Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
Seriously, Zoe, Why Haven’t You Blocked Harlow Yet
Hey, Zoe.
Seriously, Zoe, Why Haven’t You Blocked Harlow Yet
I’m sorry I accidentally set up a threesome for us with your old friend from high school. I get that it was embarrassing, but I had no way of knowing. Are you going to hold it against me forever?
And after I spend all day ignoring Harlow’s texts:
Seriously, Zoe, Why Haven’t You Blocked Harlow Yet
I guess so.
My phone buzzes against the table with Harlow’s text flashing across the locked screen. I sigh and pick up my iced tea instead. It’s not the first time Harlow’s reached out since she blew my carefully ordered world apart and left me lying dazed in a pile of rubble. I haven’t responded. It’s not that I’m angry with her, but what’s there to say? Hi, Harlow, I’ve finally learned my lesson that you + me always = extremely distracting emotional turbulence. Let’s just … not. Okay?
The sweet tea slides down my throat, ice gently clinking against my teeth, and I sigh again, looking out onto town from my spot on The Dogwood’s porch. It’s a sunny afternoon, the kind of warm that grows flowers, so I couldn’t resist grabbing my laptop and going out for lunch. Plus, I haven’t eaten a real meal in a week, instead turning the contents of my kitchen into sad imitations of charcuterie boards whenever I get hungry. The dregs of tortilla chips, bananas just past their prime, a lone slice of leftover pizza. How did food get so depressing? I needed delicious tots to ease my troubled mind.
I’m just … tired. So tired of feeling a thousand variations of alone . I always get emotional hangovers after a Harlow visit, but this one’s rising to new heights, aided by the rest of my life going slowly insane. It’s been over a month now since Dad’s left, and our weekly calls leave more ache than comfort. I miss him, his sad eyes and gentle smile and how much simpler my life was when he was vintner instead of the prickly butch I can’t manage. Even pursuing the showcase hasn’t been able to fill me up lately. Laine’s negativity is like a black hole roaming around our vineyards, sucking up all my good energy whenever she gets too close. I thought she was going to be on my team, and now, I just feel stupid.
Laine’s not on my team—I’m not sure she’s on anyone’s . She’d mentioned this temporary leave of absence was so she could reconnect with her family, but as far as I can tell, she hasn’t gone to Into the Woods once. Before work begins, she does soccer drills up and down the vineyard rows, dribbling the ball back and forth between her feet, or practices kicks with a small foldable goal she set up by her Treebnb. After work, the lights flick on up there and stay on until late into the evening. The next day repeats, not that I’m spying on her or anything. I just keep waiting for something, some clue to help me understand her better, why she’s here, and why she seems so angry all the time.
So far, I’ve got nothing.
The door to the restaurant opens, and a high, twinkling laugh exits first. I glance over my shoulder, and a burst of adrenaline lights up my body. Rachel Woods, in all her ironed country club glory, holds the door open for Mayor Esposito. Rachel’s laughing her fake ultra-femme laugh, not at all like the hilarious throaty burble she had when we were kids. I’ve been trying to get a meeting scheduled with the mayor for weeks now, but when I finally cornered her assistant Elisa in the Ingles parking lot the other day, she claimed the mayor was booked through summer. I distinctly remember Elisa saying she’d be on vacation this week. In Reno . You remember when someone says they’re vacationing in Reno .
Torn between elbowing Rachel out of the way so I can pitch Bluebell Vineyards for the showcase and disappearing into the ether, ultimately I choose the ether, slumping down in my seat as they pass by. I shouldn’t be surprised. Flor Esposito, a strong-jawed Latina who rose in political prominence on her platform of Doing the Unexpected! and positioning Blue Ridge as an innovator in the tourism industry, struck up a friendship with Rachel after Into the Woods hosted a successful event for Flor when she was a real estate agent with mayoral ambitions. Rachel’s been one of her most active fundraisers ever since, which is admittedly a decent use of Rachel’s toxic perfectionist energy. Mayor Esposito is great, but her success and loyalty are tied to Rachel in an incredibly inconvenient way for Bluebell Vineyards right now. Of course the mayor doesn’t want to meet with me, Into the Woods’s biggest competitor. She doesn’t want to tell me no.
