Chapter 2
My fingernails tap out a frantic rhythm on the window of Zola’s black Volvo when I find her in LaGuardia’s pickup line. It’s only been a little over a month since she and Mom came out for graduation, but Zola’s always quick to match my airport energy regardless.
I yank open the passenger door, expecting to be all ta-da!
, but what comes instead are tears. A rush of them, which hit with so much force, it seems to catch us both off guard.
These aren’t your typical reunited and it feels so good tears.
These are it was self-defense, he had it coming, help me hide the body sobs of urgency.
And they’re coming from my sister.
“Shit, Zo!” I say, ignoring my bag and the swarm of cars not so patiently waiting to take our spot.
As far as I can see, there’s no blood coming from anywhere and she doesn’t look hurt. But I haven’t heard even a whimper from Zola in years—not when our dad left, not when she found out she was pregnant, not even when her garbage can of an ex declared a baby wasn’t what he “signed up for.”
“Is it the baby? Are you hurt? Is it Jason? Is it Mom?”
I pepper her with questions. Panic mounting as each goes unanswered.
The violence of the sobs racking her body makes me fear the worst, but still, she doesn’t respond—she can’t.
She’s all screams and snot, doubled over beneath the weight of whatever’s happening.
I may not know what it is, but I know my sister well enough to know it’s bad.
Zola sucks in a breath so jagged and desperate, the effort of refilling her lungs must cause physical pain.
And then she finally speaks. Or tries to.
“I got—” She chokes on another sob and I feel the sting of tears in my own eyes now too. I’d offer her the air from my own lungs if I could.
“Zo, what the fuck, I’m freaking out.”
I don’t even remember reaching for her, but both my hands are now intertwined with one of Zola’s. Her other hand hasn’t left her belly.
She tries again. “I just got…(GASP)…fucking…(GASP)…fired!!!”
“What the fuck?!”
I pluck a wad of old paper towels from the cupholder so Zola can address her leaking face. Other than that single movement, the car’s deathly still—a stark contrast to the relentless activity right outside.
Her wail gradually calms to a feeble sniffle or fifty, before being snuffed out completely.
Zola removes her hand from mine and uses it to shield her face. I wait for fresh tears to fall, but instead it’s laughter that bubbles out.
“What the fuck?” she says through grim giggles. “I mean, Kai, what the fuuuuck?!”
“I didn’t even think a pregnant person could be fired,” I say, having no actual knowledge of discrimination law.
Zola scoffs and shakes her head. “It’s a recession out there, haven’t you heard?”
“Shit,” I say, eloquently.
“That job was all I had left. And she wouldn’t even listen to my next pitch.”
She says it in a whisper. Staring off into nothing—eyes glazed, wheels turning.
I don’t know what she’s working on up there, but I’m down for whatever Zo needs, including, but not limited to, elaborate smear campaigns, bank heists, or just sitting in this arrivals lane for the rest of our lives.
Well, maybe not that last one if I have a choice.
“You want me to drive?”
She shakes her head but makes no move for the steering wheel—both hands still firmly clutching her belly.
She’s done that constantly since she found out she was pregnant. I haven’t been brave enough yet to ask if Zola’s offering the baby comfort or if it’s the other way around.
I put my full focus into avoiding eye contact with the airport security guy approaching us and try again. “You want to keep talking about it?”
She shakes her head once more, and I think that might be all I’ll get for now.
But then she speaks. “Not without ice cream.” And the ghost of a smile crosses her lips.
This is more than a flimsy attempt at comedic relief. It’s Zola harnessing her unwavering strength, even as she sits in the eye of the storm. And that’s exactly what this year’s been for her—one inescapable, unrelenting shitstorm.
She deserves a break. She needs it.
“Snack run?” I ask, considering the limited vices a pregnant woman can indulge in. “Binge some shitty movies?”
Zola sniffs just once, wipes her nose with the back of her hand, and nods weakly before shifting into gear, dryly parroting my words: “Snack run. Shitty movies.”
—
“Okay, don’t kill me,” I say, pushing the cart while my pitiful sister trails behind me. “Is there any way this could actually be a good thing?”
I warn off the Whole Foods employee beaming at us from the far end of the freezer section with a subtle shake of my head. If he so much as smiles at Zola’s belly or asks how far along she is, it will end in murder.
Ironically though, it’s Zola who cracks a smile first—and another sarcastic laugh I hardly recognize as hers.
