Page 12 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
“Hey!” Mom shouts, kicking a slipper at me. Thank god she misses, because—ew.
“Sorry.” I laugh. “But let’s be real, I’m the last person under this roof who needs a life coach.”
“Hey!” Mom and Zola shout in unison this time.
“Sorry,” I say again. “But…well—”
Luckily, before I can keep digging, Zola throws back the blanket and damn near sprints into the kitchen to retrieve her giant tote bag from the island.
Mom and I stare in silence as she fishes around in there before hoisting up an unmarked black binder like a torch. Ready to set my world on fire.
“I’d like to formally announce that I’ll be opening my own matchmaking firm,” Zola declares to the room—though she still hasn’t taken her eyes off the binder.
But then shedoestake her eyes off it, and now, they’re once again looking directly at me.
“And Kaia here has generously volunteered to be my very first client.”
I whisper the next part, the way I would if approaching a rabid dog or wild animal. “Zo. Maybe I could help by like passing out business cards or watching the baby.”
She doesn’t respond. I’m not totally sure she can even hear me. Her singular focus remains on that binder, flipping through the pages with a look on her face that leaves me genuinely concerned she may be in the throes of a psychotic break.
I look to Mom for backup, but even as she cringes for my benefit, it doesn’t hide the first genuine smile I’ve seen in her eyes since I got home. I’m relieved to see signs of life, but also—traitor.
I try again. “Zo.”
“Here,” Zola says, splaying the binder open on the coffee table so I’m staring into the article that will be my demise. “I prepped this presentation for Eliza before—”
“She fired you,” I finish for her this time. If I’m going down, I’m taking everybody with me. “Anyone else need wine for this?” I ask, rising from my chair.
Zola’s glare is ice, but Mom raises a hand and I high-five it on my way to the kitchen.
Before I can pull away, Mom wraps her fingers around mine and squeezes. Just for a moment—there and gone—but there’s a silent promise in her grasp that says,I’m trying.
The whole first floor of the house is open, so there’s nowhere to truly escape, but I still spend longer than necessary uncorking the rosé I picked up earlier. Moving my body a little offers an outlet for my mounting anxiety. And it can’t hurt to put some distance between myself and Zola’sevil geniusenergy.
“An-y-way.” Zola says those three syllables more deliberately than anyone in the history of the world. A less than subtle indication that she’s reclaiming her time. “I had a pitch ready for our next social media push. It’s based on this: thirty-six questions psychologists say can lead any two people to fall in love.”
I reenter the lion’s den, snatching the printout from Zola’shands as I sip my afternoon wine like the lady of leisure I am now.
“Let’s see,” I say, flopping sideways into the recliner so my legs dangle over the armrest. A lady of leisure, sure, but nevera lady.I could swear Mom actually giggles into her wineglass.
I rattle off a few of the less invasive bullet points from Zola’s article.
“Who’s your ideal dinner guest? Would you want to be famous? Wait,” I say, getting tripped up on the third one. “Doesn’t everyone rehearse phone calls before making them?”
Mom and Zo laugh like I’ve delivered a punch line.Note to self: apparently no, everyone does not.
“I think there’s something here,” Zola says, with renewed focus.
She sounds like she’s seated at a conference table, while I’m still lying here in yoga pants, picking cookie dough chunks from my teeth.
“It’s gimmicky enough to hit on socials, but there’s real scientific backing for the client. For Kaia,” Zola clarifies.Threatens.
A few sips of rosé with a splash of midday collusion, and Mom’s almost giddy. “Yesss. Zo, you’re a genius.”
“Duh,” Zola says, flipping her boho braids behind her shoulder.
“You’re both hilarious,” I say through a snarl. “Can we please get back to picking a movie?”
