She tosses a pint of Half Baked into the cart with so much hostility, I actually flinch.
But because I’m a masochist, I press on. “But you didn’treallywanna be a matchmaker forever. Spending the rest of your life convincing sad singles that fairy tales come with a money-back guarantee? The whole thing feels made-up.”
If a look could be described as aprebludgeoning,that’s what Zo gives me.
I walk my comment back just enough to make it out of here alive. “Fine. But I know you weren’t completely happy withthatjob. And Eliza was never gonna let your promotion happen.”
“You don’t know that,” Zola says, defending the woman whose demise I’d been plotting for our entire ninety-minute drive.
“Uh, I think we kinda do know that now.”
Regardless of the intention, I take Zola’s momentary hesitation as permission to speak freely.
“How often did you bring her ideas that she chopped and screwed and called her own? How many times did she let you do the groundwork on leads, and then,oops,conveniently leave you out of the meetings where contracts were signed underhername?”
Zola bristles and reaches for her emotional support belly.
I soften my approach. A little.
“I know you wanted her to be this mogul mentor who put your name on the door right beside hers. But sometimes lady boomers are no better than the old, rich, white guys we’ve always known were the problem.”
I lead us down the savory snack aisle, indiscriminately grabbing preservative-laden, salty goodness from the shelves. Days like this call for gluttony.
“You might’ve learned the business from her,” I continue, “but you gave her access to youth and culture. You gave her your perspective. And fuck her if she can’t see the value in that. Because now you get to go build your own fucking door to put your name on.”
Something sparks in Zola’s eyes before she blinks it away, stepping in to take control of the cart and the conversation. I relinquish both.
“It’s not that easy,” she decides, steering us toward the registers. “In case you haven’t noticed, life is getting incredibly real incredibly fast. And I’m alone. Likealonealone. My life’s a fucking mess and I’m about to be somebody’smother.”
She says it like it’s a dirty word.
“Nobody’s coming to save me from this, Kai. I’m the one who’s supposed to do the saving now.”
Her voice breaks when she says it and I know if Zo let herself cry again, it wouldn’t be for the baby or the job. Not this time. She’d be crying for all the times she just wanted to be taken care of and all the ways she wasn’t. I know because I feel it too.
But as quickly as the emotion is there, she swallows it and continues. “I don’t need a door with my name on it. I need a paycheck. I need childcare.That’sreal life.”
Zola leaves the unspoken implication hanging—the stakes for her are real, where I, as she’s explained many, many times, am still just playing Adult™. Like it’s the latest Mattel drop.
But she’s in no condition to go round for round, so I don’t take the bait. Instead, I stare into my only lifeline out of this conversation and this familiar dynamic where I’m perpetually sixteen.
I’m so busy scrolling my phone, I don’t notice it’s our turn to check out.
“I guess I’ll get this,” Zola says, making a show of unloading the cart.
You’d think there were anvils in that bag instead of plantain chips. Sometimes a sister needs a shoulder to cry on, other times she needs a punching bag.Welcome back, Zo. Happy to be of service.
“We got like ten things,” I say, waving my phone toward the conveyor belt. “Not exactly a two-man job.”
Zola relaxes a bit when I hand over my card for the snack haul. Sheisunemployed after all—though, as of a few days ago, so am I. But I’m not saving for two.
“Mom?” Zola guesses, when my focus shifts back to my phone.
“It’s like the exact opposite of Mom,” I say, laughing at the joke meant purely for my own enjoyment.
Zola quirks a brow in confusion.
Without explanation or warning, I twist my hand to share the absolute poetry on my screen.
