22. Zinneerah
22
Zinneerah
I still think we should have bought the LEGO set rather than a stuffed puppy toy.
“You got LEGO money?” Alex shoots back, her eyes on the road as the speech dictation app reads my note aloud. “Because I sure don’t. That’s the hot attorney’s problem. And let’s be honest, with the way Fifi’s working her magic, he’s about two months away from spending Christmas with her and Juliette. He might even throw in a sibling as a bonus gift.”
I blink at her, startled, then type out my next question. Are they really that serious?
“She’s flying back from St. Lucia, Zinnie.” Alex gives me a pointed look, one hand briefly leaving the wheel to flail around. “The only place my situationships have ever taken me is straight to Trauma Town. Population, me.” She switches lanes without checking her blind-spot. “You know those t-shirts college kids have been wearing these days? The ‘I Love Milfs’ one?”
“No.”
“Yeah, well, we could slap Fifi’s face on one of those and watch it sell out in twenty minutes.” With zero warning, she adds, “You know, we hooked up once.”
My head jerks forward. “ What ?”
“Oh, yeah. A few months after you left,” she recalls. “We ran into each other at a bar. She told me she was pregnant by some guy she met at a writer’s club. Juliette was conceived in a library bathroom, of all places. Anyway, we went back to my place, and had sex for two hours. Afterward, we made birthday cake pancakes. Good times.” She sighs wistfully, like she’s just described a trip to St. Lucia with her. “Going down on a woman? Paradise. Highly recommend it.”
I narrow my eyes at her, hands quickly typing: I knew something was going on between you two.
Alex throws me a mock-offended scowl. “What, you didn’t know Ophelia was tasting the rainbow? Babe, the bitch wore thrifted suspenders with a carabiner keychain hanging from the loop, and those weird frog earrings. She didn’t have a single straight bone in her body.” She pauses, smirking. “Okay, maybe like . . . half a bone.”
I blink, trying to process, and Alex cackles, clearly enjoying herself.
Damn. If I’d known my best friends were secretly hooking up, I would’ve staged an intervention. Or maybe just shoved them together and told them to quit dancing around it. Their chemistry had always been obvious, but they probably didn’t date for the same reason most friends don’t—fear of ruining everything if it all went south.
Why didn’t you guys date after I left?
“Life happened,” she says simply. “I stuck around to help her through the pregnancy, but I was also putting out music at the same time. A month after Juliette was born, so was my career. Things just got busy.” She glances over at me with a cheeky smile. “That’s why I call Juliette my good luck charm. Everything took off after her.”
If Ophelia broke up with her boy-toy, would you date her?
Alex snorts, shaking her head. “No, thanks. I’m not gonna be someone’s sloppy seconds. Especially not after a man.”
“Fair enough.”
Alex remains silent, then, “It’d be nice, though.” She sighs like the idea is impossible to begin with. “It’s all just performance art now. Dates are just bad plays with no intermission and a way-too-expensive second act. And don’t get me started on dating apps. Swipe left, swipe right—might as well swipe down and end it all.”
“True words have honestly never been spoken before,” I whisper.
Ophelia’s apartment complex comes into view—a tall, pale orange building standing out against the shorter homes and squat, trailer-like structures nearby. It’s a quiet, middle-class neighborhood, sitting somewhere between metropolitan and suburban dreams.
We park in the visitor lot, and Alex scoops up the box of donuts while I grab the stuffed puppy. As we head toward the entrance, she presses the buzzer for unit 380.
“You anxious?” she asks, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye.
I’ve been staring at the floor, but I manage to pinch my fingers to indicate ‘a little.’
The speaker crackles to life, and a child’s voice chirps through: “What’s the secret password?”
Alex groans, leaning on the buzzer again. “Dickmaster.”
The door clicks open immediately.
“Dickmaster?”
She shrugs. “I’m a fan of Hazbin Hotel .”
Chuckling, we wait for the elevator, and as it creaks its way down to us, I steal a glance in the mirrors by the door. Fixing my hair and rolling back my shoulders, I clear my throat like it’ll somehow get rid of the knot of nerves in my stomach.
The elevator dings, and we ride it up to the thirtieth floor. Alex doesn’t bother making small talk, and honestly, I’m grateful. My mind’s already racing ahead, anticipating how terribly, or beautifully, this is going to go.
When we finally reach Ophelia’s door, I stop and take a deep breath through my mouth.
Alex, on the other hand, wastes no time. She abuses the doorbell, then smirks as she slaps her hand over the peephole. “Oh, by the way,” she says, “Ophelia has no idea you’re coming.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
The door creaks open, and there she is—Ophelia, standing tall, with a mini version of herself peeking out from behind her.
