Chapter 17
As nostalgic as it is to fall asleep curled up with your big sister, the way you did as kids, waking up mere inches away from a fully alert set of beady brown eyes staring you down is a terror all its own.
“Hi,” she says, once I’m finished screaming.
“Jesus, Zo,” I gasp, clutching my heart as it kick-starts itself back to life.
Zola’s unbothered by my near-death experience and wastes no time. “So have you guys talked since you got home?”
“Good morning to you too,” I say, but she just stares back at me, waiting. “A little. Before I passed out,” I tell her. “But nothing to warrant that look on your face. I can promise you that.”
“No need for promises,” she says, reaching a hand out, expectantly. “Let me see.”
I could fight her on this, refuse to show her my phone, but it might actually be good for her to see with her own eyes that there’s nothing going—
“Oh my god, Kaia. What is this?”
“What’s what?” I ask, grabbing for my phone, but Zola pulls it out of reach, and begins to read aloud.
1:59am
Ro: Hey, thanks again for coming. I hope you had as much fun as I did.
Me: so glad I got to go
Ro: Me too.
Me: Thanks for the invite. It was exactly what I needed.
Ro: Oh yeah?
Me: Yeah! before the next round of Zola’s torture.
Ro: Ah. Right.
When Zola finishes reading, she’s wide-eyed. Her jaw slack, and dangling.
“What?” I ask, retrieving my phone from her now limp hand.
“You cannot be serious. Did you hear what I just read?”
“I don’t need to hear it,” I remind her. “I lived it.”
“Then how don’t you get it?”
Whatever suspense she’s hoping to create with this dramatic pause is only building frustration.
“Fine,” she says, when it’s clear I’m not going to fill the silence. “I’ll spell it out for you then: Ro. Is. Into you.”
“That’s just Ro,” I say, rolling over, so she won’t see the questions written all over my face. “If you would’ve seen him yesterday, you’d get it. He left all of Manhattan feeling like they were the main character. He’s like that with everyone.”
This conversation and Zola’s insinuations need to end.
I don’t know where I’ll be or what I’ll be doing in a matter of weeks, but I do know that I’d like for Ro and me to not have blocked each other by then.
That’s what matters to me—not decoding a glance, or a vibe, or a text.
And definitely not trying to convince Zola that Ro and I are friends—nothing messier, nothing more.
“Kaia,” she says, reaching out for my phone once more. But this time, I’m quicker.
I leap up from the bed. Out of reach of Zo’s greedy hand and her judgments. Unfortunately, in my rush to put distance between us, my comforter tangles around my foot, so now I’m fighting gravity for my life, and doing it all in white cotton booty shorts.
That look on Zola’s face and the embarrassment of my near fall ignites emotions in me that I didn’t see coming. When I open my mouth, I’m shouting.
“Enough! Zola, I’m exhausted. Ro is my friend.”
The word sounds wrong, even to me, but I’ll be damned if Zola sees me hesitate.
She’s still in bed as I retreat to the bathroom, but she’s also not above yelling this early in the morning. “Well, at least stop telling him what a good friend he is! You’re just twisting the knife!”
Alone, finally, Zo’s words bounce off the bathroom tile along with the thoughts of Ro that she’s sparked—memories, strobing and dizzying in my mind. The tight dip of his dimple, the curve of his hand, his shirt, damp with sweat, clinging to his body under the studio lights.
No, I insist, even just to myself now, forcing Ro’s blinding light to go black. Because the truth is I do care about him. More than I’d meant to.
So, I’d rather keep him just out of reach, if it means I get to keep him at all.