Chapter 11
Ro: Morning. How you feeling?
Me: Like I want to crawl into a dark hole where only me and that pizza exist.
Me: And then die there
Me: I’m so sorry about last night.
Ro: Why?
Me: I think the clinical term is Emotionally Slutty?
Me: I normally wait until I’m alone to hit rock bottom.
Ro: Nah, you were fine.
Ro: Idk if this will help your hangover, but did your sister tell you she hit me up?
Ro: I had an interesting voicemail waiting for me this morning.
Me: Oh fuck. No.
Ro: Ha. I’ll wait to hit her back then.
Me: I apologize in advance for whatever she wants.
Ro: It’s work actually. For her company.
Me: The gift that keeps on giving.
Me: I can’t believe I have to do this two more times.
Ro: Your next date is when? Next Saturday?
Me: yes. Don’t remind me
Ro: looking for an out?
Me: What’d you have in mind?
Ro: I’m going to a street art exhibition in the city.
Me: OMG Yes.
Me: Wait, that was an invitation right?
Ro: Ha. Yes.
Me: then YES!
Me: Now I just have to survive this hangover. Thoughts and prayers, appreciated.
Ro: I’m sure you’ll pull through.
I’m watching the trailer for a new crime show and trying to decide which breakfast item pairs best with Pedialyte, when my bedroom door creaks open. A rogue braid and Zo’s belly cross the threshold first, quickly followed by the rest of her.
Her exaggerated footsteps are meant to mime stealth, but she’s about a trimester too late for that. I watch her unnatural movements toward the bed in silent amusement until we lock eyes. And it’s Zola who has the audacity to look annoyed.
“You could have said something.”
“You could’ve knocked,” I say through a stretch.
“I wanted to get the highlights from last night before you were awake enough to filter out all the good stuff.”
Zola scoots in beside me and I’m lucky she leaves me any space at all.
“What good stuff? There was no good stuff. That guy had zero redeeming qualities other than—”
“His face, his body, his salary, his pedigree, his drive, his—”
“Elitism, his flagrant chauvinism, his trigger-happy Bumble finger.”
“His what?”
“And why wasn’t I offered a peek at your groundbreaking matchmaking deck?” I ask, cutting to the chase.
Her face goes cherub, but her words are an admission when she says, “He told you?”
“You should’ve told me.”
“That I’d special ordered you a date with your worst nightmare? Would you still have gone?”
No.
“Yes,” is what I actually say.
But as I stand to make space for my lie, Zola’s already shaking her head. “We had to get that guy out of the way. The big bad thing you stay ready for. You had to get the fight out of your system so we could move on. Think of it like aversion therapy.”
My jaw is on the floor, stuck somewhere between being wildly offended at how she played me and being wildly impressed at how she played me.
“Well, I guess that answers the question of whether or not matchmakers answer to an ethics board.”
I wait for Zola to defend herself, but she’s already lost to me. Engrossed in whatever or whoever is on her phone.
“Jason?” I ask.
Zola lets out a heavy sigh and finds her belly with her free hand. That’s all the answer I need.
Then she reaches out a hand for me to help her out of bed too. “For someone who doesn’t want this baby, he sure has a lot of questions,” she says with a sad smile.
“You think he’s trying to come back?”
Zola doesn’t answer. She’s still protecting him with whatever she’s not saying. I’ve always known there had to be more to their story, but I don’t push for it. At a certain point, do the details even matter?
“Fucking guys,” is all I say, wrapping Zola into a hug.
She laughs into my hair. “The whole point of this is to get you to stop saying stuff like that. But I’ll give you a pass this time since your date sucked. And since you’re making waffles.”
“Oh, am I?”
“Mm-hmm. With whipped cream. Fresh. Not that crap from the can.”
“Fine,” I concede. “But you’re on coffee duty. And while you make it, you can explain why you’re hitting Ro up behind my back.”
—
“In my defense, I did ask you for his number first.”
It’s a weak argument and we both know it. “Most people would’ve waited for a response.”
“You were busy,” she says, holding a cup of coffee out to me, as either an olive branch or a bribe. “And I have a company to run. I really don’t see what the big deal is. You guys are friends now, right?”