Ugh. The tots-induced happiness has turned into a flat, greasy despair. Getting the mayor’s endorsement for the showcase isn’t a must-have, but it’d demonstrate to Everyday Bon Vivant that the town is behind us, implicitly confirming that we’d experience no interference from the permitting office or city council.
I just need to rethink my strategy, that’s all. Some way to bypass the mayor or approach the permitting office first. I throw back the rest of my tea and settle the bill, ready to hole up at my desk until I solve this problem, but halfway to my car I stop dead.
Rachel’s parked two cars down from mine, and she’s leaning against the back of her sparkling SUV, rapidly typing something on her phone. Her large sunglasses lift, spotting me before I can detour out of sight. She gives a small huff of recognition, like Oh. You again.
“What are you doing here?” Rachel folds her arms, her long, brown hair reflecting the sunlight straight into my eyes. She’s wearing calf-high leather riding boots over dark skinny jeans and a slim-cut white button-down tucked neatly in, all cinched together with a matching leather belt. A Ralph Lauren ad in 3-D, if Ralph Lauren only hired bitches.
I wave a hand behind me. “At a restaurant? You’re really asking me what I’m doing at a restaurant ?”
“You heard me.”
I sigh, fully aggrieved now. “I was doing tots, Rachel. Tots. ”
She looks at me over the rim of her sunglasses. “You weren’t spying on me with the mayor, were you?”
“What for? So I could steal your secrets for kissing ass?”
Rachel barks out a laugh. “You wish you had as much access to her ass as I do.”
I tilt my head, eyebrows raised, until a furious blush envelops Rachel’s high cheekbones.
“You know what I mean!” She straightens up, grabbing for her keys in her purse. “Well, you can quit stalking Flor because she’s endorsing Into the Woods for the showcase. It’s a done deal.”
“I don’t need her endorsement to win the showcase,” I say with more confidence than I feel.
“Maybe not, but you do need decent wine and a vintner who can actually make it, and on that front, you’re screwed.” Rachel smiles sweetly, steps up into her vehicle, and throws her SUV in reverse, claiming the last word.
She’s always been like this. Stubborn, demanding, and viciously competitive. The only difference is she used to be on my side. We spent our childhoods running back and forth between our families’ vineyards, playing hide-and-seek among the vines, tasting unfinished wines from the taps, and pretending to barf all over each other. Rachel always had a hard time with other kids; they got one taste of her bullish ways and avoided her thereafter, never bothering to get to her soft, ferociously loving heart within. But she was there for me when my mom died, when my dad could barely string a sentence together without collapsing in grief. Her happy home became my happy home, where I could escape the sadness that hung over my motherless house like a shroud. I was as shy as she was confrontational, but even still, we were so alike back then. Awkward, ambitious, and full of yearning—me for the family I’d lost, and her to be different, to be liked. To be just like Charlaine.
We were Charlaine’s number one fans. We went to all her soccer games, painted her number on our cheeks, and cheered like little maniacs. Whatever music she listened to, we listened to. If she liked a show, we made that show our entire personalities. She was simply the coolest, and most of Gilmer County agreed. Rachel wanted to be just like her, going so far as to quit our quiz bowl team to play soccer instead. While Rachel was never as fast or naturally coordinated, she tried just as hard, huffing her way onto the junior varsity team in high school in ninth grade.
It was the August before our sophomore year when everything went to hell. Rachel was trying out for the varsity soccer team that she wasn’t ready for, but Charlaine was varsity captain, and Rachel was convinced she’d put her on the team. I came out to support her, wearing Rachel’s JV number on one cheek and Charlaine’s on the other, and watched with mounting unease from the front row as Rachel scrapped, kicked shins, intercepted balls, and mercilessly drove them all the way to the goal. She didn’t pass the ball once, but she passed plenty of elbows, accepting whistles and reprimands from the coach like Girl Scout badges until finally, they called her off the field.
Rachel jogged off, red-faced and exuberant, stopping on the sidelines where Charlaine and the coach stood talking, and me sitting just behind the fence.
“How’d I do, Captain?” she’d asked Charlaine, her face this terrible mix of excitement and hope.
It was the coach that answered. “You’re excused, Rachel.” He blew his whistle then, initiating another drill.
“Charlaine?” Rachel said, frowning as tryouts continued for everyone else.
“You heard him, Rachel, you’re done.” Charlaine rubbed her forehead. “Go on home.”
