“I don’t want to hurt you. Or start something I can’t finish. Or worse, lean on you like a crutch and drag you down with me. You’re not my fixer, Zoe. You shouldn’t have to carry someone else’s damage.”
Silence pressed between them, heavy and unyielding.
She was still perched on the table, cheeks flushed, hair wild, topless, chaos spilling around her, and he’d never wanted anyone more.
But he stepped back.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice almost breaking. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out, leaving her warmth and wildness behind. But the ache of wanting her only dug deeper with each step.
SEVENTEEN
ZOE
Tuesday, March 11th
The soft click of the door closing echoed through her apartment. The sound felt as final as a judge hammering his gavel. Zoe dressed and now sat frozen at the dining room table, hands resting on either side of the map, her breath shallow. The air still hummed, her pulse hadn’t yet slowed, and she suddenly felt dizzy.
She drew in a shaky breath, pressing her palms flat to the table, unsure where all this left her. She wanted him. He wanted her. Yet they weren’t going to be together.
How was that fair?
At least Jackson had been honest—she could appreciate that—but honesty didn’t make it hurt any less.
Her heart clenched. She hated that he thought he was too broken to love. She wished he’d just let her in. She didn’t need to fix him, she knew better than that, but she wanted to shoulder even a sliver of that weight, to show him he didn’t have to carry it alone.
The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional meow from Whiskers. Zoe staredat the map spread out before her, willing it to be enough to pull her mind from him, to stop the sting of his absence and the tears threatening behind her eyes. Moments ago this map had felt like the next step in a big adventure. Now, it just looked like faded ink and paper.
She wasn’t sure what to do next. She felt empty.
Then her phone buzzed beside her. The email preview popped up on her phone.
Subject:Fertility Consultation Follow-Up
It had to be divine intervention. She wasn’t sure how else she could describe it. She hadn’t seen the name in weeks. Not since she began researching clinics. She’d reached out to them once. It had been late one night, after too many cups of tea and too much thinking, but she’d never followed through with the new patient paperwork.
Zoe read the first few lines:We’re reaching out to see if you’re still interested in scheduling an appointment…
Something inside her shifted.
Her throat tightened and tears she hadn’t realized she was holding back stung her eyes. It wasn’t just about Jackson. It was about everything she’d been waiting for—the family she wanted, the future she dreamed of, the life she kept promising herself she’d start “someday.”
Jackson might take years to heal. Maybe he never would. And she loved him enough to understand that. But she also loved herself enough to know she couldn’t keep standing still. This was something she had to do.
She crossed the apartment to her desk, opened her laptop, and then her email. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly, before she began to type. First she filled in her name. Then her date of birth. Next, the insurance provider.The ordinary details of her life suddenly felt enormous, like bricks laid toward a future that was hers to claim.
At the bottom of the form, she hesitated only a heartbeat before clicking submit.
The screen refreshed, showing a polite message thanking her for her submission. Just like that, the first step was done, and with it, the weight of a choice she’d waited too long to make had been lifted.
Zoe shut the laptop with a soft click and returned to the table. The map still waited, its edges curled and yellowed with time. She traced the faded trail with her fingertip, her chest tightening. She still wanted to follow it, to find that hidden bloom, see if it still existed. And she still wanted to do it with Jackson.
Because part of her, the superstitious part, felt that maybe if they found that flower together they’d find a way to make things work.
She walked over and opened the living room window. The cool breeze blew back her gauzy curtain. Outside it smelled like damp earth with something sweet mixed in. It must be the cherry blossoms, Zoe thought. From here she could see the square below, the streetlights highlighting the stone fountain at the center. Down the way, electrical candles flickered in the windows of the Cinnamon Spice Inn.
Zoe closed her eyes, inhaled the earthy scent, and listened to the faint hum of crickets waking up. Life pressed forward whether she was ready or not.
Standing there with her eyes closed, she whispered the words she’d been afraid to say aloud: “I just want a family.”
