Yeah.
This is going to work.
I can feel it.
I pull the balaclava down, the knit sliding over my jaw, warm against my cheeks. Habit. It keeps attention off me and lets me move through places without every stranger thinking they deserve a picture.
The door chimes when I walk in.
Bright lights. Pop music. Too much perfume. Racks and racks of clothes. And right in the middle of it —
Zaza.
She spots me instantly and lights up like Christmas.
“Hey!” she calls, waving me over. “Perfect timing.”
My shoulders relax.
Frankie’s beside her, pretending to inspect a rack of sunglasses and pretending very badly.
Her stance’s too stiff, like she’s bracing for impact.
I stop a few feet away. No one speaks.
You could cut the tension and sell it by the pound.
Zaza claps once. “Okay. Let’s get this over with like mature, civilized adults.”
She gestures between us.
“Talk.”
I clear my throat.
Frankie keeps pretending to examine eyewear.
“Francine,” I start. “About the other day. I shouldn’t have said half the things I said. I was annoyed. And stupid. And I treated you like… like you were still that kid from back then instead of who you actually are now.”
I get a slow blink with no eye contact in response.
God.
Zaza nods like she’s watching a therapy session on TV.
“Keep going,” she says helpfully.
Why do we have to do this in front of her?
“Also,” I add, because apparently my mouth is committed to suffering, “I should’ve asked before I ate the stuff in the fridge. I’m sorry.”
Frankie exhales through her nose.
I rub the back of my neck.
Finally, she turns her head just enough to look at the floor between us.
“I forgive you, okay?”