“What do you mean, I’m done?”
“I mean you showed your ass out there, hogging the ball like that. You gave Sadie a bloody nose! What were you thinking? That you’re Megan Rapinoe?” Charlaine had turned then, shaking her head with disgust, and Rachel just … imploded. All the excitement and pride on her face, all the love and adoration for Charlaine, all the hope of ascending to her big sister’s status contracted inward, then disappeared as Rachel collapsed in on herself in a fit of furious tears. She stormed off the field. I rushed to follow, picking up the towel she threw, her water bottle. I held her while she bawled all that night, vowing revenge on Charlaine, on the coach, on poor Sadie and her bloody nose. When the varsity picks were announced the next day, omitting her name of course, Rachel quit the JV squad on the spot.
She was destroyed. Overnight, everything Charlaine did became criminal, and I was suddenly the sole member of our Charlaine fan club. All my positive regard had to go into hiding, which wasn’t easy because somewhere along the way, my feelings toward Charlaine had grown … complicated. While Rachel wanted to be her, I craved being near her, always wondering where she was when I came over. Would she walk by in her sports bra and emerald-green Umbros? Would she climb onto the stool next to mine at the kitchen counter, grabbing a banana while I suddenly lost the ability to breathe?
Then one Saturday, Rachel and I were in the middle of watching the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice when I volunteered to get more snacks. It was late, so I tiptoed through the dark downstairs not to wake anybody. But when I flipped on the kitchen lights, there, sitting on the counter with her shirt off, was Ava Sanchez, goalkeeper for the varsity team. Her legs were splayed wide, bookending Charlaine between them, whose mouth was wrapped around one of Ava’s nipples.
“Oh, shit! ” Ava thrust Charlaine’s face away when the lights came on. Charlaine whirled around to face me where I stood with my hand still hovering over the light switch, open-mouthed, eyes wide. Charlaine’s hair was mussed and free, her lips swollen. She looked beautiful and wild and hungry, and it stabbed me, seeing her like that.
With someone else .
After that, it was like a bomb detonated within me. But instead of blowing my adoration apart, my explosion was more volcanic—hot, intense feelings surged out of me from deep within, burning down everything I knew, leaving unfamiliar landscapes in their wake. Creating new land.
And Rachel noticed.
She started watching me around Charlaine. Her eyes bored into me whenever Charlaine loped into the kitchen, wearing a tight tank top and cutoff shorts. If we bummed a ride to school from Charlaine and Chance, I’d sit stock-still in the back and stare out the window for fear of giving anything away and pissing Rachel off more. I was trapped between this intense crush and what it meant for who I was becoming and my best friend, and I couldn’t talk about it to anyone. Mom was gone, Dad was emotionally out to sea, and I knew, undoubtedly, that if Rachel found out how I felt about Charlaine, she’d never talk to me again.
A few months later, she found the mortifying crush box dedicated to Charlaine under my bed. Just like that, our friendship was over.
It hurt so much. To be so close to someone, then lose them like that. But it made me angry, too. Because when I developed a crush on her big sister, Rachel took all that history—all those laughs and spend-the-nights and days exploring our woods—and threw them away.
And for what? Nothing even happened . I could barely speak around Charlaine, she made me so nervous. She left for college on the other side of the country without ever knowing how her little sister’s sad, half-orphaned friend next door felt about her. Or that those feelings eventually drove Rachel and me apart, once they became too big for me to smother.
I heave a sigh, then climb into my own truck. Rachel’s words dig into me for the rest of the afternoon, chasing every idea I jot down with it’s a done deal and you’re screwed . I scratch out everything until my pen nearly rips the paper. What did Rachel mean by implying Laine can’t make our wine? She might hate her guts still, but Laine’s worked at some of the best vineyards in the country. Rising to the top of Le Jardin as a young queer woman couldn’t have been easy, but she did it.
Of course she did. She’s Charlaine Woods , young Zoe’s voice says in my head. She’s a star.
More like a mean butch who despises me. How Rachel would love knowing just how badly we get along. I snort, but it’s a sound bordering on despair. I lean my head into my hands, clutching at my hair. I knew winning the showcase wouldn’t be easy, but I didn’t expect it to be so hard, either.