Juliette, with her bed of deep-golden curls and wide hazel eyes, tilts her head at us. “Who are you?”
Ophelia’s gaze lands on me, and I watch the realization bloom on her face. Her breath hitches, and then her hand flies to Juliette’s shoulder. She pulls her daughter behind her, stepping out into the hallway and shutting the door.
Terrible, it is.
“Ophelia,” I whisper.
She looks down the hallway, first left, then right, like someone might appear out of the shadows. “Are you alone?”
“We are,” Alex says. “Can we come inside now?”
Ophelia’s eyes sweep over me, searching for signs of, what, trouble? Danger? Her focus drops to my hand, to my wedding ring. “You married that fucker?”
“N-No—” I stammer.
Alex steps forward, placing herself between us like a human shield. “Back off for a second.”
Ophelia’s fists are clenched so hard I think she might punch a wall. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Alexandra?” she hisses. “If Damian finds out where I live—”
“He’s in prison,” I say quickly. “He’s . . . imprisoned.”
She freezes, her whole body going stiff. Her eyes narrow, searching my face like she’s trying to figure out if I’m lying. “What’s wrong with your voice?”
“Jesus, Fifi,” Alex mutters, spinning back toward me. Her hands bracket my face. “Hey. Look at me. Remember what I told you? In my dressing room?”
I blink at her, my heart pounding. “Blame,” I whisper.
She nods. “We don’t. We never did.”
“What’s going on?” Ophelia asks, appearing at Alex’s side. “When did you get married, Zinnie?”
“We can talk about it inside,” Alex says, motioning toward the door.
“No. Not until I know it’s safe.”
“Fifi—”
“Not until I know it’s safe.”
I fumble for my phone, pulling it out and typing as fast as my shaking hands will allow. What did he do to you, Fifi?
Her face hardens, jaw locking as she glares at me. “Oh, you mean besides showing up here with a knife and asking me—violently, of course—to stay the hell away from you? Absolutely nothing, Zinnie. Nothing at all.” The words slap me across the face, but she doesn’t stop. “I need confirmation. I need proof that that psychopathic bastard is actually in prison. Right now.”
I stretch out my hand to Ophelia, palm up. “Trust me?”
Ophelia’s eyes flicker down to my hand. Her lips part, then close again. For a moment, I think she’s going to pull away, lock me out. But then, her hand slides into mine, and I almost start sobbing from how familiar it feels again.
I guide her down to the floor with me. The carpet feels rough against my knees as I pull out my phone and hand it to her, the screen lit up with the note I wrote last night. Hours of staring at the blinking yellow line, trying to find the right words for her. I still don’t know if I got them right.
Alex sits down cross-legged next to Ophelia. “You have to read it, Ophelia.”
“I know,” she mutters. Her fingers curl tighter around mine, squeezing like she doesn’t believe I’m alive, as her other hand takes the phone.
She starts reading.
The corridor is quiet except for the hum of the heating vent and the occasional chime of the building’s elevator. It feels suffocating. I can hear every rustle of fabric, every tiny shift in Alex’s posture beside her. I can feel the pulse in Ophelia’s hand, quick and uneven, as if her body is battling the words she’s taking in.
When the screen finally goes dark, the only movement comes from her thumb, still pressed against the phone. Then, without warning, she tosses it onto Alex’s lap, and I barely have time to react before she lunges forward.
Her arms wrap around me like she’s trying to keep me from slipping through her fingers. One arm clamps around my waist, the other pulls me close, her hand cradling the back of my head. She squeezes so tightly I can barely breathe, but I don’t care. Her curls tickle my face as I bury it in her neck, and her whole body shakes, trembling like she’s been holding herself together with strings, and it’s finally giving out.
“I’m so sorry,” she chokes out. “I’m so fucking sorry, Zinneerah. I should’ve—I should’ve done something. I shouldn’t have shut you out. I shouldn’t have let you go through it alone. I—” Her voice cracks, and she pulls me tighter, like holding me close will make the guilt hurt less.
My throat burns, but I force myself to speak, rubbing slow circles on her back like I used to when we were nineteen and she’d cry about something stupid, like losing her favorite hair clip. This isn’t stupid, though. This is years of pent-up guilt pouring out of her all at once.
“Don’t apologize,” I whisper. “I’m okay now. See?” I draw back and smile as best as I can. “My siblings helped. Therapy helped. And you helped, Fifi. You and Alex . . . even when you didn’t know it.”
