“I mean, you definitely completedsomeone’squestionnaire.”
She stands, dumping my coffee-colored sludge into the sink before filling the kettle with fresh water and scooping grounds into the press. I scan the pages, attempting to see it through Zola’s eyes, but I don’t get it.
She swipes the papers from my hands, and this time, to my horror, she clears her throat to read it aloud.
“I wish I had someone with whom I could share…” she begins. “And you—my sister, Kaia Harper—wrote:my hopes and dreams for the future.”
“And…?”
“And, no the fuck you don’t. Who is this person?” she asks, turning the pages over in her hands.
“What did you want me to put?Someone with whom I could share my dry humor, dark love of crime TV, and an extra-large pizza so I don’t have to cook?”
She shrugs. “I mean…”
The fact that I actually tried and still managed to fail is more proof I didn’t need that this plan has been trash from go.
“I thought you’d be happy. I gave you what you wanted.”
“WhatIwanted?” Zola asks.
“Your exact words were:shiny, happy success story.” My tone is more bitter than coffee ground sludge.
The kettle’s whistle cuts through our debate like a referee calling halftime. But when Zola joins me again at the island, I know there will be no breaks given.
“So, in order to find you a match, you assumed I’d want you to pretend to be a different person?”
It feels like a trick question.
“Kai,” she starts again. “When did you get like this?”
The thing about the telepathic bond of sisters is that you don’t get to decide how or when they use it. Zola’s face tells me she can more thansensemy internal debate—she can actually hear it.
“Say it,” she tells me.
But I’m so used to choking the words down that it’s nearly impossible to let them past the vise I secured years ago.
“What’s going on?” Zola asks, her prodding gentle. The light touch is my undoing.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit.
“Answer questions honestly?” she asks, holding up the questionnaire. “Yeah, that’s pretty obvious.”
“If someone could leaveyou,” I say, meaning every word of this, “what hope is there for the rest of us?
“And then there’s Mom,” I continue, but Zola stops me. Physically raising her hand before I can say more.
“Will you quit with this? This isn’t about me and Mom. It’s about you. You’re young and hot and so smart it’s fucking annoying. But for some reason you’ve preemptively become this embittered old lady who avoids anything meaningful or real. I don’t want that for you. You deserve to be screwed over by guys in your own unique way. To learn to hate them slowly. Over many, many years. Like the rest of us.”
“Is that the new company motto?” I ask. “Because if so, it’s fire.”
Zola slaps my arm on her way back to the stove. “This isn’t about turning you into someone you thinktheywant—fuck that. These guys are gonna be lucky to get to know you. But it’s gotta beyou.And this,” she says, chucking my questionnaire into the recycling bin, “ain’t it.”
—
What I’mnotgoing to do is fill out a whole new questionnaire with Zola watching over my shoulder. Which is why I’m now driving around aimlessly with a fresh set of the same thirty-six questions screaming for attention from their spot in the center console.
At least, I’d thought I’d been driving aimlessly. It’s not until I’m parked outside the tow yard, wondering if Ro works on Thursdays, that I realize my subconscious had very specific plans of its own.
