Page 122 of Broken Trails
“Please, just stop. It’smyfamily,” she cuts me off. “Mybusiness, Michael.”
My brows lift, but I keep my voice even. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I’m just—”
“What? Trying to fix it? That I should play nice and be the bigger person?” She shakes her head, but this time, her voice wobbles. “I don’tneedyou to fix it. I just need space. To breathe. Tobe. And every time you ask me to talk, it’s like I’m drowning all over again.”
The words land like a gut punch. Silence swells between us. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
“Zoe—” I start, softer this time. “I just… don’t want you to go through it alone,” I say gently.
“Well, maybe I need to. Maybe it’s safer that way.”
There it is.
The push. The wall. The edge she clings to when everything inside her feels like it’s slipping. She’s self-sabotaging. I see it in the way her mouth tightens, in the way her eyes dart to the door like it’s an escape route instead of just a frame. And I know that feeling. Too fucking well. That instinct to torch something good before it can leave you on its own. Before it decides you’re not worth staying for. I’ve done it. I’ve lived it.
So even though every part of me wants to argue, to stay, to prove I’m not going anywhere,
I don’t. Because she asked for space, and the least I can do is respect that.
She looks down at the floor. Her voice drops, cracked and brittle. “I think you should go.”
I hesitate. My gut twists into knots. I want to tell her she’s wrong. That she’s worth the effort. That I’m not Liam. That I don’t want perfect. I just wanther.
But I also know what it feels like when the world’s too loud and someone keeps trying to fix it when all you need is quiet.
So I nod slowly. “Okay.”
I don’t slam the door. Don’t throw out some smartass comment. I bend down instead, scooping Sprinkles up from where she’s watching, and give her a rough cuddle. Then I step toward Zoe and lean in just enough to press a kiss to her forehead. Her eyes are closed now, lips parted, shoulders tense, but she doesn’t stop me.
“I’ll be back,” I murmur. “Just… don’t shut me out completely, yeah?”
She doesn’t say anything right away, but after a long second, she gives the smallest nod.
Barely there, but it’s enough for me.
Grabbing my hoodie off the back of the chair, I slide my boots on and walk out with the weight of her still sitting heavy in my chest.
I’ve been working on the same bolt for fifteen minutes. It’s already loose. I keep pretending it isn’t. Keep turning it anyway.
Because if I stop moving, I’ll think. And if I think, I’ll go back to yesterday. To the way her voice cracked when she told me to go. I gave her space. I didn’t push. I walked out. Like she asked.
Eventually, I let the spanner fall from my hand, the clink of metal on concrete too loud in the quiet. I wipe my palms on a rag and head outside, boots crunching over gravel as I push open the side door. The pack of cigarettes is buried deep in the glovebox of my work ute, just one left inside. I forgot I still had it. It only occurs to me now that I haven’t touched the pack in weeks.
The flick of the lighter is sharp and familiar. I take one long drag and lean back against the tray, exhaling slowly as the cool menthol hits the back of my throat. Zoe’s voice flits through my head almost instantly.
You should quit that shit, Michael.
It’s gross. Smells like petrol and bad decisions.
She isn’t wrong. I should quit. Should’ve kicked the habit ages ago. But right now, I welcome the sting. The bitter taste. The silence. Because if I stop moving, if I stop pretending I have something to do with my hands—
I’ll think.
“You coming or what?” Harrison’s voice cuts through the garage.
I blink once, the drag flickering at the tip of the cigarette, and glance over my shoulder with a frown. “Coming where?”
“Lunch. Imogen’s making sandwiches. Joseph’s been asking for his ‘Uncle Mike’ since this morning.”
