Stellan calls five minutes later and I complain about Bianca. I hate having her here, more than before. "You're pushing her."
"She's pushing me."
"Same thing." He sounds amused. "How's the situation with Zola?"
"Better. She's—she's warming up."
"Good. Keep that momentum." A pause. "We need to figure out the annulment situation soon."
I know that. I need her away from me so I can focus on Zola. But right now I can't think about that, can't plan beyond tomorrow's visit to the bookstore.
"I know. Just—give me time."
"You've got it. I'm covering for you." Stellan's voice is steady. "But Declan, you need to move forward. Can't stay in limbo forever."
I know that too. Know that eventually I'll have to tell Zola I'm married, have to figure out how to get out of it, have to actually build toward something instead of just existing in her orbit.
But right now I'm just trying to prove I'm worth letting back in.
One day at a time.
Three dayslater I show up with lunch and find Zola behind the counter looking like she hasn't slept at all. Maeve's screaming in the office—that high, desperate sound that means she's been at it for a while.
"Rough morning?" I set down the food and move toward the office without waiting for permission.
"She won't stop crying." Zola's voice is ragged. "I've tried everything. Food, diaper change, walking, rocking, singing—nothing works."
I lift Maeve out of the crib. Her cheeks are soaked, her little fists waving. But when I tuck her against my chest and start walking, humming that same tuneless melody, she gradually quiets.
Not immediately. She fights it, squirming and huffing. But eventually her cries taper off into hiccupping breaths, then soft sounds, then silence.
"How do you do that?" Zola's standing in the doorway, watching us with something like wonder.
"No idea." I adjust Maeve carefully. "Maybe she just likes me."
"Everyone likes you." The words slip out before she can stop them. Then she stiffens, like she's said too much.
But I heard it. That slip. That admission that she used to like me too.
"Not everyone," I say quietly.
Her expression shutters. "You should eat before the food gets cold."
She walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing there with a sleeping baby and the ghost of what we used to be.
But it's progress. Every conversation, every moment she lets me stay, every crack in those walls she's built.
I'm getting closer.
By the endof the second week, I've learned that Zola now drinks her coffee black when she's stressed. That she reorganizes shelves when she's anxious—a side of her I used to never see because she'd bury herself in work. That she talks to Maeve like the baby understands every word, reading her stories in voices that make me want to smile.
That she watches me when she thinks I'm not looking.
I've learned that Maeve loves being tossed gently in the air, that she laughs when you blow raspberries on her stomach, that she grabs onto my finger and won't let go like she's afraid I'll disappear.
I bring her a set of stacking cups one afternoon. Bright colors, easy to grip. Maeve immediately knocks them over, delighted by the noise.
"She's going to drive you crazy with those," Zola says, but she's almost smiling.
