Rome, that “romantic” camping trip where we got chased by a bear (Okay, it might’ve been a raccoon, but it was dark and terrifying, alright?). And maybe we didn’t camp, it was more like glamping but I never corrected him.
Yeah, Tom liked to pretend to live an adventure, but had a low tolerance for inconvenience. He constantly stretches his stories to make him look cooler than he is.
