Page 85 of Broken Trails
I grin, shaking my head as I walk toward my bike. I have no idea what the hell that just was. But I want more of it. More ofher.
I’m in trouble.
27
If there’s anything more exhausting than being emotionally cornered by your best friends, it’s being emotionally cornered by your best friends while they lounge across your couch, eating Thai takeaway, and interrogating your love life like it’s a true crime podcast.
Dani and Jeff didn’t stay long after Michael left—just enough to polish off two bottles of wine, rifle through my pantry for snacks, and grill me like they were prepping a case file.
“So, Zoe,” Jeff had said, legs crossed, wine in hand, voice dipped in something far too smug. “Anything else you’d like to share with the group? Perhaps about the hot mechanic who looked at you like you were his last meal?”
I’d dodged their questions with skill and sarcasm. Not that it mattered. They were already convinced I was hiding something. Or someone. The rest of the week passed in a haze of work calls,awkward grocery runs, and too many almost-texts to Michael. I didn’t send any. Mostly because I didn’t trust myself to stop at one. Sprinkles knocked over a water glass and mauled a USB cord, which felt poetic considering how everything in my life is unravelling slowly, dramatically, and with a hint of feline flair.
And now it’s Saturday morning. The dreaded deadline Jeff had given me—“You need to be in Sydney on Sunday, no exceptions”—has finally arrived.
I’m crouched on the living room floor, surrounded by the mess of half-hearted packing. My Louis Vuitton oversized tote slumps open beside me, half-full with an extra change of clothes, some underwear, and my toothbrush. Nothing fancy. Just in case I need to stay longer. Just in case shit blows up and I can’t get back to Wattle Creek fast enough.
Dani’s already offered up her couch. And by “couch,” I mean the Italian leather L-shaped monstrosity in her apartment. Not because it’s convenient. But because I refuse to set foot in my own place. I’d rather sleep on Dani’s couch, under the ceiling fan that squeaks every time it moves, than walk back into a space that reeks of everything I let happen.
Even if I were planning on returning to Sydney, it wouldn’t be there. I’d find somewhere else. Smaller. Quieter.
With a heavy sigh, I sit back on my heels and take a breath that doesn’t quite reach my lungs. My eyes skim over the open bag, the soft folds of cotton, the barely-there contents that feel heavier than they should. I’m mid-fold—knees crossed on the floor, suitcase yawning open beside me, a shirt I don’t even want to bring clenched between my hands—when the front door creaks open.
“I swear to God. Why the fuck is this door not locked?” Michael’s voice rings out before he even steps inside. “Anyone could’ve walked in here and murdered you.”
It’s become a thing with him. The showing up unannounced. The texts at odd hours. The drop-ins under the guise of “car updates” or whatever excuse he’s latched onto for the day.
Same with the girls, especially Imogen. They’ve all wormed their way in. Thread by thread. Step by step. Until I couldn’t tell where their boundaries ended and mine began. Until saying “back off” started to feel more effort than it was worth. And now, they’re here. In my space. In my life. Whether I asked for them or not.
Michael rounds the corner, two iced coffees in hand, and freezes.
His eyes land on the mess in front of me. The open bag. The half-packed clothes. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just sets the coffees down on the kitchen bench behind him. The sound is soft. Muted. But something in his expression isn’t.
I hold my breath.
Because I know what this looks like.
It looks like I’m packing up my shit and running again. Fleeing the moment things get uncomfortable. Disappearing the second someone gets too close. It looks like the exact thing I’ve spent the past month pretending I don’t always do.
His whole face shifts—jaw tight, shoulders stiffening beneath his shirt—as it hits him.
“Are you going somewhere?”
My fingers hesitate on the shirt. “To Sydney.”
He squints. “When? And forwhat?”
My mouth is suddenly dry. “Today. Legal stuff. Jeff needs me to sign some papers. My… ex-husband, Liam, is trying to claim our shared apartment.”
Michael’s brow pulls taut. “So you’re going back to see that fuckwit?”
I don’t look up. My fingers press into the shirt still folded in my lap, creasing the cotton. “It’s… complicated.”
He scoffs. “Complicated? That’s what we’re calling it now?”
I exhale slowly. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Silence.
