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Structure is our friend,she’d said when she moved in.
And bloody fucking hell did she mean it. Zoe Valentine had a schedule, and she didn’t deviate from it.
Mira knew it too, dutifully trotting off to mealtime and naptime and bedtime whenever Zoe made her secret little comments that I wasn’t privy to. Those two had a whole private language that they’d developed.
And fuck if I’d ever admit it to her, but I shamelessly eavesdropped, because she had to deal with far fewer temper tantrums from Mira than I did.
I stood in the kitchen, drinking some Gatorade after my workout and watching Mira happily munch away on the exact same macaroni and cheese that she’d initially rebuffed. The same bowl that had made her cry because it tasted “too yucky.”
“Admit it,” I said to Zoe. “You slipped her a twenty, didn’t you?”
She brushed past me in the kitchen. She smelled like lime and vanilla today. “No. I find the hundred-dollar bill is more effective,” she said. “Also, you know, not swearing at her all the time.”
“Funny.” But I felt the furrow in my brow. “I don’t swearat her,” I argued. “I just ... swear a lot.”
Zoe laughed, a light, happy sound of genuine amusement.
“What?” I barked. “I don’t.”
She shook her head, but unlike at the beginning of all this, it was now paired with a different look in her eye. It wasn’t an I-hate-you-and-actively-wish-violence-on-you shake of the head.
There was warmth there. A fondness that I didn’t dare dissect.
“You have to admit, you swear more than most human beings.”
I crossed my arms. “You got data to back that up? I bet it’s on a spreadsheet somewhere, isn’t it?”
Zoe’s eyes narrowed. “Do you ever stop and ask yourself why you feel the need to curse so much?”
“No, and I’ll tell you why. First, I’m British. We come out of thewombsaying, ‘Bloody hell.’” I started ticking off points on my fingers. “Plus, I read an article once that said there’s a positive psychological effect when someone swears. Pain is lessened. Frustration cools. Stress is reduced.” I set a hand on my chest, speaking in the most condescending voice possible. “I do this for my mental health, Valentine.”
She crossed her arms too, hitching her hip against the counter and pinning me with a look.
I’d started categorizing them, a sick little obsession.
I could tell when she was confused, trying to study my face for some clue that I’d never give her.
I could tell when she was annoyed, likely plotting violence in her head. I loved those looks, if I was being honest.
I could tell when she was feeling feisty, the moments when our banter rode that knife-edge of flirting or something more. We stayed away from that, or tried our very best to, at least.
That line was dangerous, something we’d edged up against only a few times. The first time was when she asked me if I’d be parading groupies through the house, and the second was when she wanted to know why I’d never married.
In both of those moments, I almost asked her if she was jealous. But I didn’t think I could handle her laughing at me. Not about that.
And I could tell on her face when the annoyance slipped into something more thoughtful.
That look scared me.
Sometimes, she and Mira went over to her house for a while, just for a change of scenery and to give me some quiet. Usually in the afternoons so Zoe could get some work done while Mira took her nap at the other house.
It was a boundary, apparently. Some therapy shit her mom had suggested. Keep Mira comfortable in Zoe’s house; make sure that the main house isn’t the only place where she feels safe and secure.
And as much as I hated admitting it, our roommate/coparent situation wasn’t going horribly. I had thought it would. I had thought we’d argue all the time, because Zoe was incapable of backing down.
I loved it. And it was fucking terrible.
Somehow, the forced nature of our situation had bred a fairly peaceful first few weeks of coexistence.
