Page 34 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
The question was directed at Zola, but Mom steps in, likely to take some sting out of the answer. “I’d wanted you to get the pictures when you got the questionnaires. To get you excited—”
“AndI,” Zola starts in, “knew your brain had become sohardwired for the casual online thing that we’d have to force substance on you first, and make the physical piece an afterthought. We have to break these patterns, Kai. They’re not serving you.”
I pause to make sure we’re still talking about me and not the woman currently seated to Zola’s left. I want to again scream that I’m not the one with the problem, but I also want to get to the restaurant so I can see what this guy’s working with below his headshot, so I snap a quick pic of my date for Liv and close the file. She hasn’t been as involved in the lead-up as I’d expected her to be, but she’s going to want to seethis.
“Either way,” I say, puckering into the mirror before turning to smack my lips at Zola for dramatic effect. “I would very much like to thank you for your service. Five stars.”
No part of me expects to fall in love with this guy, but if the night ends with me falling into his bed, XO by Zo may have its first very satisfied customer.
Zola elbows Mom like she anticipated this moment. “Careful where you’re pointing those things, little sister.” Synchronized smirks hit their lips like they’ve rehearsed this part. “Universal matchmaking code dictates no sex till monogamy.”
My shoulders sag in disbelief. “You one thousand percent just made that up.”
Zola’s eyes dance, as if my forced celibacy is her true victory. “Check the contract,” she says, referring to the single piece of paper, smeared with remnants of chocolate croissants. A paper that would never hold up in a courtroom.I don’t think.
I yank my purse onto my shoulder and spit parting words at Zola. “You are—and I can’t stress this enough—fucking killing me.”
“Language,” Mom says, the same way she’s been reflexively parroting since we were kids.
“I gave you access to my social schedule,” I continue. “I don’t remember giving you rights to my—”
“Flower?” Mom suggests.
“Ew,” Zola says. And this time she has the decency to look just as disgusted as I am. “Mom.”
Mom throws her hands up in surrender. “Kidding.”
“Well, either way,” I say, on my way out the door. “My peony. My choice.”
—
The host stand is abandoned when I walk into Antonio’s at 8:03. I expect the incoming texts from Zola to be a request for confirmation that I haven’t stood her guy up, but as usual, Zo’s full of surprises.
8:03pm
Zola:you and Ro are good now right?
Zola:can you send me his number?
Me:um. why?
She’s still typing a response when the host finally emerges to ask how he can help. His words are all business, but his wandering eyes are drifting down to my peekaboo cleavage—currently morepeekthana-boo.
Tonight’s the first time I had an excuse to dig my outside clothes out of my suitcase, and it feels good to look good. Being back home has transformed me from a fully functioning human person back into somebody’s daughter and little sister. I needed to be reminded who the fuck I am.That’swhy I got dressed tonight—not, I assure you, for this greasy teenager’s approval.
I clear my throat and his eyes dart up almost impatiently. Like he’s annoyed to find there’s a human head resting atop the boobs he’d been ogling.
“I’m meeting someone,” I say, and he looks even more disappointed to realize the boobs also speak. “The reservation should be under Harper or Zola.”
The reservation is actually under XO by Zo (brand recognition and all that), but I’d rather call for Bloody Mary three times in the bathroom mirror than utter those six letters in public.
He scans the reservations list until his bushy brows furrow.Yes, that one,I silently confirm by raising my own. He registers the challenge on my face, and for the first time since I walked through the door, the smile on his lips is replaced by something that actually borders on professionalism.
“For two?” he confirms, grabbing an assortment of menus from the host stand. “You can follow me.”
I’m relieved to find the small candlelit table empty as we approach—I need a minute to collect myself. I’mlessrelieved when the Peeping Tom host lingers beside me as I settle into my seat.
“Surprise,” he says, and a pang of terror fires from my erratically beating heart to my fingertips. If Zo pops out from behind a planter and confesses to catfishing me with a seventeen-year-old on his last dose of Accutane, I swear to god.