My phone dings, reminding me of the Queer Mountaineers hang. I shuffle into my bathroom and stare into the mirror at my face, bare except for all these feelings. But I don’t want to feel these feelings right now, or preferably, at all. I want to be Zoe Brennan, Director of Operations and Boss Bitch of Bluebell Vineyards. Not high school Zoe whose best friend dumped her, or post-college Zoe, burdened by the bad business decisions her father made, or even current-day Zoe, forced to work with her first crush who now hates her. I want to be in control again. I need to be in control again.
I pick up my eyeliner and turn it over in my hand, staring at its well-worn nib. I should go tonight, it’ll be good to see friends, but who says I need to get fixed up? It’s just a Queer Mountaineers hang where everyone’s already coupled off or otherwise unavailable. My friends love me with or without cat-eyes. I zip up the makeup bag and put it back on the shelf, then find the coziest sweatpants I own.
This is my sweatpants era.
“Good lord, sweatpants ?” Teddy exclaims when I putz into the wine bar twenty minutes later. He slaps the counter to get the bartender’s attention. “Get this sad lesbian a glass of Petite Sirah.”
I smile despite myself. Teddy knows I drink the darkest red available whenever I’m depressed. He pats my back as I lean onto the bar next to him. “Drink what you want, baby. I’ll put you in for a whitening next week.”
“Love you, Teddy,” I say, low enough for only him to hear. Teddy doesn’t really do displays of genuine, non-sarcastic affection, but beneath his silky athleisure ensembles and brash exterior, there flows a kindness and generosity that’s gotten me through some of my roughest times. After Rachel friend-dumped me, it took me years to open up to somebody else. I had friends, sure, but they bobbed on the surface of my life just like everything else. But when Teddy started moonlighting at Bluebell while he was getting his dental practice off the ground, his playful ribbing graduated into real conversations and over time, we made it past each other’s defensive obstacle course of protective barriers and coping mechanisms. When we met, he hadn’t found Diego yet, and we bonded over our shared, secret fear of being hopelessly single in a tiny queer community. Watching Diego and Teddy fall in love, then stay in love, casts a warm, comforting light over the shadows I’m still lost in, a bit of hope that maybe my perfect match will move to Blue Ridge one day, too. Most importantly, though, Teddy’s concern for me never feels like pity. It just feels like love.
He looks both ways, as though he doesn’t want to be caught being my best friend, then leans in and whispers, “Still charging your ass.”
The place is packed with the local queer community, and I give little nods and salutes to different tables of my former flings as I pass. Kai is here with her wife Charlie, both of whom attended the Zoe Brennan Finishing School for Young Lesbians, both remorseless dropouts. Jojo and her wife are here, too. We only had one date before Jojo stopped texting me, but kudos to her for picking up that text thread with zero shame two years later to ask about our wedding rental rates. Her eyes travel down my outfit, and not in a good way.
Coulda had all this , Jojo.
We head back to my friends’ table, thankfully free of my former dalliances. When Tristan eyes my outfit this time, his beard twitches around his smile. “This look’s giving big don’t-look-at-me-motherfucker energy. Guess you’re over your crush on the new vintner?”
I squeeze my eyes closed. “For the love of god, I don’t have a crush on Laine!”
The whole table stops to stare at me with frank disbelief. Teddy just says, “ Baby. ”
I shrug and reach for my wine. “I accidentally slept with her—there’s a difference.”
Tristan arches an auburn eyebrow. “O-kaaaay. Are you over accidentally sleeping with the new vintner then?”
I think back to the last few weeks—the arguing, all of Laine’s snobby digs, her disdain for Bluebell Vineyards that drips continually from her very essence. “I’m so over it.”
As blazing hot as Laine is, her attitude toward Bluebell Vineyards has cooled any feelings I might’ve had for her. I’m almost grateful she sucks so plentifully, come to think of it. Falling for my interim vintner would’ve been aggressively stupid.
“Sure,” Tristan replies gamely.
“Look, I need her help to keep the vineyard running until Dad comes home so I can snag the Everyday Bon Vivant showcase. If I didn’t, I’d have fired her weeks ago.”
“So if she were standing behind you, right now, you wouldn’t care?” Tristan’s smoky-rimmed hazel eyes flick over my shoulder to the door.
I whip around so fast, I nearly sprain my neck.
And … there’s no one there.
