Chapter 47 047
RYAN
I had so much work to do today. The kind of work that multiplies when life refuses to pause just because you are falling apart. My inbox was a mess. Contracts needed revisions. Clients wanted answers.
I had spent too many days sitting in stiff hospital chairs, staring at vending machines and pretending coffee could replace sleep. Now everything was waiting for me, impatient and loud.
I could not afford another excuse. So I swallowed my pride and called Miranda.
She did not hesitate. She never did. She said she would bring everything over, told me to breathe, and told me I would survive the day. I did not realize how much I needed that until I hung up.
She arrived about forty minutes after I got back with Zara. She looked like she always did. Calm. Put together. Arms full of folders, my laptop bag slung over her shoulder like she belonged here. Zara spotted her first.
“Mira!” Zara squealed, dropping her shoes and running straight into Miranda’s legs like a missile of joy.
Miranda laughed and crouched down instantly, steadying Zara before she toppled over. “Hey, birthday girl. I heard a rumor that someone here wants cookies.”
Zara’s eyes widened like Christmas had come early. She nodded so hard her curls bounced. “The big ones. With chocolate chips.”
Miranda looked up at me, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Mind if I make some? We can destroy your kitchen together.”
I smiled, even though my head was already throbbing. “Sure. Go for it.”
They disappeared into the kitchen, Zara talking nonstop about birthdays and balloons and how Daddy promised to do something fun later. Miranda listened like every word mattered. She asked serious questions, the kind that made Zara feel important. Crunchy or gooey chips. How many sprinkles were too many. Zara answered with confidence, like she was a baker herself.
I sat at the table and opened my laptop. I told myself I would focus. I really meant it. But every few minutes, I heard Zara giggle. I heard Miranda’s patient voice. I heard bowls clattering and laughter bouncing off the walls.
It sounded like a family.
The thought landed heavy in my chest. I did not know what to do with it.
I typed emails. Read contracts. Answered calls. But my attention kept drifting. My eyes kept lifting toward the kitchen doorway, like some part of me wanted to memorize the scene before it vanished, wishing Miranda was Emily.
They came back into the living room a little while later. Zara had flour smudged across her nose. Miranda had chocolate on her cheek. They were both laughing like they had just committed a crime and gotten away with it.
Zara held up a spoon coated in batter. “Daddy. Taste.”
I leaned down and pretended to take the biggest bite in history. “Wow. This is amazing. Best batter ever.”
Zara beamed like she had just won an award.
Miranda smiled. “She insisted on helping.”
I looked at Zara’s proud face and felt something loosen inside me. “Thank you,” I said quietly to Miranda.
She shrugged. “Anytime.”
They went back to the kitchen to continue, laughter trailing behind them like warmth. And then, because Zara was Zara, she decided that stirring was not nearly as fun as flinging. One enthusiastic spin of the spoon sent half the bowl of batter straight onto Miranda’s shirt.
Miranda gasped dramatically, eyes wide, hand flying to her chest. Then she burst out laughing. “Oh no.”
Zara froze instantly. Her eyes widened, her lower lip trembling as guilt crashed down on her little shoulders. “Sorry,” she whispered, like she was bracing for the world to end.
Miranda did not hesitate. She scooped Zara up before the tears could fall, holding her close like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Hey,” she said gently. “It is okay, baby. Accidents happen. That is how baking works.”
Zara sniffed. “Really?”
“Really,” Miranda said, smiling. “I will just borrow one of Daddy’s shirts, okay?”
Zara nodded, relieved. “Okay.”
Miranda asked where the room was, and after I pointed her in the right direction, she disappeared into the guest room. I stayed behind to clean up the mess, wiping batter off the counter and the floor, shaking my head with a smile I did not bother to hide. It felt good. Normal. Loud and messy and alive. Like something I had been missing without even realizing it.
When Miranda came back, my breath caught in my throat.
She was wearing my white button down.
The one I wore when I wanted to look put together without trying too hard. The one Emily used to steal from me and sleep in. It hung loosely on Miranda’s frame, sleeves rolled up, collar open. It looked good on her. Too good. And the realization hit me hard and fast.
I felt bad.
Not awkward bad. Guilty bad.
Like I had crossed a line without meaning to. Like I had betrayed Emily in a quiet, careless way. My chest tightened, and I looked away immediately, suddenly far too aware of my thoughts and how dangerous they were becoming.
Before I could say anything, the doorbell rang.
Miranda moved first. She answered it before I could even process what was happening. I heard her voice through the hallway, bright and polite.
Then I heard Emily.
“Wow.”
One word. Flat. Sharp. Devastating.
My heart dropped straight to my stomach.
I was on my feet before my brain caught up. Panic surged through me as I hurried toward the door, just in time to see Emily turning away, already walking back toward her car. Her shoulders were stiff. Her steps were fast.
“Wait,” I called, rushing after her. “Wait. It is not—”
She spun around so quickly I almost ran into her.
“What do you want?” she asked, her eyes filled with tears she was clearly fighting to hold back. Her voice shook, even though she was trying to sound strong.
“Emily,” I said quickly. “I can explain.”
She pulled her arm back instantly when I reached for her, like my touch burned. Her voice sharpened, cutting straight through me. “Explain what? The fact that I told you not to bring your girlfriends around my daughter?”
Something snapped.
Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was the old anger I thought I had buried years ago, clawing its way back to the surface.
“You are being unreasonable,” I said, frustration rising faster than I could stop it. “If you want to call her my girlfriend, then fine. She is. And if you want to leave, you can. I am tired of walking on eggshells around you.”
The words spilled out before I could catch them. Too sharp. Too loud. Too defensive. I hated that part of myself even as it spoke. The part that lashed out when it felt cornered. The part that always made things worse.
Then a small voice cut through the tension like a knife.
“Mummy?”
Emily’s entire body changed. Her shoulders dropped. Her face softened instantly as she turned.
Zara stood in the doorway, eyes big and worried, fingers twisting together. Emily moved toward her immediately and crouched down, all the anger draining out of her like it had never existed.
“Hi, baby,” Emily said gently.
Zara smiled, bright and innocent. “Mira, my mom makes the best cookies. She will make it for me now.”
Miranda, still standing by the door, gave a tight smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “Sure,” she said softly.
Emily lifted Zara into her arms without looking at me. Not once. She carried her back inside, her back straight, her silence heavy. She did not say another word.
The quiet she left behind was louder than any argument.
I stood there, chest tight, breathing slow and controlled, trying to calm the storm inside me. Miranda was still by the door, shoulders slumped now, eyes downcast.
“Hey,” I said softly, guilt settling deep in my gut. “I am sorry. She is not usually like that.”
Miranda shrugged, forcing a small smile. “It is fine. I cannot blame your ex-wife for thinking something happened.”
I nodded, even though the guilt only twisted tighter.
She looked up at me then. Her eyes were gentle. Hopeful. Almost careful.
“I can be your girlfriend, you know,” she said quietly.
I blinked, caught completely off guard. “What?”