But her head shakes fiercely, her blonde curls swishing against my face. She’s not letting herself off the hook that easily. She doesn’t know how to. “I thought I lost you forever.” Her hands come up, framing my face as her forehead leans against mine. When her eyes open and lock on mine, they’re glassy with tears. “I thought . . . I thought I lost you.”
I sniffle, holding onto her wrists gently. “Never.”
“I was so scared, Zinnie,” she whimpers. “For you. For Alex. For me. Why didn’t you call us?”
I close my eyes, pressing my forehead back against hers. “I was scared. For you, too.”
Her shoulders quake as she pulls me close again, and I let her. I let her hold me as though she’s trying to glue back all the pieces of me that shattered. And then Alex, predictably, worms her way into the hug. Her arms wrap around both of us, squishing us together like she’s the missing piece that’s been waiting to slide into place. “Get off. Let me have my moment with her.”
“Nope.” Alex’s voice is all smug certainty. “We’re a package deal.”
A small laugh escapes Ophelia. She lets one arm slip from my waist and slings it around Alex, dragging her in without a second thought. The three of us collapse into this messy, awkward pile—limbs everywhere, no sense of space, like we’re nineteen again, cramming into Ophelia’s twin bed and pretending the world didn’t exist outside of us.
For the first time in forever, I don’t feel like I’m holding everything up on my own.
The door creaks open, and standing there is Juliette, staring at our sentimental, sappy pile. She tilts her head at me, studying me. “You’re the lady from Mom’s school pictures.”
Ophelia, still holding onto the last shreds of her composure, brushes herself off as she helps me stand. “Julie, this is your Tía Zinneerah,” she says, smoothing the dust off my skirt. “She’s been my best friend since university.”
Juliette blinks at me. “Why am I meeting her now?”
Ophelia freezes for half a second, her brain clearly scrambling for an answer before she recovers, her voice dipping into the kind of overly sweet tone moms use when they’re lying through their teeth. “Because she just got back from a trip.”
Juliette crosses her arms. “Oh. Where’d you go?” Her delivery is flat, uninterested. “Was it Europe? I keep asking Mom to take me there, but she says she’s too broke.”
Ophelia’s mouth drops open, her head swiveling to Alex. “When did I—”
Alex, already grinning, scratches her neck and looks away. “Kids hear things. It’s wild. Anyway, I’m hungry.” She barges into Ophelia’s apartment. “Come on. We have to discuss Zinneerah’s husband.”
“Oh?” Ophelia arches a brow and turns to me, her lips tugging into a smirk despite the redness in her eyes.
Before I can answer, Juliette slides her small hand into mine, giving me a toothy smile. “I’ll give you a tour.”
I nod and follow her inside.
The living room is a mismatch of soft, inviting furniture, covered in throws that don’t quite match but somehow work anyway. The walls are a soft beige, but covered in pops of life: photos of Juliette, scribbly kid-art in mismatched frames, and a massive bookshelf bursting with everything from children’s picture books to thriller novels. There’s a sweet smell of coffee and vanilla candles, blending with the earthiness of the dozens—no, hundreds —of potted plants scattered around the space.
“Do you want anything to drink?” Juliette asks as she skips toward the kitchen, opening a cabinet. “I always make coffee for Mom when she’s running late to see her rich boyfriend.”
Alex barks out a laugh.
“For fuck’s sake.” Ophelia groans, dragging a hand down her face as she follows us in. “Julie, honey, why don’t you take a donut and this puppy toy thing”—she scoops the stuffed animal off the counter—“and go play on the balcony while I have a grown-up discussion?”
Taking the items from her mother’s hands, she slips out the sliding glass door onto the balcony, disappearing into the jungle of potted plants like a tiny explorer in a greenhouse.
The second she’s out of earshot, I turn to Ophelia, raising a brow. “Motherhood?”
Ophelia lets out a long sigh as she collapses onto the couch. “Don’t even get me started.” She stretches her legs out, crossing them at the ankles and throwing her feet onto the coffee table. “It’s draining. It’s loud. It’s exhausting. But . . .” Her voice softens, and she glances at the balcony. “When she smiles like that, or says something ridiculous, it kind of makes up for it. I guess. I’m just glad it wasn’t a boy.”
“Dodged a bullet,” Alex says.
“I want a baby, too,” I mumble.
Alex sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth, dragging it out for maximum effect. “Ooooh, yeah, see, the thing is, you’re gonna wanna kiss your husband first before skipping to baby-making. Little life hack for you.”
My face heats up instantly.
Ophelia waves a hand. “Speaking of, can I see his picture already? I’ve been waiting for, like, years over here.”