“You asshole! ” I hit Tristan on one of his thick arms, and everyone starts laughing. I roll my eyes, but I’m laughing now, too. The best part is, I keep laughing. Diego launches into a funny story about a nurse he works with at the local hospital getting caught stealing bedpans ( I mean, is there a black market for bedpans?? ), then our stalwart softball lesbians Maeve and Gloria show up, looking as disgruntled as I’ve ever seen them.
“What’s this all about?” Diego gestures with both hands, gently encompassing their ragamuffin appearance and downtrodden expressions.
Maeve sits down. “Saving animals, that’s what. Whole petting zoo got dropped off.”
Teddy arches an eyebrow. “I’m guessing you don’t wanna pet them.”
Gloria sits beside Maeve and sniffs. “No, sir.”
“What happened?” I try not to smile, but they’re so comically peeved. I’ve known Maeve for years, and she’s as bighearted as they come, taking in all manner of critters for her animal rescue. She ends up adopting half of them herself, but that’s to be expected when you’re a big softie like Maeve. She used to try to foist the poor orphan fur-children onto me, but I show my support by regularly donating to her rescue instead. I simply refuse to attach my heart to anything with less than a seventy-five-year lifespan.
Maeve heaves a world-weary sigh. “The zoo owner got arrested. Turns out he was on the run from the Swiss government.”
Tristan mock-gasps. “And here I thought they were neutral.”
Maeve side-eyes him. “Laugh it up, junior. I’ve got snakes to re-home.”
Tristan’s laugh dies in his throat as Gloria grits her teeth. “Snakes aren’t the problem. It’s the goat.” She growls, legit growls . “Ate my softballs.”
“A criminal, just like his human father,” Maeve adds somberly, and I’m dying. Laughing so hard, the tears roll freely down my face. With each sip of wine, every story shared, friend after friend’s appearance at our ever-growing table, the stress of the last month undergoes an alchemical reaction, leaving me awash with a relief so palpable, I feel cool and light and free. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to be surrounded by my friends and laughter. While I often joke about the lack of available women in the Queer Mountaineers, being part of a group that doesn’t care about your sexual value or relationship potential, that loves you for the whole, complete person you are in this world, is its own special reward. I need to remember that.
Diego pokes me in the arm. “So are we gonna get the details of what went down with the hot butch vintner you’re totally over or what?” I shoot dagger eyes at Hannah, but she lifts her hands in innocence.
“I’ve told them nothing!” She crosses her heart, but she’s a few deep, too, so it looks more like she’s swatting a bee. “Promise.”
I lift my glass to the group. “I am a lady of discretion and grace,” I say, which is greeted with whoops and vehement pshaws. “But I was inspired to buy this baby after.” I flash my phone at the table, where the shipping notice of the giant rainbow dildo Harlow had is displayed. “It’s my special occasion dick. Double-headed for both lesbians’ pleasure!”
“Um, Zoe?” Tristan says, eyes wide. “Laine just walked in.”
“Not gonna get me this time, Stan .” I snort and throw back the rest of my Grenache. At this point in the evening, my teeth are probably full-on vampire. “You can’t hold me or my giant rainbow dildo back! I just need to find a new sexy butch to use it on.”
“ Zoe! ” Hannah hisses, but I stand and lift my empty glass like I’m one of the Founding Fathers, and this here’s my statement of the union.
“I need someone with pizzazz. ” I’ve never said pizzazz in my life, but I say it now with gusto. “Someone with a less annoying face! But most importantly, someone who has a healthy relationship with constructive criticism!”
I wait for them to applaud, to whoop and support me like my fellow colonists should, but all I hear is a husky voice clearing behind me. From immediately behind me.
“Room for two more?”
Tristan hides his face behind his hands while Teddy’s booming voice fills the wine bar, and my heart seizes in my chest. “There’s always room for more queers! What’re your names, pronouns, and thoughts on giant rainbow special occasion dicks?” He clearly doesn’t understand the catastrophe-in-the-making.
A soft hand lands on my arm, and I freeze as it slides away. “Harlow Benoit, she/they.” She smiles gently at me as she slips around the table. “Pro–giant rainbow dick, for regular and special occasions.”
“Oh, shit ,” Teddy slurs, squinting at her, then Laine. “I did not see you there.” He runs a hand down his slack face, then leans over and checks my pulse. “Zoe, you still breathing, baby?”
