Page 21 of Broken Trails
I glance at my mother. She’s basking in the atmosphere like a cat in a patch of sunlight, her back straight, her laugh calculated. I sit in silence, watching as they pick apart everything from Toni’s wedding plans to the cost of renovations at the local church.
The tea in my cup has long since gone cold by the time the chatter finally quiets. I lean a little toward Toni, desperate for a reprieve from the static hum of the room.
“So, congratulations on your engagement,” I offer.
Her eyes flick to mine, surprised, like she hadn’t expected me to bother. “Oh, thank you. It’s all so surreal, honestly.”
Surreal. I bite back a wry thought—engagements are always surreal when you’ve been waiting your whole life to be chosen.
“Oh, so you weren’t expecting it, then?”
“No, no, I was. I just…” She trails off, glancing down at her teacup. “I never thought I’d find someone after—”
A sudden clang of cutlery on porcelain interrupts us, snapping both our gazes toward the kitchen. By the time we look back, the moment’s shifted.
“Where were we?” She takes a sip of her tea. “Oh. It’s surreal because I didn’t think I’d find happiness after my ex.” She clearsher throat, almost like the words taste bitter. “I used to date Ethan. Do you remember him?”
The name hits me like a slap. Ethan Carter. The guy who strutted through high school like the world was his for the taking. All charm and confidence, with just enough cruelty to keep everyone guessing. My throat tightens.
“I do,” I murmur, swirling my tea just to give my hands something to do.
“Yeah, well. It didn’t work out. For the best, really. He wasn’t what he made himself out to be.” The words snag at my curiosity. What exactly does that mean? Part of me wants to ask, but the other part—the louder, self-preserving part—would rather keep the distance. I already feel awkward sitting this close to her, knees brushing every so often beneath the table.
Still, the conversation drifts on, surprisingly… civil. Decent, even. Enough to make me wonder if maybe she’s changed.
“You look great, by the way,” Toni’s gaze flicks over me. “You always did have amazing hair. I used to be so jealous of it back in school.” The comment catches me off guard. Jealous? I remember those years differently—her glossy lip balm smiles, her perfectly ironed skirts, her easy way of being liked. My hair was just… hair.
“Uh… thanks,” I say, awkwardly brushing a strand over my shoulder. “It’s a real pain sometimes.”
“Still,” she says, tilting her head, “you look good.”
A curt “Thanks” is all I can offer in response, even though inside, I’m feeling anything but good. Before I can add anything more, the conversation at the table shifts again. A wiry woman in a floral dress leans toward my mother, her silver bangles clinking softly as she gestures. “So… what brought Zoe back to town?”
The room stills. Every face turns toward me, their gazes sharp and assessing, as though I’m a specimen under a microscope.My mother smiles, her lips curving into a rehearsed expression of pleasantness. It’s the same one she’s worn for years, a shield she uses in moments like this.
“Oh, she just needed a little change of scenery. Fresh air always does wonders, doesn’t it?”
God forbid she tells the truth for once.
“Alone, though, I see.” Jazzy’s voice slides smoothly into the silence. It’s really none of her fucking business. “How is that husband of yours?” she asks me directly. “Maybe you can give Toni some tips on married life.”
“Mother, it’s fine,” Toni’s stern voice cuts in, and it’s enough to slice through the awkwardness.
“Oh, please, Toni, dear. It’s always good to learn a thing or two,” Jazzy counters, all false sweetness. She’s just as un-fucking-pleasant as I remember.
Jazzy, unfortunately, has been one of my mother’s closest friends for decades, and it shows in the way she sits there—one ankle delicately crossed over the other, her entire posture angled toward me like a laser beam. Crisp white trousers. A pale blue blouse. Hair coiffed into a perfect silver bob. Makeup flawless, her sharp cheekbones dusted with just the right amount of blush.
I don’t even try to hide the scowl forming on my face—until I catch my mother’s warning look, and it slips away.
“He’s… fine,” I say, keeping it short, offering nothing for her to chew on. “And as for giving Toni tips, she won’t be needing any from me.”
My mother lets out a light, practised laugh. “My Zoe’s always been independent.”
Jazzy responds with nothing but a quiet, drawn-out hum, the kind that somehow says everything she isn’t voicing. Heat creeps up my neck as their eyes linger, the room thick with unspoken questions. It feels like the air itself has gone heavy, pressing inon me, waiting, no, daring me to fill the silence with answers I have no intention of giving.
I curl my fingers around the teacup, the porcelain cool against my skin, and place it back onto the saucer with more force than intended—the faint clink echoes in the quiet. Pushing back my chair, I murmur, “I should get going. I’ve… got things to take care of.”
Jazzy’s brow lifts and her lips curve into a knowing smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, so soon?”
