Chapter 9
Ro: You’re really not gonna give me anything?
It’s been a little over two weeks since I left Ro with his questionnaire at the shop. Two weeks since Zola gave her lukewarm approval of my second attempt at my own questionnaire and scheduled dates with three potential matches. And two weeks since Ro has let me know a moment of peace.
Ro: Tell me something small. Ideal physical type.
Ro: I could probably guess that if I tried.
And now that I’m officially getting ready for date number one, Ro’s all but foaming at the mouth for intel.
Me: I’d be so mad if he showed somebody my answers.
Ro: But you know he already has, right?
Oh great. A new fear to fixate on.
Ro: Come on, do it for the tow truck guy
Me: You already forgave me for that. You can no longer use it against me.
But I’m smiling as I return my diffuser to its drawer. I’m obviously going to tell him.
I comb my memory for some personal favorites.
Me: Fine *clears throat*
Me: When asked about his ideal physical type, our first bachelor says it’s “A girl who looks like my future wife.”
Ro: YOOOO!
Ro: That’s deep af
Me: That’s a line.
Ro: well that line is deep af
Ro may actually be worse than Zola. He sounds like he’s over there wrist-deep in a bowl of popcorn, giddy at the thought of my impending torture. But turning this whole thing into one long-running joke with Ro is also the only reason I’ve forgotten I’m supposed to be dreading it.
Me: Lol I can’t with you.
Me: Ok, I gotta finish getting ready.
Me: Wish me luck. And keep an eye out for familiar sounding Amber Alerts.
Ro: I think those are for kids.
Me: Oh.
Ro: Idk what they call it when someone takes an adult woman hostage.
Me: Pretty sure it’s called a relationship.
I flip my head from side to side, fluffing and teasing until my curls achieve their optimal poof. It’s only when my phone is quiet and I’m alone deciding on a matte or glossy lip that the first spike of panic finally hits.
This setup has gone from a threat to a deal to a punch line. And now it’s a reality.
Somewhere across town, there’s a man who’s conjured up an image of a woman in his mind that I’ll now be judged against. So when the real me shows up instead of the questionnaire version he’s already decided best suits him, I get to watch as he tries to fit me back into the box he’s built me into.
And he gets to spend the evening gauging just how easily me and my box fit into his world.
The knock at my bedroom door interrupts my thoughts, but the dread remains.
“You ready?” Zola’s never been much for small talk.
Mom’s standing beside her in the doorway, but her contributions begin and end at telling me how pretty I look. Over the past couple weeks, Mom’s role in Zola’s enterprise has become increasingly less pronounced.
Actually, her presence has been lacking overall.
I’ve even been the one playing stand-in baby daddy at Zola’s doctor’s appointments and birthing classes.
And while sister wives-ing this pregnancy is one of the reasons I’m home, I could’ve gone a lifetime without learning how to use the word perineum in a sentence, or knowing that Zola’s should be oiled in preparation for the big day.
More than that, though, historically speaking, Mom going ghost has only ever meant one thing—but I can’t think about her love life right now. Not when she and Zola have already zeroed in on me and mine.
“I was just about to head out,” I say, as Zola follows me into the suddenly too-small and too-warm bathroom. Nerves heat my face as she watches me silently in the mirror.
“No,” Zola says, finally turning to face me in the flesh. “Are you ready?”
The folder she holds in the air is marked with my first and last name, as if she’d otherwise confuse mine with one of her other nonexistent clients. The manila offering is an invitation behind the wizard’s curtain.
“If I’m late because of this cloak-and-dagger reveal,” I say, like I’m not dying for a peek, “I don’t want to hear a word.”
I can actually hear Mom holding her breath across the room now. Or shit, maybe that’s me. I hope everyone will join me in pretending not to notice I’m now in a full sweat.
Zola opens the folder, and…
Okkkkay, bachelor number one! Okkkkay, Zola!
I’d seen his questionnaire that’s now clipped behind the Polaroid, but the picture is new, and dare I say, Hemsworth adjacent in the best way. This may not be a complete waste of time after—
“Excuse me, what was that?” Zola’s accusatory tone halts my movements. “Did you just try to swipe right?” She continues before I can deny the fact that I absolutely just attempted to swipe this very nondigital photo of this very nondigital man. “Mom, you saw that right?”
“There was something on the picture,” I decide. But the lie’s so flimsy, I can hardly keep a straight face as I deliver it.