I pull out my phone and open my camera roll, scrolling until I find the folder labeled Wedding Pics. It takes a second of scrolling past blurry reception shots and candids of people mid-bite before I find a decent one of me and Raees.
Her eyes widen the second she sees the first photo. She blinks, then pinches the screen to zoom in on his face. “ That’s your husband?” Her voice pitches up. Her face flushes. Ophelia rarely blushes, which only makes it funnier. “Holy shit. Is that gray hair?” She blinks again, as if to double-check. “How old is he? Does he, like, have a retirement plan already? A yacht? A library?”
I hold up three on my left hand and five on my right.
“Thirty-five? Zinneerah, you married a whole man. Like, a real grown man. Is he one of those guys who orders black coffee and talks about how ‘kids these days don’t understand hard work’? Because I swear to God, Zin—”
“No,” I cut her off, rolling my eyes. “He drinks coffee with way too much sugar, and teaches media journalism at SLU.”
“Damn,” Ophelia whispers.
Then, in perfect sync, both she and Alex say, “He’s hot, though.”
Ophelia continues. “Is it weird that I want to see him in regency attire?”
My eyes widen at the logical fantasy. “You mean, like, a cravat and tailcoat?”
She nods. “Preferably with an air of tortured longing.”
Alex claps her hands together, pointing at me like she’s had an epiphany. “Loose tunic. Breeches. Wind blowing through his hair. He’s walking through a field of daisies or riding a black stallion toward the sunset—” She cuts herself off when both Ophelia and I stare at her. Her expression doesn’t falter for a second. She just shrugs. “Don’t lie. You’re both thinking about it, too.”
And, well, she’s not wrong. I glance back at the picture of him on my phone. He’s standing tall beside me, that soft, lopsided smile on his lips, his hands clasped neatly behind his back even though the photographer all but begged him to wrap an arm around my waist.
Alex leans in closer, studying the image with intense focus. “I mean, it’s like young Hugh Jackman and Theo James had a genetically blessed love child.”
“Agreed,” I admit quietly, still staring at the picture.
My cheeks are already burning, but Ophelia, of course, doubles down. She zooms in on his face like she’s investigating a crime scene. “Mm-hmm. He’s got the whole brooding romantic lead thing going for him. If we were in Bridgerton or something, half the women in the ballroom would be faking fainting spells just to get his attention.”
I laugh, but the words hit closer to home than I want to admit. It’s true. Everywhere we go, women stare at him. The kind of stares that make me want to smooth down my hair or check my reflection just to make sure I don’t look like a complete mess next to him. And sometimes, just sometimes, it eats at me.
“Time to glorify our girl,” Alex says suddenly, snapping me out of my thoughts. She zooms in on me in the picture. “Raees is attractive and all, but Jesus Christ, Zinnie. Look at you.” She puckers her lips and blows exaggerated kisses at the screen.
“Iconic,” Ophelia states, but instead of joining Alex’s theatrics, she squishes my cheek between her fingers and presses a quick kiss to it. “If Penélope Cruz dies, you could easily replace her. You’re, like, too pretty.”
I bury my face in my knees, my cheeks burning so hot from being showered by their compliments. “Lawyer,” I say, trying to change the subject. “Pictures. Show me.”
Ophelia groans like I’ve asked her to carry a boulder up a mountain, dragging her phone off the table. She swipes through her gallery lazily, finally handing it to me. “His name’s Jason,” she mutters. “Doesn’t he kind of look like Tom Hardy? If Tom Hardy got eight hours of sleep and drank green juice.”
“Why do you have a celebrity reference for every person you see?” Alex pipes up.
“You know I have a thing for movies,” Ophelia says flatly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “It’s a full-body experience. I watch, I analyze, I Google the cast. It’s called being cultured, Alex.”
I swipe through the photos without comment, starting with their St. Lucia trip. Jason is, admittedly, attractive in that cover-model, toothpaste-commercial kind of way—sandy skin, perfectly cropped brown hair, ocean-blue eyes. He’s got one of those smiles that’s engineered to charm grandmas and bouncers alike. And, of course, muscles so defined you could probably shred cheese on them. Ophelia, naturally, has her hand on said abs in every couple’s shot.
But my attention shifts. The variety of bikinis Ophelia wears is distracting—some knitted and barely holding on, others sleek one-pieces that make her look like she’s walking out of a Bond movie. She’s stunning. Curvy hips, a tiny waist, and breasts that, well . . . let’s just say they could solve world problems if people used them as pillows.
“Beautiful,” I whisper under my breath.
Alex gulps loudly next to me. She doesn’t even try to hide it before grabbing the phone from me with a swipe. “Let me see.”
“Alexandra,” Ophelia starts, sitting up straighter.