“And what exactly does my friend have to do with your company?”
Zola’s posture visibly relaxes at my subtle interest. She finally hands over the mug as she speaks, certain she’s been forgiven.
“I need his help. I can do most of this alone if I have to, but this”—she scrolls through her photos until she finds her logo mock-up—“isn’t gonna work. This company can’t look like something I started out of my childhood bedroom.”
“Even though you did.”
“Correct, Kaia. Thank you for connecting those dots.”
“So, you want to ask Ro to help with your logo.”
When Zola warms up my coffee without my asking, I know her plans for Ro are bigger than that.
“Actually, I want him to help me with all my visuals,” she says, and I can practically hear the gears in her head turning.
“Cohesive color palettes and designs for brand recognition, graphic design help for the site; I even thought it could be cool to commission him for some bare-bones portraits that we could use in place of client photos. A not completely blind date, with a twist to set us apart. We could target creatives and entrepreneurs. They’d eat that shit up. ”
I don’t bother telling her that I actually love the idea. She’s patting herself on the back enough for us both.
“What makes you think Ro would even know how to do this?” I ask, inviting Zola to join me back down here on Earth. “Yes, the art at the shop is incredible, but what you’re describing is something totally different. You need a brand strategist or something.”
She’s pulling something up on her phone before I’ve even finished. When she slides the second barstool up beside me to share her screen, I see just how far behind I am.
“What is this?” I ask, though the website address bar makes it obvious. It’s Ro. . And it’s everything Zola just described, and so much more. A Tribeca design firm with his name. “How did you find this?”
“I googled him before I even left the parking lot that day. I can’t believe you didn’t. Look at this!”
And I am. But I’m struggling to make this new information fit into who I’d already decided Ro was. A box I hadn’t realized I’d been building him into in that familiar way I never want done to me.
I’m scrolling intently through Ro’s expertly crafted site, but I stop myself from clicking the About Me page. Whatever it says about Ro, I’d rather hear directly from him.
“Why is he working at that tow place?” I whisper, mostly to myself.
He’s just the tow truck guy.
“So, can I set up a call with him?” I hardly register the question, until Zo repeats it. “He wants you to sign off first. Can I tell him you’re good with it?”
“I’ll tell him,” I say too quickly.
Zola must hear the ownership in those words, but she doesn’t ask. She does, however, smile at me in a way that makes me wish I’d stayed in bed.
—
I’m deeply regretting adding whipped cream and maple syrup to my hangover, when Mom walks in from the garage.
“She lives,” Mom says, shopping bags dangling from her wrists. At least one of us woke up ready to carpe diem this fine Sunday. “Does sleeping till noon mean you actually had fun last night?”
“You guys are the ones who wanted me to be more social,” I say, pushing my plate away in surrender. “I’m just following orders.”
“And exactly which part of our orders were you following when you slipped into this,” Mom says, holding Ro’s hoodie in the air like a smoking gun.
Zola’s eyes go wide. “And you made me seem like the one keeping secrets! I thought you said the date was a bust.”
“Relax,” I say, yanking the sweatshirt from Zola, mid-sniff. “It’s Ro’s. He picked me up after your guy showed his ass.”
“Hellooo, plot twist,” Zola sings, salivating. “No wonder you didn’t want me calling him.”
Mom, on the other hand, looks like she’s mentally solving for pi. “Wait, this is the tow truck driver, right?”
“Yes!” Zola answers for me. “Kaia’s knight in overpriced streetwear.”
“He picks up cars off the side of the road for a living.” After seeing Ro’s site, I’m not sure this is technically true, but I’ve gone too far to double back. So I double down instead. “Knightly rescues don’t usually come with an invoice.”
“Well, was he working last night when he saved you from the big bad wolf?” Zola says with that same damn smirk.
“We’re friends.”
“So that’s a no,” Zola says, taking the final word.
She can have it.
My stomach is protesting, my head is pounding, and frankly I don’t have the energy to go another round with these two.
By the time Mom calls out, “Don’t leave! We’re just having fun,” I’m already gone.