“Zo, what the fuck, I’m freaking out.”
I don’t even remember reaching for her, but both my hands are now intertwined with one of Zola’s. Her other hand hasn’t left her belly.
She tries again. “I just got…(GASP)…fucking…(GASP)…fired!!!”
“What the fuck?!”
I pluck a wad of old paper towels from the cupholder so Zola can address her leaking face. Other than that single movement, the car’s deathly still—a stark contrast to the relentless activity right outside.
Her wail gradually calms to a feeble sniffle or fifty, before being snuffed out completely.
Zola removes her hand from mine and uses it to shield her face. I wait for fresh tears to fall, but instead it’s laughter that bubbles out.
“What the fuck?” she says through grim giggles. “I mean, Kai, what the fuuuuck?!”
“I didn’t even think a pregnant person couldbefired,” I say, having no actual knowledge of discrimination law.
Zola scoffs and shakes her head. “It’s a recession out there, haven’t you heard?”
“Shit,” I say, eloquently.
“That job was all I had left. And she wouldn’t even listen to my next pitch.”
She says it in a whisper. Staring off into nothing—eyes glazed, wheels turning.
I don’t know what she’s working on up there, but I’m down for whatever Zo needs, including, but not limited to, elaborate smear campaigns, bank heists, or just sitting in this arrivals lane for the rest of our lives.
Well, maybe not that last one if I have a choice.
“You want me to drive?”
She shakes her head but makes no move for the steering wheel—both hands still firmly clutching her belly.
She’s done that constantly since she found out she was pregnant. I haven’t been brave enough yet to ask if Zola’s offering the baby comfort or if it’s the other way around.
I put my full focus into avoiding eye contact with the airport security guy approaching us and try again. “You want to keep talking about it?”
She shakes her head once more, and I think that might be all I’ll get for now.
But then she speaks. “Not without ice cream.” And the ghost of a smile crosses her lips.
This is more than a flimsy attempt at comedic relief. It’s Zola harnessing her unwavering strength, even as she sits in the eye of the storm. And that’s exactly what this year’s been for her—one inescapable, unrelenting shitstorm.
She deserves a break. She needs it.
“Snack run?” I ask, considering the limited vices a pregnant woman can indulge in. “Binge some shitty movies?”
Zola sniffs just once, wipes her nose with the back of her hand, and nods weakly before shifting into gear, dryly parroting my words: “Snack run. Shitty movies.”
—
“Okay, don’t kill me,” I say, pushing the cart while my pitiful sister trails behind me. “Is there any way this could actually be agoodthing?”
I warn off the Whole Foods employee beaming at us from the far end of the freezer section with a subtle shake of my head. If he so much as smiles at Zola’s belly or asks how far along she is, it will end in murder.
Ironically though, it’s Zola who cracks a smile first—and another sarcastic laugh I hardly recognize as hers.
“Oh yeah,” she says, the grating pitch of her voice another clue that I’ve misstepped. “Pregnant, single, living with my mother,andunemployed. Now there’s nothing stopping me from descending into complete and utter ruin. Thanks for the silver lining!”
