I reach out, grab her hand, and strum my thumb across the back of hers, the skin warm and soft.
“So, I found this little paper where we put everything we wanted out of our lives. Like jobs and where we wanted to live—the whole nine.”
The MASH card
“Okay, and?”
“And my life was so different than what I had once envisioned. You’re right. I’ve been playing it safe. So I lost my mind, and I quit my job the next day, and I dumped Jeffrey and, you know what? I felt okay about it.”
She sounds kind of surprised by that.
“And now you have a new job interview coming up, right? Is it more aligned with what you want to do? Design?” I ask, tipping my chin to the magazines that have stayed in the passenger seat, becoming more and more worn with repeat reads.
I could manage that: a commute if she landed her dream job, something that makes her happy.
I’d drive the hour to her every day, leaving early to beat traffic and get to work on time. Or we could find a place halfway . . .
My mind goes off on workarounds for a woman I’m not completely sure will even agree to be mine once we return to the real world.
My gut twists, and I feel sick at that thought, one I’ve refused to inspect too closely since this trip started.
Zoe huffs out a half laugh and shakes her head.
“I don’t have any experience in the field of design. Not enough that I could apply for a job and land it. No, this job is pretty much the same, just a different corporation.”
“A corporation,” I repeat. She said the word with malice and disgust, making it stand out.
“No, I didn’t mean that. It came out weird.” She shakes her head again, trying to find her footing that I’ve clearly made shake.
I know she absolutely meant it like that, regardless of how it came out.
“I just mean, it’s a big company. Pay would be about the same, but my title, if I land the job, would be better. More impressive.” I nod.
The title would be impressive.
That’s the only perk she can think of for this job.
“Did you like your old job?” I ask, and I see it before she even opens her mouth.
No.
She was miserable.
In fact, I saw it over the years when she was commuting from Springbrook Hills and working from home and then when she was home for holidays or long weekends after she left to live in the city.
She was miserable in that job. Probably in that field.
“I didn’t hate it. I wasn’t fond of the people I worked with, that’s for sure.” Her voice is like she’s reading a speech she’s prepared, something she repeats regularly.
For herself or for others, though?
“But the job—you liked it?” I ask.
She tips her head to the left and then the right, like she’s weighing her response, the pros and cons of either one.
“Yes and no. When I started, I had more creativity. I worked on the campaigns I was assigned to, designed them, and thought up the concepts. It was like design. But as I climbed the ladder, it was more just being responsible for keeping the people doing the designing on track.”
“So why not go to a more hands-on position?”
She breathes in deeply.
“They don’t make as much. Definitely not enough to afford to live in the city and not enough to help my parents out if they ever need it when they retire. And I want them to be proud of me. Executive assistant doesn’t sound nearly as brag worthy as VP of Marketing.”
I blink.
“You know your parents don’t give a shit about that kind of stuff.”
“They do. You should hear them when I get a promotion.” I shake my head and scoff.
“Because they’re proud of you, Zoe.”
There’s a pause, and I think she’s deciding if she wants to tell me something.
When she starts, I know she decided in the affirmative.
“Did you know when I first went to school, I was an interior design major?” she asks, and once again, her face is looking out the window.
Avoiding my eyes.
“Of course, I know that, Zo.” I know everything I can about you. “You changed a year in.” Not long after that night.
“That whole year, my dad kept telling me it wasn’t a marketable skill. That there was no security in that kind of job. That I should move to something more flexible, more able to adapt to different options.”
My gut sinks, and her hands move back to her shirt. “Over the summer, when I was home, I told him I was thinking of going into marketing. I wasn’t sold on it, but I was weighing my options. You’d think I told him I was going to be a doctor. The relief that took over . . . I don’t know. He seemed proud.”
My gut sinks for her.
It also sinks for her father, who, I know to my core, does not feel she ever wasn’t impressive or brag worthy or whatever fucked-up shit she thinks.
I was new when she was in college, but I remember even before I worked for Mr. Thomas, he’d come to my house and have a beer with my dad.
No matter what Zoe was doing, he was proud of her.
My Zoe, off at school learning how to make spaces beautiful. She’s gonna go design some celebrity’s house or something, I’m sure. No idea what half the shit she says means, but she loves it. And she’s gonna be great at it.
“So you changed your major?” I ask.
“I mean, not right away. But the first semester of my sophomore year, I took a class on art history. It was a gen ed. I almost failed it, I was so shit at it. I figured it was a sign, you know?”
“Why? Because you weren’t amazing at telling which dead artist made what sculpture?” I ask, annoyed.
Irritated at the school for making her take some stupid class that made her question herself.
Mad at her father for not making her feel like her chosen field was a good choice.
And mad at Zoe for deviating from what she wanted.
Just mad all around, really.
She laughs, and at least there’s that. The laugh doesn’t sound stifled or nervous or sad. Her hand moves to the driver's side, slapping me playfully.
“Stop it. It was more than that. It was just not for me.”
“You’ve been staring at those magazines since I picked them up for you.”
“My pickings are slim, Zee. You took my phone.”
“You’ve got your music.”
“Thank God for small blessings,” she says with an eye roll.
“Look, you want me to take back control of the radio, I’d be more than happy to give the Taylor Slaylor playlist a rest.”
“No!” she says quickly, and fuck, she’s cute.
I want this always.
Zoe and me arguing about dumb shit, driving around. Killing time together.
“You haven’t been reading that book you brought,” I say of the self-help book that she’d hidden in the back seat behind bags.
She bites her lip.
“I mean, you’re right. I should—” She reaches back.
“You grab that book, I’m tossing it out the fuckin’ window.”
“Zander!”
“I’m not playing games, Zoe. This trip is not for the version of you that you think everyone wants to see. It’s for the version of you that needs some fresh air, the version you hide away.”