Chapter Twenty-Two

Zoe

H uman beings experience at least one moment of insanity in their lives.

A moment in time in which they black out and do things they later regret. A glitch in their synapses that results in disastrous decisions and catastrophic consequences. That's how some justify committing murder. They blinked and oopsie , man down.

Thus, I find myself in my current predicament. A momentary glitch. I blinked and oopsie , I called my fake mother-in-law and invited her to the surprise party I decided to organize in honor of my fake-boyfriend's birthday. I invited myself to meet the family, and I invited the family to watch our fictional fabrications from first-row seats.

I've been experiencing many moments of insanity lately.

That's what I'm telling myself to justify my actions. The reason I'm drowning in a sea of white, navy, and silver decorations, balloons and paper streamers, glitter and confetti.

"When I grow up, I want you to be my girlfriend and throw me surprise parties. Though, maybe not this… theme. Oh, we sh ould add a splash of color. This is too… monocoloratic … or whatever the word is," Camila babbles.

Once she starts, there's no stopping her. If only I could concentrate on her ramblings, maybe I could stop running circles in my head.

"Rodri is afraid of balloons. Can you believe it? The little chicken blames me, too. 'Cause I used to burst them at all his parties." She cackles like a Disney villain. "He flinches everytime he's close. Let's hide some to mess with him later?"

The question doesn't register in my rogue thoughts.

"Earth to Zoe. Earth to Zoe!" Camila booms right in my ear, then goes back to blowing up a blue balloon.

"What the fuck?" The letters of happy birthday drop to the floor, my hand busy, soothing my poor ear. "What's wrong with you?"

I'm definitely deaf, but I can still hear her incessant chatter, so maybe not entirely. Yet.

"So many things, babe. Don't get me started!" She pinches the balloon between her thumb and forefinger. "Let's talk about interesting things. What's wrong with you ? You're so fidgety. And nervous." She looks me up and down. "You're nervous." She gasps, releasing the balloon. It shot in the air, deflating with a whistle and falling flat on the floor in front of us. "Are you going to propose?"

"What?" My eyes are as wide as hers as we stare at each other, shocked by the ideas in her head. "No! I'm not going to propose! Of course I'm not going to propose. What—Why would you even think that?"

She deflates like the balloon. "Well, it's just a formality, at this point."

A formality. Marriage is the logical next step. To the world, we have one foot down the aisle.

It couldn't be further from the truth.

"It's all a lie," I blurt suddenly, needing to expel the turmoil inside of me. Make sense of it. Push it out so the world bears its weight alongside me.

"Uh?"

"Me and Miles. It's a lie. We're a lie. We're not together." I try to keep my tone even in my rush to get the words out. They taste foul in my mouth. "We lied. We're lying."

Camila breathes too much air into the balloon. It blows up in her face. POP.

"What?" she screeches. "Excuse my ignorance, but I don't think I understand you. You're like, speaking British or something? Like, I know all those words you just said but somehow they don't make sense to me."

I take a breath and tell her everything. I tell her about the not-kiss that started everything. I tell her about the dinner that changed everything. I tell her about the agreement, about our expiration date. I tell her everything except for the reason behind the not-kiss.

By the time I finish, Camila lies on the floor next to the remnants of balloons she burst in her shock, eyes, arms, legs splayed open. "I have so many questions, but I'm not sure what they are, yet. I need time to process this. I'll be staring at your ceiling for the next forty minutes."

I chuckle, because that's Camila. Amidst all the turmoil, she makes me laugh. Amidst all the turmoil, there's a peaceful wave of gratitude for my friend.

"You've got ten, honey. I have to pick up my fake-mother-in-law from the airport. And you're coming with me."

Her dramatic ass stands just to drop on the couch like she'd just fainted again.

Fourteen precise minutes later, I haven't even buckled up before she begins her interrogation. "Question time!"

My eyes are on the rearview mirror as I reverse out of the garage. "I thought you needed time to process."

I love questions—when I'm the one asking them. I don't like being on the other side of the microphone. It always feels like a test designed to fail.

"Well, I had to rush to meet your timeline!" She tips her chip up. "I am nothing if not adaptable to hostile environments. And bitchy bossy best-friends."

From the corner of my eye, I see her body is slightly turned in my direction in her seat, her elbow on the window so her hand holds her inquisitive face.

I smile and shake my head, already more at ease. Camila is my friend. She won't cast stones. She'll listen and provide insane advice, but she won't condemn.

"Firstly, what else are you not telling me?" She waves a finger in my face, partially obstructing my view. "You still have that sick look on your face. Of someone who's holding too much inside and is bound to vomit—"

I swat her hand away. "Gross."

"Or have a mental breakdown."

"That's more likely."

She nods. "You totally look like the kind of girl who has a nervous breakdown at three in the morning, cry and scream your soul into your pillow, and then you get up and go to work like nothing happened."

I don't correct her—there are never tears—and tap my fingers against the steering wheel.

"I… I think I might have feelings for him. "

"Ya think, friend?"