“Relax, I’m not judging your little green-juice Tom Hardy.” She scrolls, squinting at the photos. “Okay, he’s got abs. Noted. Next. Oh, more abs. And more abs, shocker. Does this man own a shirt? Or do you just confiscate them?” She swipes again.
“Wait, no—” Ophelia suddenly leans forward, a hand darting out.
Too late.
A video starts playing. The camera angle is shaky, but it’s clear enough: Ophelia’s back, her Orion constellation tattoo front and center, her curls tangled around a hand that’s definitely not hers. The bed is moving in ways that make the context painfully obvious.
Ophelia snatches the phone back so fast it’s like it burned Alex’s hand, shoving it under her thigh as though that’ll erase what we just saw.
The room goes dead silent.
I’m too stunned to speak.
Alex, of course, is the first to recover. “Well, then.” She clears her throat. “Let’s all collectively agree to pretend we didn’t just see Ophelia getting backshots.”
“Fuck off, Alexandra!” Ophelia growls, hurling a pillow to shut up Alex’s laugh. Her eyes catch mine, narrowing when she sees me staring. “You got something to say, Artemis?”
I snort. “Looked fun.”
Alex shoots to her feet like a firecracker, holding the pillow aloft as she starts thrusting wildly against it, moaning in a voice so over-the-top it could probably summon a noise complaint. “‘Oh, Jason! Pound me like one of your courtroom gavels!’”
“Oh, fuck you!” Ophelia is already on her feet, wrapping one arm around Alex’s neck and yanking her into a chokehold. It’s laughable, really, because Ophelia is taller, brawnier, and could probably snap Alex in two if she wanted to. “Say it again. I dare you!”
I can’t stop laughing as I pull out my phone, hitting record just in time to catch Ophelia grabbing an indoor slipper and chasing Alex across the room.
Juliette appears suddenly, sliding the balcony door shut behind her. She looks frazzled, her hair a little windblown, but that confused “I’ve been out of the loop for five minutes and everything’s gone to shit” expression on her face is priceless.
“What is going on?” she demands, her hands on her hips.
Alex darts behind Juliette, crouching low and clinging to her body. “Your mother is attempting to kill me with your chanclas.”
Ophelia brandishes the slipper and points it at Juliette like it’s Exhibit A. “Move aside, sweet child of mine. Justice must be served.”
Alex pops her head out from behind Juliette. “Do you hear this? Threats! Threats against the innocent!”
I’m still recording, tears in my eyes from laughing too hard, when my phone suddenly buzzes in my hand. A low battery notification flashes across the screen, and my recording cuts off. I toss the phone into my bag, wiping at my face.
“All right, enough,” I say, clapping my hands once to get their attention. “Music.”
Ophelia glares at Alex, slipper still in hand, her eyes narrowing like she’s debating whether to end her right here. When Alex retreats to the couch, squeaking like a startled hamster, Ophelia feigns a punch at her shoulder, making her flinch.
Juliette, ever the little diplomat, takes the opportunity to scoot over and sit beside me, her small hand patting my leg. She tilts her head and gestures for me to lean down. I oblige, curious. “You’re so pretty,” she whispers like it’s a secret just for me. “I love your hair.”
My cheeks bloom pink. “Thank you. So are you. And I love your curls. They’re gorgeous.”
She beams at me. “Thank you! My mom brushes them for me.”
“That’s so sweet.” I smile softly. “My dad used to do my hair when I was little. He’d—”
“Hey, hey, hey!” Alex suddenly materializes from the other side of the room. She grabs Juliette around the waist and hoists her onto her lap, plopping back down onto the couch. “Don’t even think about stealing my Best Tía award, Zinnie.”
“At least this Tía doesn’t hump other people’s pillows like a dog in heat,” Ophelia cuts in dryly, slinging an arm across the front of my shoulders as she leans back.
“Music,” I drag the word out with all the exasperation I can muster. Their bickering feels like it could last forever if I let it.
“Oh, right.” Ophelia finally focuses, snapping her fingers. “My drum set is locked in storage. You know I can’t practice on those trash cans the department calls drum kits.”
Alex launches herself off the couch like a firework, startling Juliette, who immediately scrambles onto her back, her arms wrapped tightly around Alex’s neck. “We need take-out dumplings, a bottle of discounted rosé for moi, and then we’re cracking open the journals and getting down to business.”
Ophelia and I burst out laughing, clutching each other as Alex takes off again, zig-zagging through the room while Juliette cheers her on. The sight feels like someone’s pressed play on a long-lost scene from a movie I thought had ended.
The Cryptics are back in business.