“Oh yeah,” she says, the grating pitch of her voice another clue that I’ve misstepped. “Pregnant, single, living with my mother, and unemployed. Now there’s nothing stopping me from descending into complete and utter ruin. Thanks for the silver lining!”
She tosses a pint of Half Baked into the cart with so much hostility, I actually flinch.
But because I’m a masochist, I press on. “But you didn’t really wanna be a matchmaker forever. Spending the rest of your life convincing sad singles that fairy tales come with a money-back guarantee? The whole thing feels made-up.”
If a look could be described as a prebludgeoning, that’s what Zo gives me.
I walk my comment back just enough to make it out of here alive. “Fine. But I know you weren’t completely happy with that job. And Eliza was never gonna let your promotion happen.”
“You don’t know that,” Zola says, defending the woman whose demise I’d been plotting for our entire ninety-minute drive.
“Uh, I think we kinda do know that now.”
Regardless of the intention, I take Zola’s momentary hesitation as permission to speak freely.
“How often did you bring her ideas that she chopped and screwed and called her own? How many times did she let you do the groundwork on leads, and then, oops, conveniently leave you out of the meetings where contracts were signed under her name?”
Zola bristles and reaches for her emotional support belly.
I soften my approach. A little.
“I know you wanted her to be this mogul mentor who put your name on the door right beside hers. But sometimes lady boomers are no better than the old, rich, white guys we’ve always known were the problem.”
I lead us down the savory snack aisle, indiscriminately grabbing preservative-laden, salty goodness from the shelves. Days like this call for gluttony.
“You might’ve learned the business from her,” I continue, “but you gave her access to youth and culture. You gave her your perspective. And fuck her if she can’t see the value in that. Because now you get to go build your own fucking door to put your name on.”
Something sparks in Zola’s eyes before she blinks it away, stepping in to take control of the cart and the conversation. I relinquish both.
“It’s not that easy,” she decides, steering us toward the registers. “In case you haven’t noticed, life is getting incredibly real incredibly fast. And I’m alone. Like alone alone. My life’s a fucking mess and I’m about to be somebody’s mother.”
She says it like it’s a dirty word.
“Nobody’s coming to save me from this, Kai. I’m the one who’s supposed to do the saving now.”
Her voice breaks when she says it and I know if Zo let herself cry again, it wouldn’t be for the baby or the job. Not this time. She’d be crying for all the times she just wanted to be taken care of and all the ways she wasn’t. I know because I feel it too.
But as quickly as the emotion is there, she swallows it and continues. “I don’t need a door with my name on it. I need a paycheck. I need childcare. That’s real life.”
Zola leaves the unspoken implication hanging—the stakes for her are real, where I, as she’s explained many, many times, am still just playing Adult?. Like it’s the latest Mattel drop.
But she’s in no condition to go round for round, so I don’t take the bait. Instead, I stare into my only lifeline out of this conversation and this familiar dynamic where I’m perpetually sixteen.
I’m so busy scrolling my phone, I don’t notice it’s our turn to check out.
“I guess I’ll get this,” Zola says, making a show of unloading the cart.
You’d think there were anvils in that bag instead of plantain chips. Sometimes a sister needs a shoulder to cry on, other times she needs a punching bag. Welcome back, Zo. Happy to be of service.
“We got like ten things,” I say, waving my phone toward the conveyor belt. “Not exactly a two-man job.”
Zola relaxes a bit when I hand over my card for the snack haul. She is unemployed after all—though, as of a few days ago, so am I. But I’m not saving for two.
“Mom?” Zola guesses, when my focus shifts back to my phone.
“It’s like the exact opposite of Mom,” I say, laughing at the joke meant purely for my own enjoyment.
Zola quirks a brow in confusion.
Without explanation or warning, I twist my hand to share the absolute poetry on my screen.
“You tryna fuck?” she reads aloud. “God. Can’t you swipe left or something?”
“I could,” I tell her, deleting the first message that snuck through before I repaused my Tinder account. “But then I’m left with these.”
I hand my phone to Zola and watch as her face flashes from intrigue…to confusion…and concern…before landing squarely at horror. Like one of those little flip-books from when we were kids. The modern-day dating experience in thirty gruesome seconds or less.
She holds my phone out between her thumb and pointer before dropping it into my hand like it’s radioactive. “I feel like I should go to the clinic after reading those.”
“Little late for that,” I say, nodding toward her stomach as I carry our bags out of the store.