Chapter 33
Zoe Knows
ZOE
Dickens, Idaho, population eleven thousand, one hundred, twenty-two, smells like wet pine and somebody’s woodstove and—I’m almost certain—the lingering ghost of my mother’s banana bread, which she’s been baking since I crossed the city limits sign yesterday afternoon.
I’m back. Temporarily.
I’m sitting on the porch swing at my parents’ house in a hoodie that doesn’t belong to me, a cup of drip coffee in my hand that is, no offense to Seattle, ten times better than anything I have paid eight dollars for in the last six weeks, and I’m scrolling.
The hearing was yesterday. I sat three rows back, in the very last seat on the aisle, and I cried so quietly I’m genuinely impressed with myself, and when the judge said the words full custody and permanent and Mr. Holt, I watched Jonah’s shoulders drop a full inch, like somebody had finally cut the wire he’d been hanging from.
I left before things could get complicated. I’m not proud.
My phone’s been doing a thing since seven a.m.
Jonah:
7:14: Thank you for testifying. You probably won this for us.
7:14: That means everything. Also I was surprised and happy to see you.
7:32: I’d love to talk to you.
8:01: I’d love to see you.
8:01: Or just talk. or whatever you can do.
8:47: Zoe.
8:47: Please.
I have read them twelve times, and I’ve not answered them. I’ve watched a hummingbird fight a bumblebee for a piece of fence and lost track of which one I was rooting for.
These texts are short, blunt, painfully sincere, and reading them is like eating Valentine’s candy hearts that taste like nothing and feel like everything.
I take a breath. I unlock the phone. I type.
I heard. I’m so happy for you both that I’m falling apart on a porch swing about it. Like, full Pollyanna. My mother is concerned.
I delete the second sentence. I’m not ready to be cute with him yet.
Me: I’m so happy for you both.
Send.
The little dots appear immediately, which means he has been holding his phone.
Jonah:
thank you. zoe.
can i see you
I stare at it, then I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets.
I can’t do it. I can’t sit across from him and look at his open face and his auburn hair and the way he says my name. Not yet. Not while everything inside me is still re-arranging itself around the fact that he and I aren’t together.
I need a beat. I need the kind of distance that only time can manufacture.
Jonah, I type, I want to. I’m not going to. Not right this second. I just—I need a minute. But I’m so happy for you and Eli, I can’t stop smiling.
I read it back. I delete it because it’s time I say exactly what I want.
Me: Jonah, it’s taken me too long to take center stage and say what I want. So let me be clear: I don’t want a half-ass relationship. I want you. I want Eli. I want our lives together. If you want that, let me know.
Deep breath. Send.
Eli already knows he can call or text me anytime, day or night, and he has. A few days ago, he wrote to tell me he’s working on the R2-D2 Lego set. But I’d love to see him in person, though, if he wants, so I add that, letting Jonah know I’m in town through Sunday.
Send.
The dots come. Stop. Come again.
Jonah:
okay
okay. that’s fair.
i’ll tell Eli. he’s going to lose his mind.
I put the phone face down on the porch swing cushion. I drink my mom’s coffee. I let my heart do its thing for a minute, which today is a sort of warm bruised hum.
I leave the porch.
Main Street in Dickens at ten a.m. on a Friday is, no exaggeration, the friendliest stretch of pavement in the universe.
In three blocks, I’ve been hugged twice, asked about Seattle four times, and informed by a woman whose name I can’t remember that her daughter saw me on the news and was “so proud.” I don’t know this woman’s daughter.
I cut down the alley by the bookstore, Beaver Booksies. I’m heading next door to King Bean because my mother’s coffee is great, but I want one of Jane’s lavender lattes.
I see W2Beaver, which is on the other side of the river.
The station’s facade has always looked like the front of a dental office that added a cheesy logo. Big block letters, a cartoon beaver giving a thumbs-up, two flower planters out front that nobody waters. Today, though, there’s a hand-lettered sign in the window. NOW HIRING. ASK INSIDE.
A NOW HIRING sign.
I don’t stop, but I file it.
King Bean is warm and smells like cinnamon and the particular brand of expensive soap that Jane uses on the counters. Jane is behind the espresso machine, wearing a beanie indoors.
She sees me. “Zoe Lane! Oh, my God. Get over here. Lavender? Oat? The big one?”
“The big one,” I say. “Always the big one.”
“Sit. Sit. I’m coming around.”
I sit at the little two-top by the window. Jane is steaming milk, and shooting me looks every six seconds like she has something to say.
She slides the latte across the table and sits down across from me with her own mug. She leans in and lowers her voice to a whisper that everyone in a six-foot radius can absolutely hear.
“Have you heard?”
I sip the latte. It is perfect.
“Heard what?”
She gasps and puts a hand to chest. “You haven’t heard! Oh my God, Zoe. Where have you been? Oh right, Seattle. Whatever. Okay, listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“Marcus.”
“Marcus what?”
“Fired,” she says again. “Like, walked-out-by-security fired. Box-of-stuff fired. Monday.”
“Marcus Steele.”
“The very one.”
“What did he do?”
She waves a hand. “Where do I start? Apparently, corporate’s been looking at his numbers for months. And then there’s a whole thing with expense reports. And also—and this is the cherry on top—he tried to fire one of the new hires for, quote, being too unattractive for the front desk.”
“He did not.”
“He did. She has texts. HR has texts. It was a whole situation.”
“Oh, my God.” My heart is singing, I can’t help it.
“Wait.”
“There’s more?”
