14. Liora Fresh #3
I poked at the rice, suddenly less hungry. "You don't know what she wants."
"I know she doesn't want to be you. Even if I think she low-key wants y—"
My neck heated up. "Z—!"
"I'ma just keep it a buck. You don't write that about somebody without feeling some kind of…passion. Hate. Whatever. But that's the whole problem. Y'all just out here living in each other's heads and y'all don't even pay rent. Plus that line about her teeth tasting—"
"Girl!"
"I'm just saying!"
I tried to stay stoic, but my shoulders hunched anyway. "It's not that simple. Not that I think you're right about that other thing, anyway."
Zaniyah raised a brow. "What other thing?"
I rubbed the back of my neck. "The…passion thing. It's competition. That's it."
"Uh huh."
"I'm not g—" I stopped, the words catching in my throat. "I don't do that. You know that. No offense."
Zaniyah got quiet for a second, stirring her drink. "Okay," she said carefully. "And that's fine. But hypothetically, if you did—"
"I don't."
"—I could see why Cam might…I don't know. Get under your skin." She met my eyes. "She's crazy talented. She's fucking gorgeous. She's not shook by you."
I rolled my eyes. "She's stubborn. And rude. And arrogant—"
I stopped. Cam's face flashed in my mind—that stupid half-smirk she does when she knows she's gotten to me, the way her eyes go soft right before they go sharp. That thing she does that makes the blood leave my brain.
"She don't turn my head." I pushed food around my plate and took a sip.
"I didn't say she did." Zaniyah took a sip, let that sit. "I'm just saying if she did, that would make sense. Cause that's a type right there."
I glared. "Yeah. Yours."
"You're impossible. I can't with you right now," Zaniyah said. "But getting back to my point—"
"Who are you, Mommy?"
She pretended as I hadn't spoken. "You're smarter than this. You're Romi Dulce. If you want to own the stage, you have to take it. Even if it means standing next to your worst nightmare in a matching sequin jumpsuit."
She had a point. I hated that she had a point.
We ate in silence for a while, the only sound the click of chopsticks on glass.
The city outside the windows looked distant, unreal—a grid of lights with nothing behind them.
It made the kitchen feel like a bunker, a safe zone.
I wondered what it would be like to just disappear for a week, let someone else handle the drama. But that wasn't me. It never had been.
Zaniyah finished her wine and poured another. "I can call your agent. Tell her you changed your mind. You can blame it on me if you want."
My head tipped back until I was staring at the ceiling. "You are so annoying!"
"As your baby sister, I am contractually obligated to annoy the shit out of you. It's my birthright."
"It's my birthright," I mocked, pouring up a glass of wine.
"If you don't say yes," she said, "I'm calling Mommy."
That got my attention. I jerked up, alarmed. "Don't you dare."
"Oh, I will," she said. "And you know what happens then.
She'll show up here, eat all your snacks, and cry about how she saved up for months to take us to that Liora Fresh concert.
How it was the first time she saw you light up over music.
Then she'll make you rehearse the tribute in the living room to make it up to her. "
I pictured it: our mother, in her house shoes, pulling out the old ticket stubs she definitely still had in a photo album. Zaniyah filming the whole guilt trip for her podcast. The threat was real. And scary.
I cracked, finally. The laugh started in my chest, slow and unwilling, but once it got going, I couldn't stop. "Oh, that's evil, Z. You're a monster."
"I learned from the best," she said, showing all her teeth.
I surrendered, raising both hands. "Fine. Call the agent. But if she puts me in a group number with Cam, I'm switching to the pop side and tanking the performance."
Zaniyah tapped at her phone, already texting. "Deal. But you're still wearing the sequin jumpsuit."
I groaned, but it was only half-hearted.
She looked up, eyes bright. "You're going to kill it, Ro. I know it."
I rolled my eyes, but the pit in my stomach loosened. Maybe she was right. Maybe the only way to beat the circus was to become the main attraction.
I watched her finish her call, voice crisp and confident as she locked in the gig. I wondered, for a second, what Cam would think when she found out I was back in. Whether she'd be relieved, or pissed, or something else entirely.
I didn't know. And for the first time in weeks, I didn't care.
The next month would be hell—rehearsals, press, the looming possibility of a live meltdown. But I'd survived worse. I'd survived the old industry, the new industry, and my sister's guilt trips.
I could survive this.
When Zaniyah hung up, she flashed me a victory sign. "Done. You're in. Don't make me regret this."
I smiled back, small but real. Poured her another glass of wine. "I'll try. But Z? You're off the clock now. Be my sister. Let's talk shit about people—"
"Like a certain tattooed rapper?"
"I hate you!"