“Did I call it or did I call it?” Zola says smugly, before joining Mom on the bed.
I do my best not to sound petulant when I bite back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The question was directed at Zola, but Mom steps in, likely to take some sting out of the answer. “I’d wanted you to get the pictures when you got the questionnaires. To get you excited—”
“And I,” Zola starts in, “knew your brain had become so hardwired for the casual online thing that we’d have to force substance on you first, and make the physical piece an afterthought. We have to break these patterns, Kai. They’re not serving you.”
I pause to make sure we’re still talking about me and not the woman currently seated to Zola’s left.
I want to again scream that I’m not the one with the problem, but I also want to get to the restaurant so I can see what this guy’s working with below his headshot, so I snap a quick pic of my date for Liv and close the file.
She hasn’t been as involved in the lead-up as I’d expected her to be, but she’s going to want to see this.
“Either way,” I say, puckering into the mirror before turning to smack my lips at Zola for dramatic effect. “I would very much like to thank you for your service. Five stars.”
No part of me expects to fall in love with this guy, but if the night ends with me falling into his bed, XO by Zo may have its first very satisfied customer.
Zola elbows Mom like she anticipated this moment. “Careful where you’re pointing those things, little sister.” Synchronized smirks hit their lips like they’ve rehearsed this part. “Universal matchmaking code dictates no sex till monogamy.”
My shoulders sag in disbelief. “You one thousand percent just made that up.”
Zola’s eyes dance, as if my forced celibacy is her true victory. “Check the contract,” she says, referring to the single piece of paper, smeared with remnants of chocolate croissants. A paper that would never hold up in a courtroom. I don’t think.
I yank my purse onto my shoulder and spit parting words at Zola. “You are—and I can’t stress this enough—fucking killing me.”
“Language,” Mom says, the same way she’s been reflexively parroting since we were kids.
“I gave you access to my social schedule,” I continue. “I don’t remember giving you rights to my—”
“Flower?” Mom suggests.
“Ew,” Zola says. And this time she has the decency to look just as disgusted as I am. “Mom.”
Mom throws her hands up in surrender. “Kidding.”
“Well, either way,” I say, on my way out the door. “My peony. My choice.”
—
The host stand is abandoned when I walk into Antonio’s at 8:03. I expect the incoming texts from Zola to be a request for confirmation that I haven’t stood her guy up, but as usual, Zo’s full of surprises.
8:03pm
Zola: you and Ro are good now right?
Zola: can you send me his number?
Me: um. why?
She’s still typing a response when the host finally emerges to ask how he can help. His words are all business, but his wandering eyes are drifting down to my peekaboo cleavage—currently more peek than a-boo.
Tonight’s the first time I had an excuse to dig my outside clothes out of my suitcase, and it feels good to look good.
Being back home has transformed me from a fully functioning human person back into somebody’s daughter and little sister.
I needed to be reminded who the fuck I am.
That’s why I got dressed tonight—not, I assure you, for this greasy teenager’s approval.
I clear my throat and his eyes dart up almost impatiently. Like he’s annoyed to find there’s a human head resting atop the boobs he’d been ogling.
“I’m meeting someone,” I say, and he looks even more disappointed to realize the boobs also speak. “The reservation should be under Harper or Zola.”
The reservation is actually under XO by Zo (brand recognition and all that), but I’d rather call for Bloody Mary three times in the bathroom mirror than utter those six letters in public.
He scans the reservations list until his bushy brows furrow. Yes, that one, I silently confirm by raising my own. He registers the challenge on my face, and for the first time since I walked through the door, the smile on his lips is replaced by something that actually borders on professionalism.
“For two?” he confirms, grabbing an assortment of menus from the host stand. “You can follow me.”
I’m relieved to find the small candlelit table empty as we approach—I need a minute to collect myself. I’m less relieved when the Peeping Tom host lingers beside me as I settle into my seat.
“Surprise,” he says, and a pang of terror fires from my erratically beating heart to my fingertips. If Zo pops out from behind a planter and confesses to catfishing me with a seventeen-year-old on his last dose of Accutane, I swear to god.
I’m typing out a text to Liv that simply reads Chris Hansen—our long-shared predator alert—when Peeping Tom speaks again.
“This is my section. I’m gonna be taking care of you tonight.”
“Oh,” I say, my panic only somewhat assuaged. “Lucky me.”
—