She nods. “Donny Dickens. Donny Donny. Mr. Sports. Fired. The same day. They walked them out together. Linda from accounting was at the window, and she said it was glorious.”
“On what grounds?”
“Donny was apparently—and I’m reading between Linda’s lines here—sending some very unprofessional DMs to the new weather girl. Marcus knew and did nothing.”
“That tracks.” I sit back. I take a long pull of the lavender latte. My brain smells a story. “Who’s running the station?”
“Jerry.”
“Jerry.” Now my heart’s doing a cappella.
“Yup. Corporate slid him into station manager on Tuesday morning. He showed up in a tie. Linda says he was crying a little. In a good way.”
“Jerry,” I say again, savoring it. “Jerry got the chair.”
“Jerry got the chair.”
I’m already reaching for my bag and standing.
“Zoe?”
The latte’s in my hand, and I’m already three feet from the door. “Jane. I love you. I’ll be back.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the station.”
She grins. Big, knowing, Jane grin. “Get it, girl.”
Here is what I do crossing the bridge to W2Beaver. I run the pitch in my head. I do it again. Then, one last time. I’m a producer, and this is what I do: structure a story under pressure.
The story is: Zoe Lane, prior producer of W2Beaver, newly minted executive producer at Seattle KISL with a glass-walled office, a succulent, and a new resume that W2Beaver couldn’t afford with a GoFundMe. The pitch is a sponsorship. A partnership. A back-half of what the station, frankly, owes me.
It’s a great pitch and I’m proud of it. By the time I push through the glass doors with the cartoon beaver, I’m ninety percent sure I could sell it to a brick.
The lobby is exactly the same.
Priya, the receptionist, looks up. She’s been here almost as long as the building. “Zoe Lane.”
“Priya.”
“You here for Jerry?”
“I’m here for Jerry.”
“He’s expecting you.”
I freeze. “He’s what?”
She shrugs. “He saw you on the camera coming up the block. He said, and I quote, ‘Oh, thank God.’”
I stand there, processing.
“Go on back.” Priya waves at me. “He’s in Marcus’s old office. Don’t say Marcus’s old office. He’s sensitive about it.”
“Got it.”
I walk back, knowing every inch of this hallway. The carpet’s still patterned with stains. The bulletin board still has a flyer for a 2022 chili cook-off. The light over the kitchenette still flickers.
Marcus’s old office—Jerry’s office—has the door open. Jerry’s behind the desk in a tie. Jerry has worked at this station for thirty years, and I have never seen him in a tie. His hair’s combed. A coffee mug sits on the desk that says WORLD’S HIPPEST GRANDPA.
He stands up when I come in. “Zoe.”
“Jerry. Or, sorry—Mr. Manager.”
“Don’t.” He grins, sitting back down and gesturing at the chair. “Sit. Sit. Coffee?”
“I have coffee.” I hold up the latte. “Congratulations, by the way.”
“On the bloodbath?”
“I was going to say promotion.”
“It was a bloodbath, Zoe. They led them out by the elbow.”
“Jane informed me.”
“Of course she did.”
I sit and put the latte on the corner of his desk. I take a breath.
Time to sell.
“Jerry,” I say, “I have a proposal, and I’m going to ask you to hear me out before you say no, because I know it’s going to sound—”
“Yes.”
I stop. “What?”
“Yes. Whatever it is.”
“Jerry.”
“Zoe.”
“You don’t even know what I’m pitching.”
“You’re pitching some kind of arrangement where you do work for us out of Seattle, or come back part-time, or some hybrid creative thing that I, as a man who learned to use a smartphone two years ago, do not fully understand but have been told is the future.
You’re amazing, and the station took a huge hit when you left. We need you.”
I stare at him.
“Also,” he says, “we owe you. You and I both know that too.”
I open my mouth. I close it. “I had a whole pitch.”
“I’m sure it was great. Let’s hear the short version.” He folds his hands over his stomach.
I lift my chin. “I quit Seattle and return to Dickens. W2Beaver sponsors my podcast, Zoe Knows, and we work as a team to create a segment with a more modern way to broadcast to the people. I’ll show my face as a host, because, as it turns out, I’m good behind the scenes, but better front and center. Win-win.”
“You’re right. And you got it, kid.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. You’re a hundred percent right.
We need you and you need us, and this town needs to see your face attached to this station again.
Even better if we can bring a trendier medium to broadcast. Donny Dickens has been a referendum on whether or not we deserve to keep our broadcast license.
I’ll sponsor you with what I can, which is not what Seattle’s paying you, but I will fight corporate for the rest. Whatever you want. We’ll build it around you.”
My mouth is open.
“I have been,” Jerry says, “actively praying for this conversation, Zoe. For weeks. So when Priya said you walked in, I cannot tell you the relief.”
“Jerry.”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Cool cool cool.” I laugh. My chest cracks open, and it lets the air in.
Jerry slides a legal pad across the desk and uncaps a pen, and says, “Okay. Let’s talk numbers, schedule, and what you want your title to be, because I don’t even know how a podcast works.”
I pick up the pen.
Outside, Dickens is doing what Dickens does, which is to be small, and pine-scented, and full of people who hugged me on the sidewalk.
Somewhere across town, a nine-year-old in a Flash T-shirt is, possibly at this very moment, hearing from his father that he can see me in person this weekend.
In another part of town live my parents, my sister, and one of my brothers. My other brother’s in Boise.
I don’t know what any of this is going to look like yet, but I have a pen in my hand and a man in a tie across a desk telling me yes.
I am, after five hundred miles of running, exactly where I’m supposed to be.