Good question. I wish I wasn’t.
“I’m Laine Woods, also she/they, and I’m pro-not-being-an-oversharing-drunk-asshole ,” she says pointedly at me. Laine pulls up two chairs for herself and Harlow and squeezes them in at the opposite corner, as far as she can get from me. She salutes the rest of the table. “Nice to meet y’all. Thanks for the invite, Hannah.”
Someone whispers, “Is she the—”
“ Yep ,” someone else says quickly.
Hannah laughs nervously. “Sure thing!” The group murmurs subdued hello s to the newcomers as they send me covert glances, asking are you okay? with their eyes. I should be. I’m over the threesome with Harlow and Laine, I am . But God, did they have to hear me bragging about my new dildo and renouncing Laine’s annoying face? I watch soundlessly as Harlow and Laine take their seats, Laine draping her arm over the back of Harlow’s chair.
A wave of nausea crashes over me.
“So, Laine,” Maeve begins, then clears her throat. “Do you have any use for a goat?”
Laine frowns. “What kind of goat?”
“You said you weren’t coming!” The words blurt from my mouth before Maeve can begin her sales pitch.
“I changed my mind, boss. That okay?” Laine’s voice is strained, like she’s struggling to keep her contempt for me from erupting all over the table. She’s barely looked at me since last week when I instructed her to contact Jamal, but she shows up now? Why? To show off Harlow and shove how much she doesn’t like me in my face? Ruin the only other safe space I have?
I slide clumsily out of my chair, its legs screeching backward against the concrete floor. I can’t look at either of them. My sweatpants, my unwashed hair, my mom’s old T-shirt blotched with years upon years of wine stains and a rip in one armpit that I wear when I’m feeling down. I didn’t feel self-conscious before because my friends love me, but in the eye-melting sexual glow of Harlow and Laine, I feel like an old-timey storybook villain, drawn extra ugly so everyone will hate me and feel justified in doing so. The unreasonable boss. The lonely spinster. The tacky, drunk kiss-and-tell.
I make it to the sidewalk before the tears come, eyes blurring as I confirm my ride home request.
The door slams behind me, then reopens just as fast. Footsteps hurry toward my turned back. I don’t know which of my friends is checking on me, but I really wish they wouldn’t. The mayor’s snubbing, the run-in with Rachel, and now humiliating myself in front of Harlow and Laine? I need to cry this instant, need the release like steam fighting to escape a kettle.
“What the hell is your problem?” Laine spits from behind me.
Fuck. There goes the comfort hug I would have grudgingly accepted. My back stiffens, and I don’t turn around. “There are many problems,” I reply, hating the tear-clogged sound of my voice. “To which are you referring?”
“You, Zoe Brennan, you! I’m doing your family this huge favor, and you treat me like I don’t understand what the hell I’m doing!”
“Well, do you?” I fold my arms over my chest protectively, still staring out into downtown Blue Ridge, quiet now as the minutes tick toward closing. “You treat my vineyard like it’s nothing, but don’t you understand it’s everything to me?”
“I don’t—I mean—can you just look at me?” Laine grips my shoulder and turns me around, forcing me to meet her eyes. But when she sees my tear-streaked face, her anger melts into confusion. Her tight grip releases, her hand sliding slowly down my arm, until it stops where it circles around my wrist. “God, Zoe,” she says softly, frowning in dismay as her eyes track across my face and the misery collected there. “Do you really hate me so much?”
I force myself to lift my chin, my breath catching in my throat. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? After all the mean things she’s said, the way she belittles the place I love most, after she casually moved from fucking me to loathing me and expects me to be fine with it?
“No. I don’t.” The truth of it barrels between us, along with all the words I don’t have to say. Laine breathes sharply inward, and her hand tightens around my wrist. She pulls me toward her, the furrow between her brows deepening, and me? I’ve stopped breathing. Her other hand lifts tentatively, like she’s either going to brush away my tears or push me away, unclear. Either way, I wish it would happen. Some kind of period to punctuate this standoff, cut it off and make the agony end. We’re staring at each other so hard, she doesn’t notice the red Chevrolet that pulls up alongside us, its passenger window rolled down.
“Zoe Brennan? Your Lyft’s here.”