Blowing out a breath, I take a moment to convert the chaos that plagues my mind to words. "I'm confused. I used to despise him. The mere mention of his name had me running for the hills. And now I look back and… feel silly for that."

My eyes stay on the road as I speak.

Perhaps that's why confessionals have a wall to veil the listener. It's easier to pretend you're not being judged for your sins.

"All the reasons I used to justify my dislike of him now look silly. And fabricated. It's like I wanted to hate him. I feel embarrassed. It's not like he's not annoying—he is. I still want to choke him at least 90% of the time—"

"Kinky."

"—but he's not the devil I convinced myself he was. He's not the bad guy. And… it's a mess. I'm a mess. I need you to help me rationalize this. I can't function any other way."

"We can do that." She pulls one pigtail tighter, then the other, as if she's gearing up for a fight. Or a dissection. "First of all, I can't understand why you were so hellbent on hating him?"

Finally, an easy answer. "Because I thought he was a jerk."

I remember that day like it was yesterday. "Back when he moved in, I got him some flowers. He took one look at me, he sneered at the flowers like they offended his mother, and said ‘I'm allergic. I have to go—do something. Excuse me.' And he slammed the door in my face. Rude fucking asshole."

The trip down the memory lane heats up my blood, a feeling I became too well acquainted with in the past year and a half. That's how I was able to cling to my contempt for so long.

"Actually, no. He didn't slam the door. He closed it with a freaking click, which was worse somehow."

"I feel like maybe we're not talking about the same guy here?" She wears the same look of confusion of a kid when they realized Santa isn't real. "That's what happened? The whole story?"

"Well, he'd knocked on my door before. He had a cup of sugar or whatever, saying something about introducing himself. That I could knock if I ever needed anything. I don't remember very well. I was upset about something, so I didn't really have the time or attention span." Hearing myself, I sound like a jerk too. Uh. "I felt bad, so the next day I got the flowers. And the rest is history. Bad history"

"Still. Whoever you're talking about, it's not Miles." Her pigtails swish as she shakes her head. She's in denial.

"Exactly. Which is why when I saw him acting like himself, I was convinced that's what it was. An act. That he was hiding his true asshole nature behind a mask of charm. So I made it my mission to stay away from him, let him see I knew the truth about him by making my contempt evident."

"And he never apologized?"

"No. I never gave him a chance to. Even if he had, I'm not sure I would've believed him. At that point, my mind had been made up. Whatever he could have said, I would have just seen it as an attempt to fool me."

"I guess I can understand that. Kinda. You do have the stubbornness to hold a grudge."

I grin proudly, knowing very well she didn't mean it as a compliment.

"Remind me to not leave loose ends when I cross you. Back to your fucked up love story."

I bark out a laugh. "It's a story, alright. "

"You hated him. He didn't like you. Or did he?"

"Every single time we saw each other, he made fun of me. I was always a joke to him." I straighten, carefully keeping any hurt from my voice. "Yeah, I think it's safe to say he wasn't my biggest fan."

"So, how do two people who can't stand each other end up making out on TV?"

I nibble at my bottom lip, measuring my next words. This is where my honesty has to stop. I won't tell her a secret that isn't mine to tell—one I promised to keep.

"He actually never kissed me that day. It just looked like that on camera." Liam always got my best angles. "He said something that upset me during the interview. As payback, I was going to say something… bad. I guess he saw it coming, so he hugged me to shut me up before I could kinda potentially ruin his reputation. Then, he begged me not to."

"Damn girl, you are a spiteful, vindictive bitch." Her words come with a snicker and stamp of approval.

She throws her head back, palming her forehead. "You guys are worse than a rollercoaster. I'm getting dizzy just listening." She checks the smartwatch on her wrist, a hint of delicate ink peeking from under the pink band. "Or maybe just hungry. It's been three hours since I ate my cereal. The least you could've done was bring popcorn if you planned on dumping all this information on me."

I roll my eyes at her. "You get sugar after I get that advice you promised."

Camila holds up a finger. "I never make promises." Then another. "I wouldn't trust my own advice." And another. "And I never negotiate with terrorists." Out of nowhere, she produces a pack of chocolate-chip cookies. "I steal from them!"

Her mouth opens to free a loud laugh and start munching on the chocolate. She's wearing a fuchsia tank-top tucked inside white cutoff shorts—I can't fathom where she could have hidden the cookies.

"I'm gonna be honest with you. And remember you asked for help, so you don't get to get mad at the messenger." My knuckles go white around the wheel as I brace for her blunt honesty. "All I'm hearing is miscommunication and unresolved sexual tension."

I turn so fast I almost pull a cord in my neck—or throw us into a pole. My first instinct is denial, but even I wouldn't believe myself now.

"You should talk to him, Zoe. Tell him." I widen my eyes at her, to which she answers with a lifted shoulder. "What's the worst that can happen?"

"He might like me back," I deadpan.

She sends me a meaningful look from behind her cat-eye sunglasses. "You have nothing to lose. If he doesn't feel the same, you end this thing. You were always going to end it anyway, right? But if he likes you, Zoe—and I would bet all my money and my virgin ass that he more-than-likes you—well, it would change everything. And nothing. Because you're basically already dating without the perks."

