Page 50 of Broken Trails
“We are. And, you know, just like Harrison, he’s got his flaws. But I’ve always believed he just needs the right person to bring out the best in him. Someone who sees past the walls he puts up.” Then she blinks rapidly as if she’s finally coming back to herself. “Shit, sorry. Listen to me go on. What about you? Any special lover hiding in the wings? I don’t think I’ve even asked.”
I wish she hadn’t.
I draw in a breath and hold it before letting it out slowly. Before I can answer, the waitress brings our coffees to the table, along with a small, warmed croissant. Imogen slides it to Joseph, who grins up at her.
“Fank you, Mama.”
“You’re welcome, baby,” she murmurs, kissing the top of his head before unlocking her phone and handing it to him.Blueystarts playing at half volume.
“So… where were we?” she asks, cutting back to me.
Dread creeps in. I stare down at my latte, heart sinking. I can’t explain it. Not here. Not now. Not to someone so open and grounded. Someone who glows.
“It’s… complicated.”
Imogen frowns. Not in a prying way, just a gentle nudge. “Sorry. Let me just burp her,” she says, scooping Hope from the pram, who’s now fussing, and settles her against her shoulder. Her hand rubs small, patient circles across the baby’s back. I nod. Or at least I think I do. Because I’m already drifting. Already staring out the window.
Until I hear it.
My name.
I turn my head slightly. Why am I not the slightest bit surprised? It’s Jazzy. And her triage of pension-age piranhas. They’re seated three tables away, loud enough to hear without trying.
“Well, I know she didn’t run back home for the scenery,” Jazzy croons.
Another chuckles. “Some women mustn’t be cut out for marriage.”
My throat tightens, and heat creeps up the back of my neck. How the hell do they know anything? Who’s been talking? My mother? No, surely not. Not after the supermarket ordeal. She’s been… different since then. Checking in without pushing. It can’t be her.
But Jazzy? Jazzy knows everything.
“Zoe?” Imogen’s voice slices through the fog in my head.
I flinch and do my best to drag my focus back to her.
“Sorry, what?” I ask, but I can’t hear her properly—not over the steady drip of their words bleeding into me. The worst part is… some of it’s true. And fuck them for assuming I’m not good enough for my marriage. Liam can rot in hell for all I care. It’sthe running part. The fact that I left. That I get the blame. How easily women are painted as the problem, the quitter, the one who couldn’t hold it together, while men walk away with their reputations intact.
The thought of it all burns right through me, curling into my chest, becoming something heavier—embarrassment, humiliation—until it sits at the base of my throat. Imogen follows my gaze, and her eyes instantly roll inwards.
“Why am I not surprised they would be here?”
My eyes widen. “You know those ladies?”
“Unfortunately. One of them, Shelly Bryant, gave me some grief for years until I put her in her place. I’m not surprised she’s at it again.” As she speaks, another comment drifts through the room, enough for me to hear it, and this time, so does Imogen.
“Some women are better at walking away than sticking it out.”
The table ripples with faux-gasps and smug chuckles. It’s the kind of sound that feels aimed like a dart. Imogen looks at me then, her eyes softening, reading the hit before I can hide it.
Imogen looks at me, and her expression softens instantly. “Zoe.”
But I’m already coming undone. My vision smears at the edges, and my chest locks up tightly. “I-I need to go. Sorry.” I shove back from the table too fast, knocking my knee into the leg, jostling my latte.
Imogen reaches for me. “Zoe, wait—”
I can’t. I weave between tables, heart pounding, air thinning around me by the minute. By the time I reach the door, the unmistakable rise of her voice hits me—heated and bitter, aimed directly at them. But I don’t stay to hear it. I don’t want to.
I just need air. I need out. I need to disappear.
