Page 91 of Broken Trails
The ceiling fan squeaks as it spins. A single, tired lightbulb dangles overhead. There’s a generic landscape painting hung crookedly on the wall—a vast mountainscape, which is probably meant to be calming. That doesn’t work. A small TV rests in the corner. Bathroom to the side. And the kicker?
Only one bed.
A double. Barely.
I glance at her. She’s frozen in the doorway, staring at it. I step past, drop her bag on the floor, and kick my sneakers off. “Well,” I point to the thick duvet and blanket resting over the bed, “at least we won’t freeze.”
She glares at me. “Don’t even start.”
I throw my hands up in mock innocence. “Didn’t say a thing.”
Zoe eyes the chair in the corner like it might bite her. It’s got a threadbare cushion and questionable stains, the legs uneven. She crouches slightly, inspects it from arm’s length. “If I sit on this and get some kind of rash or bug bites, I’m blaming you.”
Her fingers prod the fabric like it might squirm. I gasp loudly, the sound is sharp and over-the-top-dramatic.
She physically recoils. “What?”
A shit-eating grin pulls at my mouth. “Kidding.”
“You’re the actual worst,” she says before lowering herself onto the chair. When she finally settles, her shoulders drop. A quiet exhale slips out of her, like the air’s been punched from her lungs.
I glance over, watching her for a second longer than I should. She’s soaked, hair clinging to her neck, clothes damp andclinging. But it’s her face that gets me—tired, tight around the eyes. Still wired from everything she left behind this morning.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” Her response is too fast. Too hollow.
I lean back on the bed, arms crossed behind my head. “You don’t have to pretend, you know.”
She stiffens. “I’m not pretending.”
“Right.”
She shoots me a look. “I’m not.”
“You just walked out of a negotiation with your dirtbag ex-husband, who tried to grab you in a boardroom, and now you’re stranded in a one-bed dingy motel with me. But sure. Totally fine.”
“I am fine, Michael.”
The way she says my name makes something twist in my gut. She stands, arms wrapping tight around her own waist, pacing a few steps across the room. “I don’t need you to validate how I feel.”
I sit up. “I’m not. I’m just saying you don’t have to act like everything’s under control when it clearly isn’t.”
“Well, maybe that’s the only thing keeping me upright right now.” She falters, breath hitching. And I see it—the unravelling behind her eyes, the weight in her shoulders she’s been pretending isn’t there.
“Zoe—”
“No,” she snaps, stepping back, arms tightening around her middle. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you feel sorry for me.” Her voice lowers. “Like I’m some fragile thing you have to tiptoe around. I’m not.”
“I know you’re not.” I sit up, the tension pulling tight across my chest. “That’s the damn problem. You’re strong to a fault.You act like you’ve got something to prove, like letting anyone see you fall apart makes you weak.”
“I don’t need to be handled, Michael.”
“I’m not trying to handle you.” I stand now too, unable to stay seated with her pacing like that, voice sharp and eyes flashing. “I’m trying to be honest with you. And all I’m asking is for you to give me the same damn thing in return.”
