Don’t Tell Me How It Ends

Chapter 1

Any other night, upon hearing my vibrator’s garbled last gasp, I’d give myself a mental lecture on personal responsibility and shimmy back into my underwear.

It’s my own fault for having organizational practices that are more feral than feng shui.

That charger could be anywhere. But I’d been depending on the familiar distraction—battery operated as it may be—to ward off my mental crisis—existential as it may be.

I swap out the lifeless pink silicone in my hand for the phone, but somewhere between the lock screen and my six emotional support streaming accounts, an errant swipe pulls up the hours-old notification that sent me rummaging through my nightstand in the first place.

There’s nothing for my landlord and me to discuss; he knows I can’t afford the lease renewal alone.

I know I can’t afford the lease renewal alone.

We just disagree as to whether or not that warrants a phone call.

I kick free of the bedsheets. No comfort watch is going to be enough to turn my brain off tonight.

I’m still in need of an out-of-my-head full body comfort of sorts.

So, biting back the bitter taste of preemptive regret, I swan dive into the seventh circle of hell, unpausing my in case of emergency dating apps.

If silencing this mounting quarter-life dread doesn’t constitute an emergency, I don’t know what does.

The bars on Mass Ave. close in thirty minutes, so there’s no time for discretion.

I’ve got to be quick if I want to get in on the desperate apocalypse now Tinder scramble that’s already underway out there.

So, bomb fishing it is—swiping right on anyone in this half-empty college town who looks like they might be up-to-date on their shots.

A flurry of new messages signals my success—a word I’m using extremely loosely at the moment.

Peter (28) comments on one of my mirror selfies: “Wife!” With a few heart emojis for good measure. No doubt it’s meant to be a compliment, but with that hairline, the word reads more like a threat. Godspeed, Peter.

“Hey!” writes J (34). “You’re absolutely stunning. Would love to take you out and get to know you.” Sorry, J, but if you’re only giving up one letter, I’d bet there’s one word to describe your actual relationship status: married. Send my regards to the Mrs.

Carlos (32) wants to know, “Do you enjoy cooking? Do you like to dance? Do you enjoy a good film? Do you vote? What’s the last book you read?

Do you hope to own a house one day?” And without even pausing to confirm that I’m present and accounted for, or at the very least, human, he continues waving his red flags high.

“I’m looking for my soulmate. Marriage, kids.

Let’s make sure we’re on the same page.”

Not even on my darkest day, Carlos.

“We’re all energetic beings,” says Marcus (30). “All matter’s made up of atoms, with charged particles, that vibrate at a certain frequency, also known as energy.” Damn. It’s always the cute ones.

And Lawrence (25) can’t even spare the thumb dexterity required to tap a question mark when he asks, “Wyd”

He’s perfect.

Me: How fast can you get Downtown?

—

I’ve watched enough Dateline over the years to know that giving Lawrence my home address may very well have just set the stage for my own one-hour special. Which is why I also know I have to do this next thing:

2:34am

Me: Hey, just in case

I send the text along with a screenshot of Lawrence’s profile and my location (or last known whereabouts, should things end poorly).

If I’d known Zola was up, I would’ve texted one of the other ten million or so infinitely less judgmental people in the world.

My sister’s been reliably knocked out by sundown since that little pink plus on a stick changed everything, but I must’ve caught her mid-bathroom run or in the throes of a WebMD doom spiral, self-diagnosing rare birth anomalies.

Even the ping my phone makes when she responds sounds unusually shrill.

2:36am

Zola: Jesus Kai. You of all people know how dangerous this is.

She’s not wrong.

I may have slightly understated my true crime–viewing habits.

It’s not just that “I’ve watched enough Dateline.

” It’s that I’ve memorized entire seasons of crime scene evidence, could rank my top fifty episodes chronologically, and in addition to recognizing the actors in various dramatizations, I can also recite their past credits as jilted lovers, handsome bartenders, or hiker #3.

But I’m not trying to get into all that while I speed-shave in the bathroom sink.

Zola: me and Eliza use your “dates” as a scare tactic in client meetings now

Her text doesn’t achieve its maximum impact since I could’ve scripted the exchange myself.

Nothing in this world gives Zo more joy than talking shit on other people’s life choices, and in Eliza, she found a boss who promised to reward her for it.

