Me:Wait, that was an invitation right?
Ro:Ha. Yes.
Me:then YES!
Me:Now I just have to survive this hangover. Thoughts and prayers, appreciated.
Ro:I’m sure you’ll pull through.
I’m watching the trailer fora new crime show and trying to decide which breakfast item pairs best with Pedialyte, when my bedroom door creaks open. A rogue braid and Zo’s belly cross the threshold first, quickly followed by the rest of her.
Her exaggerated footsteps are meant to mime stealth, but she’s about a trimester too late for that. I watch her unnatural movements toward the bed in silent amusement until we lock eyes. And it’s Zola who has the audacity to look annoyed.
“You could have said something.”
“You could’ve knocked,” I say through a stretch.
“I wanted to get the highlights from last night before you were awake enough to filter out all the good stuff.”
Zola scoots in beside me and I’m lucky she leaves me any space at all.
“What good stuff? There was no good stuff. That guy had zero redeeming qualities other than—”
“His face, his body, his salary, his pedigree, his drive, his—”
“Elitism, his flagrant chauvinism, his trigger-happy Bumble finger.”
“His what?”
“And why wasn’t I offered a peek at your groundbreaking matchmaking deck?” I ask, cutting to the chase.
Her face goes cherub, but her words are an admission when she says, “He told you?”
“Youshould’ve told me.”
“That I’d special ordered you a date with your worst nightmare? Would you still have gone?”
No.
“Yes,” is what I actually say.
But as I stand to make space for my lie, Zola’s already shaking her head. “We had to get that guy out of the way. The big bad thing you stay ready for. You had to get the fight out of your system so we could move on. Think of it like aversion therapy.”
My jaw is on the floor, stuck somewhere between being wildly offended at how she played me and being wildly impressedat how she played me.
“Well, I guess that answers the question of whether or not matchmakers answer to an ethics board.”
I wait for Zola to defend herself, but she’s already lost to me. Engrossed in whatever or whoever is on her phone.
“Jason?” I ask.
Zola lets out a heavy sigh and finds her belly with her free hand. That’s all the answer I need.
Then she reaches out a hand for me to help her out of bed too. “For someone who doesn’t want this baby, he sure has a lot of questions,” she says with a sad smile.
“You think he’s trying to come back?”
Zola doesn’t answer. She’s still protecting him with whatever she’s not saying. I’ve always known there had to be more to their story, but I don’t push for it. At a certain point, do the details even matter?
