Me:That’s a line.
Ro:well that line is deep af
Ro may actually be worse than Zola. He sounds like he’s over there wrist-deep in a bowl of popcorn, giddy at the thought of my impending torture. But turning this whole thing into one long-running joke with Ro is also the only reason I’ve forgotten I’m supposed to be dreading it.
Me:Lol I can’t with you.
Me:Ok, I gotta finish getting ready.
Me:Wish me luck. And keep an eye out for familiar sounding Amber Alerts.
Ro:I think those are for kids.
Me:Oh.
Ro:Idk what they call it when someone takes an adult woman hostage.
Me:Pretty sure it’s called a relationship.
I flip my head from side to side, fluffing and teasing until my curls achieve their optimal poof. It’s only when my phone isquiet and I’m alone deciding on a matte or glossy lip that the first spike of panic finally hits.
This setup has gone from a threat to a deal to a punch line. And now it’s a reality.
Somewhere across town, there’s a man who’s conjured up an image of a woman in his mind that I’ll now be judged against. So when the real me shows up instead of the questionnaire version he’s already decided best suits him, I get to watch as he tries to fit me back into the box he’s built me into. And he gets to spend the evening gauging just how easily me and my box fit intohisworld.
The knock at my bedroom door interrupts my thoughts, but the dread remains.
“You ready?” Zola’s never been much for small talk.
Mom’s standing beside her in the doorway, but her contributions begin and end at telling me how pretty I look. Over the past couple weeks, Mom’s role in Zola’s enterprise has become increasingly less pronounced.
Actually, her presence has been lacking overall. I’ve even been the one playing stand-in baby daddy at Zola’s doctor’s appointments and birthing classes. And whilesister wives-ingthis pregnancyisone of the reasons I’m home, I could’ve gone a lifetime without learning how to use the wordperineumin a sentence, or knowing that Zola’s should be oiled in preparation for the big day.
More than that, though, historically speaking, Mom going ghost has only ever meant one thing—but I can’t think about her love life right now. Not when she and Zola have already zeroed in on me and mine.
“I was just about to head out,” I say, as Zola follows me into the suddenly too-small and too-warm bathroom. Nerves heat my face as she watches me silently in the mirror.
“No,” Zola says, finally turning to face me in the flesh. “Are youready?”
The folder she holds in the air is marked with my first and last name, as if she’d otherwise confuse mine with one of her other nonexistent clients. The manila offering is an invitation behind the wizard’s curtain.
“If I’m late because of this cloak-and-dagger reveal,” I say, like I’m not dying for a peek, “I don’t want to hear a word.”
I can actuallyhearMom holding her breath across the room now. Or shit, maybe that’s me. I hope everyone will join me in pretending not to notice I’m now in a full sweat.
Zola opens the folder, and…
Okkkkay, bachelor number one! Okkkkay, Zola!
I’d seen his questionnaire that’s now clipped behind the Polaroid, but the picture is new, and dare I say, Hemsworth adjacent in the best way. This may not be a complete waste of time after—
“Excuse me, what was that?” Zola’s accusatory tone halts my movements. “Did you just try toswiperight?” She continues before I can deny the fact that I absolutely just attempted to swipe this very nondigital photo of this very nondigital man. “Mom, you saw that right?”
“There was something on the picture,” I decide. But the lie’s so flimsy, I can hardly keep a straight face as I deliver it.
“Did I call it or did I call it?” Zola says smugly, before joining Mom on the bed.
I do my best not to sound petulant when I bite back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
