James points down the hall. “The whispering in the bathroom. And you’ve been staring at your phone all night.” He shoves his hands into his pockets.
I hate that I’m the reason he’s this uncomfortable in his own kitchen.
“You don’t have to stay if you’d rather go.”
I swallow hard. I guess we’re doing this. “I actually got a similar vibe from you.”
James’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead before folding in on themselves in confusion.
I smile to soften the next part. “Riley. It seems like maybe you’d rather be making ravioli with her.”
James’s face falls at the mention of her name. “You’re not the first person to say something like that. It’s why I stopped dating. I told you I was bad at this.”
“You’re not bad at all,” I say honestly. “You’re actually doing pretty good. But I bet you’d be even better if you were doing it with her.”
James places both his palms on the table and drops his head with a sigh. “I don’t even remember any stories that aren’t about her. But we’ve been done for a long time.”
This is the closest I’ve been to one of these declarations in real life, so I’m not sure I’m doing it right. But James looks so broken that I try anyway.
“Is there a deadline on passion?”
James lifts his head at hearing his own words mirrored back to him. And now he’s smiling.
“Okay,” I say, assessing the evening’s damage and the deconstructed meal in front of us. We’re completely off book now. “I still need food,” I start. “And it seems like maybe you could use a friend? Maybe we just agree that’s what we’re doing tonight. Low stakes. High gluten. Friends.”
He rolls his shoulders back, standing to his full height before extending his hand to shake mine.
“Deal.”
19
Zola watches me get unreadyas I tell her about the date-shaped thing she sent me on tonight. It’s more of an oral recipe guide than a date recap. James’s lobster ravioli deserves a little commotion.
“So, you ended the date,” she says, once I’ve finished. “But you were honest and actually nice, and you still got dinner out of it. It all sounds very grown-up of you.” She takes a belabored seat at the window bench. “Minus hiding in the bathroom, I’m calling it progress.”
The smirk she wears is meant to look playful, but her eyes betray her. She’s tired. And not just because she waited up for me again. For the first time since I walked in tonight, I realize how uncharacteristically quiet Zola’s been. Even through my recap.
She drops her head to the glass at her back and her eyes close for a beat longer than a blink.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, finally.
“Just ironic that I’m the one doling out advice right now,” she barely whispers.
No words follow the heavy sigh that escapes her lips.
The silence between us remains—untouched and suffocating—but it isn’t mine to fill.
“Look at me,” she says, her hands framing her belly. “How did I let this become my life? How did I play house with Jason for so long without noticing I was the only one playing?”
“No,” I say, rushing to defend her from herself. “None of us saw that coming. He was covert until he wasn’t, and you were—”
Zola’s already shaking her head as she cuts me off. “Things had been off for years. But I held on to us till there was nothing left. I was so scared to end up alone that I became the person I grew up resenting. And I didn’t even notice.” She doesn’t flinch as she says it, but I do. “I didn’t notice until it destroyed us.”
Without permission, my eyes shift from my sister to the sky at her back. The light of the moon is as spectacular as it is unrelenting. I want to move Zola out from under its spotlight—tell her she doesn’t have to perform this monologue. I want to suggest we do literally anything else in the world, but shewantsto say it. I know she does. So, I listen.
“I haven’t wanted to look at my stuff,” she continues. “My part in all of it. That’s probably why I jumped at this.” She gestures toward me, before her hands fall to her lap, balling into fists as she pushes on.
When she meets my eyes again, she lets her tears fall freely. Finally.
