“Well, I definitely did,” I say, losing my appetite as I recall the rise and fall of Ro’s every inflection last night.
I’d dissected each word he launched at me and held my breath through every pause. I was up all night, reading between every line, desperate to find comfort in the things he left unsaid—in the parking lot, but also on his questionnaire. Those words, upstairs now. Stuffed into the corner of my nightstand and branded into my flesh, my mind, my heart.
But I still haven’t been able to admit that part to Zola.
“No,” she says, and I wish I was more surprised that she’s not on my side. “Some of the words might’ve gotten in, but you didn’thearhim. When I collapsed on the beach, it wasRowho picked me up,” she reminds me, as if I could forget. Her voice is rising now. “But no matter how many times he shows up, I don’t think you see him. And no matter how loud he got last night, no, I don’t think you heard him either.”
“Y’all good?” Mom asks, before either Zola or I can keep this thing going. “ ’Cause what we’re not gonna do is anything else that puts my grandbaby at risk.” She says this in a tone made infinitely more effective by that look she’s giving us. “Zola, you need to calm down. And Kai…” She searches for a directive but comes up short. Something tells me it’s not for lack of options, but an inability to choose just one. “Hand me the damn remote.”
—
By Zo’s second week of bed rest, I’m daydreaming about all the places I could shove her bell, while she peppers me with demands for everything I should be doing for XO by Zo while she’s immobilized.
“How many times do we need to go through this?” I raise my fingers to count off my running checklist. “Address books are updated, the mailings you drafted are out, new client profiles are already in the system, images from the bonfire are doing numbers on social, engagement and followers are up tenfold, and the click-through rates on your newsletters are surprisingly impressive. I thought we’d all collectively agreed to send those things to spam.”
Zola almost narrows her eyes at me when I say the last part but thinks better of it. Likely when she remembers that I am now her legs, her right hand, and a pretty hefty chunk of that baby brain she’s working with. She needs me.
I’m still waiting for athank youwhen Liv breezes through the front door I hadn’t realized was unlocked.
“Hi, Harpers,” she announces, like the breath of fresh air that she is.
“Oh, thank god,” I say, collapsing back onto the couch. “Someone else for Zola to talk to.”
“Hey,” Zola says, tossing a pillow I catch easily.
But I don’t smile or backtrack when I say, “Zo.” Because she knows it’s true.
“Happy to buffer,” Liv says, handing Zola a box of the good macarons from the city.
“Liv, you’re an angel,” Zola says, already opening her dainty box. “Unlike your friend over here, who can’t even make it through a ten-minute status update without throwing a tantrum.”
I raise my hand in protest. “A status update is something a boss can demand from their employee. Maybe it’s time for you to get one of those.”
Liv laughs. “Oh my god, can you imagine if the two of you went into business together? You’d take over the world. Or at least the Tri-State.”
Zola’s eyes ignite as the seed of Liv’s idea takes root. I won’t admit it without a negotiated title, but I wouldn’t mind padding my résumé by helping Zo out for a few more months.
My phone pings from its spot on the coffee table, and with Zola otherwise entertained for once, I can actually check it.
Thursday, 3:17pm
Ash:When can I take you out again?
“Ro?” Liv guesses, because she’s the last of us left with any hope for that reunion.
It’s been thirteen days and I still have exactly zero missed texts from Ro. Not that I’m counting.
I shake my head, returning my phone to the table. Face down. “Asher.”
Zola adjusts herself, and I already know she’s about to start with me, so I cut her off at the pass. “You think I could get like two hours off? No nurse duty, no Ro talk. Just silence?”
Liv braces herself, but Zola doesn’t say another word about it. I’m counting it as a win.
—
An hour later, we’re playing Netflix roulette. Shuffling through categories with our eyes closed, letting the chips fall where they may. On Zola’s turn, we get stuck with a low-budget horror movie that looks more like an art school project than a feature film. The writing’s horrendous, the special effects are laughable, and for some reason every character ends up shirtless in the woods at one point or another. But everyone knows, the only thing better than a scary movie is a bad scary movie.
We throw popcorn at the screen every time someone falls over a strategically placed twig or untied shoelace. We boo at the couples illogically making out when they should be trying not to die. And we pretend not to jump every time a chain saw tears through the paper-thin walls.
