Chapter 3
Zola and I are huddled over the coffee table, unpacking our snack haul, when Mom emerges from her Why don’t you love me?
cave of despondency. She’s in the same tattered breakup uniform I’ve seen too many times: a raggedy sweatshirt she stole from an old college boyfriend and a satin bonnet that barely covers her two-week-old wash ’n’ go.
The smile on her face when she sees us is more physiological mechanics than actual emotion, but I don’t take it personally. Real smiles come at stage two (or even three: back in the saddle).
“I didn’t realize you were back already,” she says to us both, but her arms are outstretched to Zola. Misery does love company, after all. “I got your text. I’m so sorry, baby.”
I leave space for Zola to talk about losing her job, but she forces a tight smile and reaches for a bag of chips to busy her hands instead.
And when Mom says, “I can’t believe Eliza did you like that, after all this time,” Zola’s eyes dart to mine over her can of sparkling water, silently screaming for help with sisterly telepathy, well-honed over a lifetime.
She doesn’t want to talk about this. Not now. Maybe not at all, with Mom.
“We needed to stock up on rations,” I interject.
Mom pulls me into a hug of my own and I bristle at the frailness of her body, the weakness of her embrace, and how she rests her weight on me when I hadn’t offered to prop her up.
I know she wants me to ask about all the ways whatshisname wronged her over the many weeks of their deep (and not at all exaggerated) love affair, but it’s all I can do not to peel the sweatshirt off Mom’s limp frame and search for the once-vibrant woman who used to wear this skin.
Mom releases me before collapsing onto the couch beside Zola, reaching out for Zo’s belly to greet the baby and offer what minimal support she can muster. Zola’s rigid frame visibly untenses. She lifts the unclaimed half of her blanket in invitation. Mom accepts it gladly.
“We’re about to watch something,” I announce from my seat in the worn recliner that used to be Dad’s go-to spot.
“That actually sounds perfect,” Mom says, tucking Zo’s blanket up to her chin.
Hoping to capitalize on the tenuous peace we’ve achieved, I turn the TV on, clearing my throat with the gusto of a smoker with a pack-a-day habit.
A wordless proclamation that we have officially switched gears.
For the runtime of whatever’s about to be on the screen, nobody’s allowed to bring up anything miserable. Those are the rules. I just decided.
“So, are we feeling a movie? Or should we go straight-up murder show marathon?” I’m obviously only asking to be polite. Blunt force trauma is always the clear winner.
“Ugh, no true crime,” Zola whines. “Last time you were home, I had nightmares for a month. You’re such a—”
“Choose your words wisely,” I say, slicing the air with the remote. “I’m not above reporting our shared account to Netflix. Pretty sure the penalty for that now is jail.”
Zola pretends to throw the tiniest handful of popcorn in my direction before bringing it to her mouth. “Can we please just watch something that doesn’t end in me sleeping with the lights on?”
This isn’t my first time deflecting a suggested Dateline detox—or intensive psychoanalysis to identify why I seek out humanity’s most gruesome acts as a form of entertainment.
The truth is, I just take comfort in knowing.
Knowing with absolute certainty which stories will not have a happy ending, and working backward to uncover all the reasons why.
“Boo,” I chant through a mouthful of frozen cookie dough. “You’re lame.”
“Don’t make me pull the baby card. Do you really want your nephew thinking the world is all lies, betrayal, and revenge before he’s even born?”
“Better he knows now,” I tell her.
But even as I say it, I navigate our search to the comedies. Zola’s right, laughter’s got to be better for the baby than, well—homicide.
“I’ll see your comedy,” Zola starts, “and raise you—”
“Rom-com?” Mom interjects, and though her delivery doesn’t pack much of a punch, the suggestion is a fighting word and she knows it.
I pantomime a swoon. “The one where a quirky yet adorable caricature of a woman throws her life’s work away at the first hint of validation from the shirtless D-lister promising forever?” Then I go stoic. “I’ve already seen it, and spoiler alert, the heroine ends up worse off than she started.”
Zola’s head’s been lolling since the word caricature.
“Oh god, relax. We’re picking a movie, not tearing down the patriarchy. I wish I’d had a chance to get you in front of Eliza before…” Zo trails off, before redirecting. “Maybe she would’ve known how to deal with all this.”
Zola waves in my general direction as she says it. Her hand circling my face from afar. Flashes of the Whole Foods “parking attendant” making a similar gesture burn red-hot in my memory.