"Why would you bet your virgin ass on anything? And what would I do with your virgin ass?"

"That's how sure I am he's not faking his feelings." She squeezes my hand on the shifter. "I've seen how he looks at you."

"And how is that, Camila?" My foot hits the brake pedal a little too hard to stop at an intersection. "With star emojis in his eyes? You're a romantic. A dreamer. I love that you are. I hope you never stop. But this shit only happens in movies."

For a small second, her face shuts down. Then, we enter the tunnel to cross the river. "You want logic? Is that what you need? Alright, then." Her tone is sober, serious. "This thing started—what? Six months ago?"

"Three." And 16 days. Who's counting?

"Three months," she repeats. "Four months, and you two haven't found a moment to put an end to it? Have you even talked about it?"

We haven't. All our conversations are short and similar. Miles insists the time isn't right yet or makes a joke and the conversation goes a different direction. I haven't pushed the subject—because I'm not ready for the end, I finally admit to myself. "Well, no—"

"Instead, in four months, he's bought your dream home in record time and handcrafted it to your tastes. He went mad when you were attacked, Zoe. You don't fake that. He's taking care of you—happily. Because he wants to, not because he feels obligated to. From an outside perspective, let me tell you it looks like you are both dragging your feet. Actually, no. You're walking in the opposite direction of your plan—and neither of you seem keen on changing that."

I can't counter that. There's nothing I can prove to my Grandpa, or to myself, that hasn't been proven in the past. Whatever reason I might spew to justify the fact that I'm still here, on my way to meet the fake-mother-in-law I invited to town, is a poor excuse.

Somewhere along the way, Grandpa became an excuse to stay, not the reason.

"Except all those things are explained by extraordinary circumstances," I argue. For some reason, I have to. "Miles blamed himself—entirely wrongly, might I add—for the assault. So he overcompensated and bought the house to ease his guilt, his fears. It's as much about me being safe as it is about his peace of mind, knowing I'm safely tucked in there. That's what the house is about."

"I'm kinda offended on his behalf." Her nose wrinkles, disappointment clear in her voice. I cringe a little, wishing my seat would swallow me. "Quit the bullshit fancy words. You're just making excuses and wrapping them in a pretty bow. Well, I don't buy it."

Sometimes I'm not entirely sure I understand her.

"What are you so afraid of, Zoe?" Her question is rhetorical, spoken in soft, soothing tones, like she's trying to not scare away a wounded animal.

She goes back to her cookies, giving me space and silence to process her words as we navigate the crowded traffic of Boston.

The sun has long sailed its way up to the high sky, casting upon us too much heat for the late days of August. The sky is cloudless, streaked in lines as planes land and leave with a white trail behind. It looks so blue and happy Miles was born. With the windows down, the breeze hit my nostrils and my hair with the faintest salty taste, and I feel a glimmer of peace.

"Noooooo!"

I jump in my seat, my foot almost slamming on the brake pedal.

"Camila fucking whatever your middle name is! Why are you yelling? Do you want us to crash? Do you want to die? Or worse. "

"If you don't, I will. We'll crash and burn a—"

"What the hell are you on about?" My heart races, and there's not enough blood in my head to sift through her words.

"You brought me along to pick up your mother-in-law, Zoe—your fake -mother-in-law. Why did you bring me?" She wails, pulling at her pigtails. "No, why did you tell me the truth? Why didn't you keep lying to me? You should've kept lying to me! That's what you do for friends. You lie!

"Now you're turning me into a bad friend. I'm a terrible liar. I'll blurt it out." She frantically fans her face. "And I'm sweating!" Then, she bends her neck to sniff her armpits. "I'm gonna smell when I meet your mother-in-law. I'm a terrible liar and I smell! What kind of first impression is that? When I'm wiping the water of your child's head, she's gonna look at me and see the sweaty liar instead of her grandbaby's godmother!"

Uh? "Why would you have to wipe water off my child's forehead?"

"'Cause that's baptism," she informs. Because, apparently, she knows my children's names and religion. "Wait. That's not the issue here. Focus on me, the sweaty, terrible liar."

"But maybe you're not. People come through under pressure. Look at me, I never knew I was a talented actress until the occasion rose." I reach across the console to pat her knee. "Don't worry. If it all goes to shit, we can always try an acting career."

"Not time for jokes! I'm gonna mess this up. Why would you tell me the truth!" She cries behind her hands.

"Because I trust you?"

Camila widens her fingers, eyes peeking at me between middle finger and forefinger. "I would be moved, but that sounded awfully like a question." The wailing resumes. "Why would you do that? Why would you trust me? Silly child. I don't know the definition of the word secret!"

Her hysteria is deafening as we navigate the infernal traffic until we pull over at the terminal.

"Zoe?" she says then. "Everyone deserves a love story for the books. Yours is just within your grasp. Don't let whatever's holding you back steal it from you."

Then she puts on her grin and proceeds to act the shit out of her face.