EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT: About That One Night

Chapter One

Zoe

And just like that, my life became a series of cardboard boxes and half-hearted pep talks. As it turns out, my emotional baggage is the only thing that doesn’t require bubble wrap.

While packing, my fingers trace the edge of a framed photo. Suddenly, I’m transported back to Cabo. The phantom warmth of the sun kisses my skin, and I can almost feel Tom’s arm around my waist. We’re grinning at the camera, blissfully unaware that our happiness came with an expiration date.

It feels like a lifetime ago. With a sigh that seems to come from my very bones, I wrap the frame in an old newspaper and gently place it in the box labeled “Memories” in my loopy handwriting. Then I pause, gnawing on my lower lip. Is it even worth saving?

Maybe I should just remove our picture and donate the frame. It’s a cute ornament . . . I think. Then again, I could be completely wrong. If there’s something I’ve learned in the past couple of weeks, it’s that my judgment is about as reliable as a chocolate teapot.

There’s a huge difference between what I believe and what is real.

I believed Tom and I were heading to a happily ever after.

Reality check: here I am, packing my life into boxes and preparing for a glamorous new chapter on my parents’ lumpy futon. If only I could kick out the people who are currently renting my brownstone.

“Look at the silver lining, Zoe. This is only temporary,” I remind myself, eyeing the mountain of boxes. “Nine months, and you’ll be back in your cozy and beautiful brownstone. Assuming the renters don’t turn it into a frat house.”

At least I didn’t do something as stupid as selling my place when I agreed to move in with Tom. It made more sense to treat it like an investment property to lease and manage. Now, I can just wait for it to be available and . . . then what?

I don’t have a plan or a goal anymore. Ugh, this situation can’t get more pathetic. Can it?

“It could, so don’t jinx it Zoe Isabella Harper. Get it together,” I mutter, blowing a strand of hair out of my face with an exasperated puff. “This is just a moment that’ll be over soon. It might look scary, but there are new possibilities out there and opportunities to reinvent yourself.”

I nod, this is right. I’m doing the right thing. Probably.

My fingers linger on the cardboard flap, a mix of nostalgia and nerves swirling in my stomach. This marks the end of an era. An era I thought would end up different. I don’t even know if I should keep the souvenirs. This reminds me of the whole, “been there, done that, and got the t-shirt” bit but do I really need to bring all this stuff with me?

Who keeps a box of relationship mementos anyway? Nobody, that’s who. I should just toss everything away. But what if I save it to destroy in a rage? Isn’t that what exes are supposed to do? Dramatically burn all the leftover crap in trash cans?

I snort at the mental image of myself in my parents’ living room, sipping a pineapple mojito and watching everything turn to ashes. Until, of course, the ceiling catches fire and I’m royally screwed. “Yeah,” I mumble, “because nothing says, ‘I’m totally over you’ like arson charges,” I mutter.

My eyes drift to the pile of boxes mocking me from the corner, their cardboard faces mocking me from the corner. “Right. Packing,” I mutter, sagging as I realize it’s yet another evening wasted on this task.

Grabbing another box, I plaster on a smile that wouldn’t fool anyone. “Living the dream. Thirty-two, single, and moving back in with the ’rents. Take that, high school guidance counselor.”

As I fold what feels like my millionth sweater (seriously, when did I become a knitwear hoarder?)

I search for the bottle of tequila I’ve been downing for the past couple of hours. That’s when my traitorous mind wanders to Tom. Is he drowning his sorrows in cheap beer wherever he’s at? Or is he already swiping right on some cute, young and fun yoga instructor who’s totally cool with his commitment-phobic ways?

“Stop it,” I hiss, shaking my head like an Etch A Sketch trying to erase unwanted thoughts.

It doesn’t matter. We want different things. He wants adventure, spontaneity, and the chance to chase his dreams before settling down. I want . . .

“To fall in love. Start a family,” I whisper to the empty room. “And a dog or a cat or . . . some pet,” I add, almost as an afterthought.

My lip trembles traitorously, and I blink back tears, and I’m not sure what hurts more: that I spent years thinking I had it all or that I have to start all over. Either way, this is for the best. It has to be.

I square my shoulders and reach for another box, determined to pack away more than just my belongings. With each item I wrap and store, I’m boxing up a piece of my old life, making room for whatever comes next—even if that “next” is currently a mystery wrapped in a bottle of tequila and some hopes and dreams.

The apartment feels different now, as if it’s holding its breath. Every corner holds a ghost of what used to be—the old couch where we’d binge-watch terrible reality TV, the kitchen where I tried to teach Tom how to cook anything more complicated than toast.

“At least I won’t be here when he burns down the kitchen,” I mutter, reluctantly smiling as I try to find a silver lining.

My gaze lands on the corkboard by the door, a collage of our adventures. Paris, Rome, that “romantic” camping trip where we got chased by a bear (Okay, it might’ve been a raccoon, but it was dark and terrifying, alright?). And maybe we didn’t camp, it was more like glamping but I never corrected him.

Yeah, Tom liked to pretend to live an adventure, but had a low tolerance for inconvenience. He constantly stretches his stories to make him look cooler than he is.

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 nearby box. 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. “You want 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 exactly what 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.”

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