“Sure, and I’m actually Catwoman.” Zoe rolls her eyes, then pushes me toward an empty high-top in the corner. “Drink that. It’s called a ‘Witch’s Brew-haha.’ Two of those and you won’t remember why you’ve been crying into your Cheerios all week.”
“I don’t eat Cheerios,” I say weakly. “And I haven’t been crying.” Much.
“Your puffy eyes say otherwise, sweetie.” Zoe settles into her seat with feline grace. “Now spill. What happened with Mr. Hockey God? One minute you’re engaged, the next you’re back in your apartment building a nest out of ice cream containers.”
I take a sip of my drink—it tastes like someone liquefied a pack of Skittles and added rocket fuel—and it burns all the way down. “It’s complicated.”
“Nope. Not that one again. I have all night, and you need to talk about it with someone who isn’t your reflection.”
“Fine.” The truth pours out of me, fueled by whatever hellish concoction is in my plastic cauldron. I tell her almost everything—Maisie’s remission, the accidental proposal, Jonah’s cryptic warning, Brooks practically shoving me out the door when I mentioned LA. I leave out the part about Brooks’ secret.
“So wait.” Zoe leans forward so far her whiskers nearly dip into her “Vampire’s Kiss-my-ass” cocktail. “His grandmother faked still having cancer just to get you two together? That’s either the most romantic or most psychotic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Both?” I signal the bartender for another round. “But the worst part is... it worked. I fell for him, Zoe. Hard.”
“No kidding. The question is, did he fall for you too?”
I stare into my empty cup, watching the last neon-green droplets swirl at the bottom. “I thought so. At the cabin, all those nights together... it felt real. But then as soon as I mentioned LA, he couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”
“Men are morons.” Zoe accepts fresh drinks from a server dressed as a Titanic victim. “Especially hot ones with damaged shoulders and commitment issues.”
“It’s more than that.” I struggle to find the words as alcohol soaks my brain. “It was like he was... relieved. Like he was looking for an excuse to end things.”
“Or,” Zoe says, pointing a black-painted fingernail at me, “he was trying to be noble and self-sacrificing. You know, ‘I must push away the woman I love so she can follow her dreams’ type of horseshit.”
I snort, sending a spray of green liquid. “Brooks Kingston, noble and self-sacrificing?”
“People change, Syd. Especially when they fall in love.”
Love. The word sits between us.
“Enough with Syd the Sad Sack.” Zoe slams her cup down with such force that her tail twitches. “We need to laugh. So, would you rather... have sex with a hockey player in full gear, including the mouth guard, or a smoking hot sports anchor who has some weird toe fetish?”
I choke on my drink. “What kind of choice is that?”
“A hilarious one. Answer the question, Sports Queen.”
“Fine. The hockey gear, obviously. No toe fetishes.”
Zoe grins wickedly. “Would you rather your one-night hookup see you like this,” she gestures at my Raggedy Ann ensemble, “or naked but covered in blue body paint?”
“Blue paint,” I say without hesitation. “At least then he’d be distracted by the nudity.”
“Would you rather have to share a locker room with the entire Denver hockey team after they’ve played three back-to-back games, or spend three weeks living with Maisie knowing she’s been listening through the walls every time you’ve had sex?”
“Oh my god.” I groan, dropping my forehead to the sticky table. “You’re evil.”
“I’m helping.” Zoe pats my yarn-covered head. “Laughter is the best medicine. Besides tequila.”
The game continues, each scenario more outrageous than the last, until I’m laughing so hard tears are streaming down my face, smearing whatever makeup I applied in my half-hearted costume attempt.
“Distinguished guests!” The DJ’s voice booms across the bar. “It’s time for our annual Halloween Karaoke Contest! Who’s brave enough to come up and show us what you’ve got?”
“You should do it.” Zoe’s eyes gleam.
“Absolutely not.” I shake my head, making my yarn pigtails whip around.
“Come on, it’ll be cathartic. Sing out your feelings!”
