Page 44 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
“Fucking guys,” is all I say, wrapping Zola into a hug.
She laughs into my hair. “The whole point of this is to get you to stop saying stuff like that. But I’ll give you a pass this time since your date sucked. And since you’re making waffles.”
“Oh, am I?”
“Mm-hmm. With whipped cream. Fresh. Not that crap from the can.”
“Fine,” I concede. “But you’re on coffee duty. And while you make it, you can explain why you’re hitting Ro up behind my back.”
—
“In my defense, I did ask you for his number first.”
It’s a weak argument and we both know it. “Most people would’ve waited for a response.”
“You were busy,” she says, holding a cup of coffee out to me, as either an olive branch or a bribe. “And I have a company to run. I really don’t see what the big deal is. You guys are friends now, right?”
“And what exactly doesmyfriend have to do withyourcompany?”
Zola’s posture visibly relaxes at my subtle interest. She finally hands over the mug as she speaks, certain she’s been forgiven.
“I need his help. I can do most of this alone if I have to, but this”—she scrolls through her photos until she finds her logo mock-up—“isn’t gonna work. This company can’t look like something I started out of my childhood bedroom.”
“Even though you did.”
“Correct, Kaia. Thank you for connecting those dots.”
“So, you want to ask Ro to help with your logo.”
When Zola warms up my coffee without my asking, I know her plans for Ro are bigger than that.
“Actually, I want him to help me with all my visuals,” she says, and I can practically hear the gears in her head turning. “Cohesive color palettes and designs for brand recognition, graphic design help for the site; I even thought it could be cool to commission him for some bare-bones portraits that we could use in place of client photos. Anot completely blinddate, with a twist to set us apart. We could target creatives and entrepreneurs. They’d eat that shit up.”
I don’t bother telling her that I actually love the idea. She’s patting herself on the back enough for us both.
“What makes you think Ro would even know how to do this?” I ask, inviting Zola to join me back down here on Earth. “Yes, the art at the shop is incredible, but what you’re describing is something totally different. You need a brand strategist or something.”
She’s pulling something up on her phone before I’ve even finished. When she slides the second barstool up beside me to share her screen, I see just how far behind I am.
“What is this?” I ask, though the website address bar makes it obvious. It’s Ro. RoJackson.com. And it’s everything Zola just described, and so much more. A Tribeca design firm with his name. “How did you find this?”
“I googled him before I even left the parking lot that day. I can’t believe you didn’t. Look at this!”
And I am. But I’m struggling to make this new information fit into who I’d already decided Ro was. A box I hadn’t realized I’d been building him into in that familiar way I never want done to me.
I’m scrolling intently through Ro’s expertly crafted site, but I stop myself from clicking theAbout Mepage. Whatever it says about Ro, I’d rather hear directly from him.
“Why is he working at that tow place?” I whisper, mostly to myself.
He’s just the tow truck guy.
“So, can I set up a call with him?” I hardly register the question, until Zo repeats it. “He wants you to sign off first. Can I tell him you’re good with it?”
“I’ll tell him,” I say too quickly.
Zola must hear the ownership in those words, but she doesn’t ask. She does, however, smile at me in a way that makes me wish I’d stayed in bed.
—
