Page 2 of About That One Night
I reach out to touch a faded movie ticket, remembering our first date. “You just had to be so charming, didn’t you, Tom?” I say to the empty room, my voice echoing slightly. “Couldn’t have been a jerk upfront and made this easier?”
The silence that follows is deafening. No laugh, no footsteps down the hall. Just me and Mount Cardboard, trying to Tetris three years of my life into neat little boxes.
My hand brushes against something soft, and I pull out Tom’s old university sweatshirt from a nearbybox. I can’t help but bring it to my nose, inhaling deeply. It still smells like him—a mix of cologne and that weird pine-scented deodorant he insists on using even when I tell him he smells like a cleaning product at times and not Christmas cheer.
“Get it together, Zoe,” I scold myself, tossing the sweatshirt aside with more force than necessary. “You’re the one who wanted this, remember?”
But did I really? At the time, I had no idea I was going to be evicted and had to pack everything within a week. If I knew then what I know now. . . I would’ve packed slowly and broken up with Tom when I was ready.
I can’t believe he really said, “well, I think you need to move out soon if this is over.” Just move, after all these years together? Sure, I brought up the whole “where is this going” conversation after my baby sister got engaged and married to a guy she’d known for approximately five minutes. He was supporting her life’s dream. They were moving in together, tossing around “I love yous” like confetti and organizing a huge wedding. Me . . . Well, I realized that after all these years living with Tom, he and I had never said those three words or planned more than trips together.
So yeah, I was the one who grasped there was a problem. I tried to fix it, but after a long conversation, we concluded that we wanted different things. It was an amicable breakup. He’ll stay at his place, and I have to start anew.
But was this a smart move, Zoe?
“It’s the right thing to do,” I say out loud. “Youwant a family and someone who cares for you. A man who won’t judge me for ugly crying into a tub of ice cream at two in the morning after watching a sad movie or reading a book.
“Someone who loves you as much as you love him. Tom wants to backpack across Europe and ‘find himself.’ If he hasn’t done that at forty . . . Well, there’s not much we can do together. It’s better to end it now.”
I sink back down onto the floor, surrounded by the remnants of the life I thought I’d have. Mrs. Tom Peterson. Mother of two-point-five children and owner of a golden retriever named Buddy. It all seemed so clear, so certain.
Now? Now I’m just Zoe. Single. Recently evicted. And completely, utterly lost.
I dive back into packing with the enthusiasm of a sloth on Valium. Grabbing a handful of socks, I attempt to basket toss them into an open box across the room. The socks sail through the air with all the grace of a drunken elephant, bouncing off the edge and rolling under the bed.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I never made the basketball team,” I announce to cardboard boxes, taking an exaggerated bow. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all week. Or Friday, whichever comes first.”
I crawl under the bed to retrieve the escaped socks, emerging with not only my target but also a layer of dust bunnies that could probably qualify as their own ecosystem. “Huh,” I mutter, blowing a dusty strand of hair from my face. “This is exactlywhat happened with Tom and me. We just stayed where we were, gathering dust. Not comfortable, just . . . compliant. Like human-shaped dust bunnies afraid of the vacuum cleaner of change.”
By the time I reach my bookshelf, I’ve morphed into a one-woman comedy show. I pull out a familiar self-help book. “‘How to Win Friends and Influence People,’” I read aloud, snorting. “Clearly, that one worked wonders.” My eyes land on another title. “Oh, look, ‘He’s Just Not That into You.’ Wow, past Zoe, way to foreshadow.”
And I can attest that the book is more accurate than the movie. In the movie, Jennifer Aniston broke up with Ben Affleck because he didn’t want commitment and he came back to her. Here, I’m pretty sure nothing will get past a goodbye and good luck with your future. Tom was very set on not wanting marriage or children—he even had a vasectomy at twenty-eight and never told me.
“Seriously, what was I doing here? Just passing time, and saving money on stamps and rent, Zoe,” I tell myself, laughing so hard I’m practically wheezing, tears streaming down my face. It’s not really funny—none of this is—but somehow, the absurdity of it all, of my life falling apart while I narrate it like a bad sitcom, strikes me as hilarious.
“God, I’m a mess,” I gasp between giggles, wiping my eyes. But for the first time since this whole breakup started, the laughter feels genuine. Maybe I am a mess, but at least I’m a mess who can laugh at herself and is willing to start a new chapter. And right now, that feels like a great start.
I flop onto the bed, surrounded by the wreckage of my relationship and my failed attempt at sock basketball. “Now what?” I ask the ceiling. As if on cue, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Lily, my little sister.
Emergency margarita night? I’ll bring the tequila, you bring the drama. We can toast to new beginnings . . . or plot elaborate revenge schemes—remember, my husband has plenty of resources and a license to kill (wink emoji). Your choice.
I grin, feeling a tiny spark of hope ignite. Maybe this next chapter won’t be a total dumpster fire after all. “Alright, universe,” I declare, hauling myself up. “Hit me with your best shot. I’m ready for my comeback.”
Chapter Two
Maximillian
“Didyou know whiskey cures wedding-planning-induced insanity?” I mutter, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat. The amber liquid warms my chest, a shield against the madness Liam’s describing.
It’s supposed to be a guys’ night, which doesn’t happen often since two out of the four amigos defected from our lifestyle. Liam got engaged to my little sister, and Ethan gotmarried. Along with them and Caleb, we have been inseparable for as long as I can remember. Neighbors, best friends . . . even brothers-in-arms. Well, that’s just Cal, Ethan, and me who, at eighteen, enlisted together, went through the grueling training, and became SEALs.
Liam went as far as moving to San Diego and chose a different path. He’s our business guy. Once we retired, we set up a high intelligence security company. We obviously have a different dynamic now, but are still best friends. Usually, when Liam and Caleb are in town, we come to the bar to hang out and have fun. Today, even my brother Jacob joined us since Mom made him come to visit.
Before when we got together, we really partied. Now it’s so different. My soon-to-be brother-in-law is in the middle of another tale about the joys of wedding planning. His usually cheerful demeanor is pinched as he recounts how our mothers are driving him to the brink of madness, and my little sister is contemplating a name change and international relocation to escape their combined enthusiasm—or what I like to call madness.
“And it’s not even the wedding. That’s just the friends and family celebration for those who won’t join us in Fiji for the ceremony,” Liam grunts, running a hand through his disheveled hair.
In my personal opinion, he should elope. There’s no way he can keep his mom, my mom, and his bride happy. But I’ll just keep my mouth shut, smile and support him with whatever he needs. That’s what friends are for, right? Unless my sister asks for thatnew name and transportation to another country—I’ll get her out and keep him away if that’s what she wishes. After all, she’s my little sister and I would do anything for her.