“I just wish they’d call the genre what it is,” I snap.
“Fantasy! But they play in our faces with these unrealistic men, when I’m not sure they’ve ever had an actual conversation with a real one.
And it perpetuates this arcane metric of female success.
Spoon-feeding us unattainable relationship standards, while men get to consume media that fails to mention they’ll be held to any standards at all.
I take offense at that. And after what Jason did to you, you should too. ”
The moment his name leaves my lips, I regret it. Zola’s smile falls and her hands reach for her belly.
“Shit, Zo. Sorry. I just meant—”
But it’s too late. And this time, I deserve it.
“You think if I spend a couple hours watching sappy montages of people falling in love, I’m gonna forget Jason’s trash?
If the promise of happily ever after buys me some modicum of temporary peace, I don’t see what’s wrong with that.
Believe it or not we don’t all need to watch people get stuffed into freezers to remember life isn’t all rainbows. ”
I always forget how fast Zola can still big sister me into submission.
When she sees she’s got the upper hand, she presses on. “I’m the one who got knocked up, dumped on my ass, and fired! Yet somehow you get to be bitter? Please make it make sense.”
On cue, Mom’s crossed leg bounces her foot up and down.
Her foot in that nasty leopard slipper—the pièce de résistance of her breakup uniform.
She’s seated now, but the house is forever haunted by the sound of her shuffling around for dark chocolate and red wine.
Too wrecked by Tom, Dick, or Tyrone to even lift her feet off the ground.
Zola’s gaze follows mine. I don’t have to say a word—she gets it. We’ve both been trapped in Mom’s toxic cycle of he loves me, he loves me not. Only, Zola’s response was to become immune to heartbreak where I became immune to love. She still believes in fairy tales. I don’t know what I believe in.
“Fair enough,” Zola says, sounding eerily calm.
She flicks popcorn kernels from her swollen abdomen with a smirk, repositioning herself to use Mom as a footrest. Since we were kids that’s how we sit when we have something real to say. Whoever has their feet on Mom has the floor.
My eyes are on Zo, silently begging her not to call me out. I don’t have the energy for a run-in with Mom right now. Zola’s eyes are filled with amusement in return like, Relax. I’ve got this.
I’m most definitely not relaxed, but I am somewhat intrigued.
“Mom, you know I love you,” she starts. “But I think the stench of our respective romantic failures is souring poor Kaia. So, I’m gonna need you to speed up your recovery.”
Mom looks like she might burst into tears if given the chance, but before she can, Zola continues.
“Because I’ve got a project in mind that demands our full attention,” Zo says, wagging her eyebrows. “All three of us.”
Mom looks at me expectantly, like maybe I’ll be leading the next part of this family meeting, but all I can do is shrug. I’m as lost as she is.
We turn our attention back to Zola as she pulls herself into a sitting position, eyes blazing. Now I’m seriously intrigued.
Zola sets her sights on me, and I recognize that same spark she’d tried to hide earlier. But it’s back now, and this time, it’s packing heat. “Did you mean what you said at the grocery store? About helping me start my own thing? Getting my name on the door?”
In all the years I’ve known Zola, the look she’s giving me now has never not led to trouble. I manage the weakest, barely perceptible, most noncommittal nod, but Zola’s eyes ignite, like I’ve just taken a blood oath.
“It’s come to my attention, dear sister,” Zola begins, “that you’ve become too cynical for your own good. So, before this little baby shoots his giant head out of my once-bangin’ body, it will be my mission—my job—to help you find love.”
I sputter-choke on my water.
“Whoa, what? Me?” I say, wiping my chin with the back of my hand. “I thought we were gonna fix Mom.”
“Hey!” Mom shouts, kicking a slipper at me. Thank god she misses, because—ew.
“Sorry.” I laugh. “But let’s be real, I’m the last person under this roof who needs a life coach.”
“Hey!” Mom and Zola shout in unison this time.
“Sorry,” I say again. “But…well—”
Luckily, before I can keep digging, Zola throws back the blanket and damn near sprints into the kitchen to retrieve her giant tote bag from the island.
Mom and I stare in silence as she fishes around in there before hoisting up an unmarked black binder like a torch. Ready to set my world on fire.
“I’d like to formally announce that I’ll be opening my own matchmaking firm,” Zola declares to the room—though she still hasn’t taken her eyes off the binder.
But then she does take her eyes off it, and now, they’re once again looking directly at me.
“And Kaia here has generously volunteered to be my very first client.”