Page 23 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
Mom places a calendar of events on top of the mess of papers I’m shuffling through, as Zola continues.
“And the first couple has to begood.They have to look aspirational. This has to look like the answer.”
“To who?” I yell, scanning the room for the live audience I must’ve missed upon entry.
Zola rubs her temples as ifI’mthe one stressingherout. “Kai, it’s not like you’ll be mic’d, but if we don’t get some content, we might as well not even do it.”
“Great,” I say, refilling my coffee mug. “Let’s not do it!”
But as Zola starts naming off various strategies to go viral, it’s clear I’m shouting into the wind.
—
There was a time Zola would’ve been able to run on this high all day, so when she relocates to the couch for a nap instead of basking in the glow of my defeat, I silently thank my future nephew for taking her out.
Without the adrenaline of this morning’s festivities, Mom also comes back down to Earth, curling into that old recliner the way she always does between failed relationships. It might not be as murder-y as my comfort watches, but true crime is still less gruesome than siphoning comfort from a memory-foam-filled relic of a past life. Mom sinks into its familiar depressions the way she used to sink into Dad’s arms.
I’ve given up on trying to get her to toss the chair, but that doesn’t mean I have to watch her get her fix.
“Anybody need anything from the world?” I ask, whispering like it’s the volume of the question that disturbs people trying to sleep, not the question itself. “I’m gonna run out.”
Zola’s eyes pop open. “Can you grab me a burger on your way back? With bacon. Oh! And a milkshake—but only if they have strawberry.” She pulls herself into a sitting position. “Actually, I’ll just come. But you’re driving.”
Zola not trusting me to order her lunch is offensive, but at the mention of driving, I know better than to defend my many competencies. Because Mom’s car, which I’d been planning to take, is still locked up behind the metal gates of an impound two towns over.
7
I should’ve known Zola coming wouldmean more than a quick detour at the Duchess drive-through. Twenty-five uninterrupted minutes dragging me for a dumb mistake is worth more to her than gold. This passenger princess is having the time of her life.
“You’re just lucky the tow guy got you off the road before someone smashed into you. This could have been so much worse.”
She pauses to lick BBQ sauce from a strip of bacon with so much enthusiasm, it’s near pornographic. I avert my eyes to give the pair a moment of privacy, but unfortunately, I can’t avert my ears as she continues.
“You could’ve charged at home for like ten minutes and avoided all this.”
I consider reminding Zo that if we’re going tocoulda, woulda, shouldamy unfavorable charging consequences, we should keep the tow and wish away late-night dating app hookups. But she’s already continuing her lecture without me.
“And why not have him tow you to a charge station? Why choose the most expensive and inconvenient option possible?”
Hormones, just hormones,I tell myself, though this particularZolaismisn’t the baby’s fault. Unsolicited opinions are the only kind Zo’s got.
Luckily, her judgments and her burger provide Zola all the company she needs. She hardly seems to notice how quickly I leave her behind once we’re parked outside the shop. But I hadn’t realized what I’d be walking into, and as I step through the lobby doors, I almost wish I wasn’t experiencing it alone.
The energy is different in here—pulsing cool and low with the bass line. Street art renderings of Black icons line the walls from the cash register all the way to the vending machines in back. Familiar figures taking on new life under soft studio lights. Immortalized, reverently, by the detailed stroke of a brush.
I scan the portraits that seem to leap off the walls, but even the walls themselves tug at my gaze. Striking city scenes and intricate landscapes shouting the words to their own stories. Just as rich and alive as each subject within the frames and treated with as much care.
It’s like stepping inside the pages of a love letter to the culture.
I’m still studying the floor-to-ceiling murals, reveling in all the hidden treasures the artist left to be discovered, when a voice rumbles behind me.
“So how was it? Those bartenders still corrupting our youth?”
His words pull me from my trance. Deading my perusal so abruptly that I physically trip over myself as I spin toward him.
There’s not even time for me to put my own hands out to catch my fall, before his are on me—steadying me, with a firm but gentle certainty.
Once I’m no longer a fall risk, he releases me. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
