Page 27 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
“Mom,” I whine, but that lone word is the entirety of my argument.
So she continues. “Go back and apologize.”
“Okay, I think that’s a little aggressive.”
“Fine, don’tgo,” she says, standing to grab my phone from the coffee table. “But if you treated him badly and shouldn’t have, you’re gonna replay what happened and awould-be apologyin your mind all day. Or knowing you, quite possibly for years to come. Might as well just call him and get it over with.”
I make no move toward the phone, but she’s right. I’ve only been trapped in this shame montage for the past twenty-four hours, and already I want out.
Sensing my internal debate, Mom goes in for the kill. “You have a big heart, sweetie. But don’t worry, I won’t tell.” Then she lowers her voice to a whisper and places the phone on my stomach. “Promise.”
—
Afrobeats is playing in the background when Ro answers. Even through the phone, that place is a vibe.
“Pops’.”
I recognize his voice and this thing my stomach does in response to it, but still I ask: “Hey. Is Ro available?” to buy myself another second.
“It’s Ro.”
I scale the stairs three at a time in search of a door to close. Mom’s way too quiet tonotbe listening in.
“Hey, it’s Kaia. Harper. From earlier?” I stammer, hoping not to sound too breathless as I pace the length of the bedroom.
It’s the same room I grew up sleeping in, but I’d never call itmine.Mom trades out decor the way she does men—or rather she redesigns her surroundings tomatchher men, so now it’s basically a yoga studio with a daybed in the bay window.
“Yeah, hey. What’s up?” he says, snapping me back to the present. “Everything good with the car?”
“Yeah, the car’s great, you guys did a great job.”
Charging the battery?
“Anyway,” I start, but I can’t risk any more small talk. “I felt weird after I left. That comment I made…It sounded bad, but I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want you to think I was judging you for being a tow truck driver. That’s so not who I am.”
And then, because apparently, I have to hit some sort of quota—I say more words.
“I mean nobody’s just any one thing, right? Like you’re an artist, you’re…somebody’s ex-boyfriend,” I say, recounting the nonexistent details I know about Ro’s life. “And you’realso—”
“The tow truck guy?” he asks, dryly, but I swear I hear his teeth scrape that lip.
“Well, yeah,” I say seriously. “For now.”
“So let me get this straight,” he starts. “You called to apologize for calling me ‘just the tow truck guy,’ by calling me, ‘the tow truck guy…for now.’ ”
“I mean—yes?” I say, as I debate which of us hates me more right now.
“Okay,” I start again. “Full disclosure, I was worried my sister was gonna out me. I’m doing an excruciatingly embarrassing favor for her, and I didn’t want her to put my business out there.”
Ro’s quiet and I can’t tell if he’s listening politely or doling out additional rope for me to keep hanging myself with.
“It’s this matchmaking thing. That’s what she does.”
“Like for fun?” he says. His first sign of life in a minute.
