Zola doesn’t spend as much time as usual reading me for filth or defending the virtue of her professional pursuits. She’s more focused on discussing the depths of Mom’s latest depressive episode.
It briefly feels like cause for celebration that I hadn’t been forced to learn another new guy’s name till he was already past tense, but when I hear the strain in Zola’s voice, thethirteen-hundred-mile buffer I’ve built myself suddenly feels all wrong. If anyone deserves to fall apart right now, it’s Zo, but she’s on her own out there. Pretending to havehershit together so Mom can lose hers.
My phone rings again, but this time when I see the number on the screen, I pick up.
“Hey, girl!” Jess says, wielding the word like a weapon. I already know what’s coming next.
“Hi, Jess.”
“Girl—”
I bristle, wondering what Reddit post advised her to talk to her Black employees this way. Like I’ll be so disarmed by her forced familiarity that I won’t notice she’s a career bartender turned manager, who’s never successfully worked a full shift in her life. Like I’ll forget she’s never helped me when I needed coverage. Like I’ll forget I’m her begrudging employee—and not hergirlat all.
“What’s up,girl?” I say, entertaining myself.
“Girl, are you busy today? I am trying not to stay here till four.”
I’m currently alone. Taking this call in my vacant living room. Where the coffee beside me is tepid, and the floor below me is digging into my ass. I’m in a bra and sweats, with no plans of showering, and my curls are still matted from being smothered beneath Lawrence earlier this morning. But am I too busy to pick up a daytime bartending shift for a boss I can’t stand, on the first weekend of summer that everyone’s off campus? I want to say I am.
I’m about to drop my next sarcasticgirl,when my phone pings in my ear. I check it reflexively.
Rich:Hi Kaia. Been trying to get a hold of you. As you know, the renewal window on your lease has passed. I haven’t heardback about scheduling time for our prospective tenants to see the unit. But the twenty-four-hour notice of entry window has also now passed, so please consider this final notice that we’ll be on site to show the apartment at 2pm. Thanks.
Homelessness has now officially been added to my growing list of grievances. Fuck.
“Hellllo?” Jess calls, through the speaker impatiently.
“Ya know what?” I start, a decision forming on my lips along with the words. “I actually can’t. I’m getting ready to head back to Connecticut for a while.”
“Um. Did you submit for this time off? Because I don’t recall approving anything and you’re on the schedule in two days.” Curiously Jess is all business now.
“I know,girl,” I say, buoyed by the escape plan taking shape. “But family duty calls.”
I don’t listen for Jess’s response before hanging up, and I don’t check one-way flight prices before texting Zola, who must be closer to her breaking point than she’d let on, because she doesn’t poke a single hole or demand every granular detail I don’t have.
She simply says:YES!!!
2
My fingernails tap out afrantic rhythm on the window of Zola’s black Volvo when I find her in LaGuardia’s pickup line. It’s only been a little over a month since she and Mom came out for graduation, but Zola’s always quick to match my airport energy regardless.
I yank open the passenger door, expecting to be all ta-da!, but what comes instead are tears. A rush of them, which hit with so much force, it seems to catch us both off guard. These aren’t your typicalreunited and it feels so goodtears. These areit was self-defense, he had it coming, help me hide the bodysobs of urgency.
And they’re coming from my sister.
“Shit, Zo!” I say, ignoring my bag and the swarm of cars not so patiently waiting to take our spot.
As far as I can see, there’s no blood coming from anywhere and she doesn’t look hurt. But I haven’t heard even a whimper from Zola in years—not when our dad left, not when she found out she was pregnant, not even when her garbage can of an ex declared a baby wasn’t what he “signed up for.”
“Is it the baby? Are you hurt? Is it Jason? Is it Mom?”
I pepper her with questions. Panic mounting as each goesunanswered. The violence of the sobs racking her body makes me fear the worst, but still, she doesn’t respond—she can’t. She’s all screams and snot, doubled over beneath the weight of whatever’s happening. I may not know what it is, but I know my sister well enough to know it’s bad.
Zola sucks in a breath so jagged and desperate, the effort of refilling her lungs must cause physical pain.
And then she finally speaks. Or tries to.
“I got—” She chokes on another sob and I feel the sting of tears in my own eyes now too. I’d offer her the air from my own lungs if I could.
