“Maybe quarter-life crisis?”
“That would mean you’ll live until you’re 120.”
That seems old.
“Third-life crisis?”
“I mean, that works better, I guess.” The line goes muted and she must move the phone as she shouts to someone to grab her a new keg. “But I think you’re not giving yourself enough credit.”
“I’m living in my parents' house at thirty, Luna.”
“No, you’re not. You’re figuring out what you want to do. Go online and search around. Honestly, Zo, I think Sadie is looking for someone to help her revamp Rise and Grind. Maybe go talk to her.”
“For what, marketing help?” I ask. “She’s doing just fine with that.” And she is. The coffee and coworking space in town is always full of customers and silent workers.
“No, Zoe. God. With her decor. You were always so good with that, picking colors and themes and patterns. Designing.”
My stomach churns at the idea alone.
It was what I wanted to do when I was a kid.
In fact, when I went to school, I spent six months with it as my major before I decided it was too unrealistic and I needed a more stable career.
A sure bet.
Marketing.
Marketing would always be needed. It was an in-demand skill to have, and I could climb the corporate ladder.
My parents only have one child to push all of their pride and expectations on, and that’s me. I knew I’d have more of a chance of succeeding and “making it big” if I went with something safe.
Except I’m miserable . . .
“I don’t know. That’s not—”
“Not what, Zoe?”
“Reasonable. Interior design isn’t reasonable.”
Luna scoffs out a laugh. “Jesus, when did you get so damn boring, Zoe? All reasonable and safe.”
My gut drops at her accusation, one I’ve made in my head so many times, but hearing it out loud . . .
“Shit, I didn’t—” she says before I can say anything.
“You’re not wrong,” I say quietly. “It’s just the way I am.”
Silence, and I think she’s moving now, going somewhere quieter.
“You weren’t always, you know,” Luna says. I sigh.
“I just . . . I grew up, Luna.”
More silence, a silence that hangs on the phone line.
A silence I freaking hate.
“Are you sure, Zoe? Or did you just do what you thought people expected of you?”
Well, fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Luna—”
“Not gonna get into it. I know you have that interview in the city. You have a week to think about it. Would it really be so bad to take a year to try it out? Try something you’re passionate about instead of something you think you’re supposed to be doing?”
God, I hate my best friend.
I sigh, stewing on her words.
“I’ll think on it, okay? No promises.”
I can almost hear the smile she makes, the kind that fills her whole face.
“Alright. Good. I like having you near, Zo. I’m selfish like that, but also, soon Tony and I will start trying . . .” My gut twists again when I think of how everyone is moving on with life and I’m stuck. “I want Aunt Zoe nearby.”
“Got it, babe,” is all I can say through the lump in my throat.
“Okay. I love you. I’ll support you even if you want to have a boring corporate job working for the man for the rest of your life. I gotta go, though. Gotta help open then get home to Tony.”
“Yeah. Okay. Love you.”
“Bye, Zo.”
And then I’m alone once again, staring at my childhood room I painstakingly decorated and designed so many times and wondering where the girl who once lived here went.
FOUR
MARY’S SONG (OH, MY, MY, MY)
-ZANDER-
“Hey, man,” my best friend says when he meets me at his front door. He steps back, opening the door for me and welcoming me in without saying the words come in. “You wanna beer?”
I run a hand over my hair, looking around. Tony bought this place years ago and completely gutted it. Halfway through, my sister moved in with him and helped him finish. It’s intriguing to see Tony’s stoic style alongside Luna’s hippy-dippy one she got from our mom.
But mostly, it’s the photos that always hit me in the face when I walk in.
Luna decorates in memories, and no one who walks into their home doesn’t know it.
Photos of Tony and I growing up, of Luna, our little brother Ace, and me. Photos of all four of us on fishing trips with our dads.
Photos of Zoe.
Her best friend since the beginning.
So many photos of Zoe.
The girls when they were little, in matching preschool outfits, Luna’s light, straight hair a stark contrast to Zoe’s dark curls.
High school graduation, hugging in matching caps and gowns.
At Tony and Luna’s wedding just a few months ago, Zoe in a gorgeous light-green dress, (sage, my sister corrected, as if that held any fuckin’ significance to me) standing on my sister's left while I stood on Tony’s right.
I was angry that entire fuckin’ wedding, except when the best man had to dance with the maid of honor.
Then my grimace melted because fuck, I got to hold her.
Then she walked off the dance floor to some prep school douche who lived in the city with her.
“You good, man?” Tony asks, staring at me a bit confused. I shake my head, trying to swipe away memories I don’t need right now before speaking.
“Yeah. I, uh, I gotta talk to my sister. She home?” I ask as if I didn’t see her Beetle out front, as if I don’t know her schedule because it hasn’t changed in nearly two years.
If Tony’s off, Luna is off. If she needs to go into the bar, Tony sits in his seat there, calling one of us to keep him company or just watching his girlfriend.
Fuck. Wife. His wife.
And tonight, Luna goes in at eight, and Tony will drive her there, sitting at her bar until she closes.
“You wanna talk to Luna?” he asks, his brows furrowing.
“Yeah, man. I just gotta talk to her.”
He doesn’t believe me.
I don’t blame him.
“Everything good with your parents?”
“Parents are fine,” I say.
“Ace?”
“Jesus, Ace is fine, Tony. I just want to talk to my sister.” He looks at me, confused, but it’s not like I never talk to my sister.
I just . . . never go out of my way to go to the Garrison household to see her. If I want to talk to her, I see her at family dinner, or I head to the bar on a night she’s working.
Or, you know, I call her, like a normal person.
I should have just called her.
And when I see it, I know I should have because here in my best friend’s presence, his detective skills go into overdrive, and he sees through whatever exterior I put up.
Fuck.
“Oh my god,” he says, and the smile on his face starts to grow.
“What?”
“Oh my fucking god. Lune, darlin’! Come here!” he shouts to my sister, somewhere in the house.