Page 47 of Dream House
My lungs shrink. I probably owe it to her, but damn, I’d rather not relive all of this over a pot roast with the full audience of my brothers and sisters.
“You haven’t seen your father in a couple of weeks,” she tacks on.
Dammit, Ma.
If guilt were a rifle, that woman would be a sniper.
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
In hindsight, I wish I would have let Mom’s call go to voicemail. And I should have at least let Zoe know I’d be coming by the apartment.
But it’s her habit to go to CrossFit on weeknights, so I thought I was safe.
I don’t realize my mistake until my third trip down the stairs to my Jeep. That’s when Zoe pulls up into her spot, staring at me, hollow-eyed and pale.
She’s not wearing her exercise clothes.
Zoe is the kind of woman who’s comfortable running into Rouse’s or Starbucks in her active wear. Because her body is killer. She never goes anywhere—even the gym—without her hair and makeup done, bangles on her wrists and hoops in her ears.
But as she stares at me through the driver’s side window of her Hyundai, Zoe looks like she just woke up. After a bad dream.
She opens the car door and gets out slowly. She’s wearing a unisex long-sleeve T and pajama pants I’ve only seen once. When she had COVID.
“You okay, Zo?” The way her expression flattens, I could kick myself for asking. She’s clearly not okay. And I figure out too late that it’s not because she’s sick.
Mom’s words come back to me.Heartbreak and humiliation.
And it’s my fault.
“What are you doing here, Lark?”
Estrangement shapes the way she says my name. I honestly wouldn’t expect anything else, but looking at her drives home a nail of guilt I didn’t feel before tonight.
Mom was right. Zoe’s been expecting me to propose for a while now. No matter what Zoe said. No matter what I said. And a part of me knew it the whole time.
I should have broken things off long ago. Never moved in with her.
“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it. I’m sorry for giving her hope.
Zoe sighs like this is what she expected. “What are you doing here, Lark?” And this time, I hear the edge of urgency. Like she might lose it in front of me, and I know in this moment that me seeing her like this is the last thing Zoe wants.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. I shut the Jeep’s tailgate. There’s still stuff upstairs in the apartment. Now’s not the time for me to get it. “I’ll text before I come get the rest.”
She just nods, but the way her jaw clenches and her throat bobs, I know she’s choking down a sob.
Shit.
I round the Jeep and open the driver’s side door. I make myself meet her gaze again. Her eyes brim with tears. “Take care, Zo.”
After my phone call with Mom and the run-in with Zoe, I’m hoping that I can get my stuff up to my new room without encountering any other women. But I don’t even make it as far as the front steps.
Because Stella Mouton is on the front porch giving an older man a haircut like it’s 1950.
I aim to make it inside without too much conversation, but the first thing I need to unload is the TV, and as I carry it down the front walk, I know by the way her eyes keep cutting to me that Stella is not going to let that happen.
She sets down her shears and comb on a TV tray she’s dragged outside and wipes her hands on a towel draped over her shoulder.
“Let me get the door for you,” she says.