I still can’t believe professional matchmaking is actually a thing, but apparently Manhattan’s elite are just lonely enough to liquidate retirement accounts for their shot at happily ever after.

Me: Shouldn’t I have to sign a waiver for that?

Zola: Says the woman inviting strange men over without one.

Me: Valid.

Zola: if leveraging your dating fails gets me one step closer to a promotion, it’s your sisterly duty to support that. I bet Eliza does it at my review this week when she hears what I’m working on next.

Of course, I support her, I just can’t get excited about the same mythical promotion Zo’s been chasing since I left for school four years ago.

Being loyal to a job for this long without any upward movement is the saddest sort of pick me behavior.

Zola stays pressed, professionally. I’m sure she has her reasons, but since none of those reasons are reflected in her paycheck, I don’t ask.

Dating fails? I type instead. Who’s dating?

Zola: Precisely.

This bravado is exactly why you shouldn’t be allowed to stay with your high school sweetheart beyond high school. Zola’s never been out in these streets, dodging the litter and oncoming traffic that is men. Picking a forever guy off the class roster in homeroom doesn’t exactly constitute expertise.

At least, he was supposed to be forever. Smith comma Jason played us all. And after more than a decade together, his parting gift to Zola is a lifetime spent picking up the pieces of the thing he blew up from the inside.

Me: How’s my favorite nephew doing in there?

Zola: Already using the baby to get yourself out of trouble?

Me: is it working?

The next ping to my phone is accompanied by Zola’s latest ultrasound images. I send a flood of heart eyes, with the hope Zo’s maternal instincts will override the hating big sister ones.

Me: Ah! He has my nose.

Zola: His face is currently smashed against my pelvis.

Me: His face is perfect and so is he. I thought you were gonna facetime me into the 3D one! can’t believe I missed it.

Zola: You weren’t the only one.

Her text bubbles have my full attention as they repeatedly appear and vanish, until finally Zola’s face, not her words, fills the screen.

Before my phone completes its first ring, I’m already answering the incoming call.

“You okay?”

“Damn,” she says through a laugh that’s noticeably humorless. “Who’s got you all eager in the middle of the night?”

“Right now, you,” I say, attempting to sound as earnest as one possibly can with a heel slung over a porcelain sink.

“I can’t remember the last time you were up past dusk, and now you’re calling at”—I pull the phone from my ear long enough to check the time and ignore the OMW text from Lawrence. “Almost three a.m.”

I briefly consider, and promptly decide against, dry-shaving my bikini line. I’m working way too hard for a guy who communicates exclusively in three-letter shorthand.

“What’s going on?” I ask, plodding over to my underwear drawer.

“It’s nothing. I’m being dumb.”

But I already know she’s not. Dumb has never been Zola’s style.

“It’s just that scan,” she says. “It was the one thing I really didn’t wanna do alone. And Jason knew it. I set it for the ‘only time’ that worked for him. Had to call outta work and everything. But, of course, he still canceled. Who knew you could be a single mom before becoming a mom at all?”

Her words stop me in my tracks. Zo was never supposed to be a single mother.

It’s not the kind of thing anyone plans on, but Zola didn’t just doodle boys’ names in the back of her notebooks, she brainstormed LLC’s.

Her vision board didn’t end with “I do.” That’s where it began.

But no matter how meticulous her five- and ten-year plans, Jason was Zola’s X factor.

The one thing she couldn’t control for. And because his shit didn’t add up, Zola’s now the thing she swore she’d never become.

Before I can metaphorically cock back to light his deadbeat daddy-to-be ass up, Zola rushes on.

“And Mom’s being newly ghosted by some guy with terrible plugs and transition lenses who failed to mention he’s unethically nonmonogamous, and not looking for anything serious. So, of course, that’s her entire personality now.”

And I know that—not the Jason stuff—is where Zola wants the conversation to remain. It’s why she’s led me to our forever favorite rabbit hole: Mom.

We’ve all got that friend who’s more committed to her chronic fuckboy drama than anything else in the world, certain the key to her very happiness is singular and man shaped.

She’s got her breakup script down to a tear-filled monologue about how she’s going to die alone, and you have to be all, “He never deserved you. Ain’t nobody checkin’ for him. ”