And now she’d dribbled coffee on her chin, so she should probably go to the bathroom before continuing the day's tragic move-fest.
She turned the corner that led to the nearest bathroom just in time to see a familiar brown bob disappear behind the closing door. Jo. Or maybe it wasn’t, but it might be, and just that possibility stopped Dani in her tracks—because suddenly, in the midst of all her own pain, it seemed really, really urgent that she speak to Jo.
Jo, her friend. Jo, who’d committed the grievous crime of developing feelings, which human beings often did, and had been punished for it because Dani wasn’t in touch with her own. Well, she was certainly in touch with her feelings now, every last stomach-churning one of them, and when it came to Jo, guilt was at the forefront. Along with regret and honest-to-God sorrow, that Dani had hurt someone she cared about just because they’d wanted something she hadn’t.
So, like any reasonable ex–fuck buddy with stalkerish tendencies, she leaned against the wall and waited to hear a flush.
Five minutes later, the bathroom door opened, and Jo emerged, her brown bob razor-sharp as ever. Beneath her lab coat, she was wearing black trousers and a midnight-blue shirt, one Dani used to love on her. Of course, there were lots of things Dani had loved on Jo, or about Jo. She’d just never dared to consider the idea of loving Jo herself.
Which now struck her as a damned shame.
“Christ,” Jo yelped as she caught sight of Dani. “Oh my God. What are you doing here? I mean—sorry, you probably just want the toilet—”
“No, actually,” Dani said. “I followed you.”
Jo sighed. “God, Dan, you’re not supposed to admit that sort of thing. People will think you’re weird.”
“I am weird, but that’s beside the point. I wanted to talk.”
Jo’s lips tightened for a moment, but then she released a breath and shrugged. “I suppose you can’t still be angry with me, since you’ve moved on with Mr. Big and Brooding. So what, exactly, do you want?”
Dani ignored the twinge she felt at that mention of Zaf. “I want,” she said quietly, “to apologize.”
Jo blinked. “Apologize? Really.”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t certain you knew the meaning of the word.”
“Don’t be irritating, Josephine. I am attempting to prostrate myself before you.”
Jo looked theatrically at the ground. “I don’t see it.”
I missed you, Dani realized, and wanted to kick herself. I didn’t deserve you. Not in any context. But it was better to attempt to do right by someone than to give in and refuse to try.
Jo sighed. “God, you look so serious. And tired. You never look tired. Are you sick or something?”
“No. I’m not sick. Simply repenting for my many mistakes.”
Jo gave her a considering look and leaned against the wall. “Go on, then. What’s this apology for?”
“The entirety of our relationship.”
Both women eyed each other for a moment, then smirked almost simultaneously.
“I was a bad friend,” Dani went on. “You can’t control feelings, but I blamed you when you felt things for me. You were hurt and I didn’t give you space to feel that. I didn’t respect that it was real. You were my friend and if you’d come crying about some other woman, I would’ve supported you. So I should’ve supported you when that woman was me”
Jo took a deep breath and looked away. After a long moment, she shrugged. “I was barking up the wrong tree with you. You made that clear from the start; I just didn’t want to hear it. Or maybe I thought I could change you. But I couldn’t, and that’s okay, because people shouldn’t be changed.”
Dani agreed with that, to a certain extent. People shouldn’t be changed—but perhaps they should grow. Which would explain the constant, hollow ache that had filled her chest whenever she tried not to care about Zaf and failed.
Growing pains.
“Thank you for apologizing,” Jo said. “I appreciate it.”
“Yes, well. Record the incident in your diary tonight, because I doubt it’ll ever happen again.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Jo snorted. “And I’m sorry, too. Honestly, I just . . . I kind of want us to be okay again.”
“Oh thank God. Yes. Let’s be okay again.”
Jo grinned. Then, after a slight hesitation, she held open her arms.
It was a wonderfully awkward hug, and Dani felt better for it—just as she felt better for being open and honest, for engaging with emotion even if the vulnerability made her uncomfortable. For trusting Jo enough to accept that she cared, and daring to care in return.
They went their separate ways with uncertain smiles, and Dani felt as if she’d been reunited with the best parts of herself. Not the parts so obsessed with staying safe that they electrocuted anyone who got too close. But the strong parts, the determined parts, the ones that made her the woman she was. And she remembered Gigi’s words: You know him best. You know how to explain and how to earn his forgiveness.
Click.
She knew what to do.
Dani hurried off to her seminar, ideas sparking, mentally cataloguing every romance novel she’d ever seen Zaf read or heard him talk about. While her students got to grips with the horror of close reading on a Tuesday morning, she opened her laptop and ordered digital copies of every love story she could recall.
Dani might not be good at everything, but she’d always been damn good at learning.
When the seminar ended, she looked up at the girl with Zafir’s—no, with Zain’s eyes—and murmured, “Fatima. Could I have a word, please?”
The girl nodded, clearly nonplussed.
When the rest of the students had filed out, Dani stood. “I’m sorry if
