Chapter 2

Four years later.

Zaria

Some days, I wish I could just take a pause from this life thing. I wake up before dawn, get to the office before everyone, run through reports, check and correct figures, respond to my father’s emails and more. Yet, at the end of the day, I’m still the one he looks at like a disappointment.

Three years working for Buckley Holdings, and David Buckley still acts like I’m an intern someone forced him to take.

“Next time, try not to look lost when the board asks you questions,” he told me this morning, in front of half of the senior management. “If you’re going to handle the financials, at least sound like you know what you’re doing.”

Never mind that I was the one who caught the three-million-dollar discrepancy in the projections. That I’ve been the one staying late for the past two weeks, fixing mistakes other people made. My father doesn’t see that. He only sees the one moment I pause before answering because I want to be sure.

Samantha, on the other hand, can stroll into a meeting late, unprepared, say two sentences that don’t mean anything, and he beams at her like she invented oxygen.

“That’s my girl,” that’s what he always says to her. As if I’m not standing right there. As if I’m not his girl, too.

By the time I leave the office, I’m already feeling a deep ache at the back of my skull. I’m tired. I’m hungry and angry. But I just have to remind myself that I chose this, I chose to prove I’m not just “the Buckley baby mama’s child.” I chose to be the daughter who earns her place.

But you know you’ll never be accepted, Z. That taunting evil voice sneers in my head. I shake my head and try to ignore the voice. I can’t allow myself go down that hole. Not anymore.

Maybe that’s why I hold onto Joe so tightly. He’s the one place where I don’t feel like I’m competing. With him, I get to be soft, messy, imperfect. I get to be Zaria, not “Miss Buckley” or “Miss perfect” or any of the names that I don’t give a shit about.

The Uber rolls to a stop, and the driver glances at me in the rearview mirror.

“We’re here, ma’am,” he says, nodding at the building ahead.

Joe’s music studio is on the last floor of the three story building and judging by the lighting from inside, He’s probably inside, recording music. A smile lifts my lips at the thought of watching him sing.

“Thank you,” I reply, reaching into my purse for cash. I hand it to him, step out, and shut the door behind me. My car would have been here if it hadn’t died dramatically on the highway last week. I’d sent it to one of my father’s auto repair branches. No word yet. I miss my Benz so freaking much.

The air is warm and the sky is already dimming. My phone’s screen comes on and I check my message with a smile.

Joe: I wish I could see you tonight, baby. Even if it’s just for a few minutes.

Joe’s last text from about an hour ago. I didn’t reply. Instead, I booked the ride and decided to surprise him.

Now, as I walk into his building, I’m a little nervous, but in a good way. We haven’t seen each other in two weeks. Work has swallowed me whole. Most nights, I’ve fallen asleep with my laptop open and my glasses still on.

The thought of seeing him after two weeks makes me giddy. I love how Joe and I can just talk and fool around. Our relationship may not be one of those epic romantic ones but at least he’s my friend and he understands me better than anyone else. He’s also my longest lasting relationship. Seven months. I really can’t wait for our one year anniversary!

The elevator doors slide open, and I step in, checking my appearance in the mirrored walls. My dark curls are full and fall down my back in thick, defined spirals. My lipstick is still smooth. My dress is fitted and simple, hugging my tiny waist and wide hips in the way I like. I look… good. I look like a girlfriend about to surprise her man.

I try not to imagine his reaction, but I do anyway. Him smiling wide, pulling me into his arms, kissing me like he hasn’t had air in weeks. Whispering how much he missed me and thanking me for how I always support him, how he can’t wait for the world to hear his music and then make me the happiest woman in the world.

The elevator dings and slides open onto the hallway. His studio is at the end of the corridor. I’ve been here just once and it’s because he all but dragged me here. I remember how he randomly complains that I don’t like coming here to see him. He’s about to be so excited!

When I reach the door, I pause for a second, feeling my heart pick up speed. Then I raise my hand and knock, gently at first.

At the same time, I pull out my phone and type: Hey babe, I have a little surprise for you… Come out. xx

I hit send and wait.

Nothing.

I stare at the door, listening. I don’t hear movement, but that doesn’t mean anything. The room is soundproof. Maybe he’s in the middle of recording? Oh God, is this a bad time? Shit. Maybe I should have told him I’m coming.

I knock again, louder this time. My knuckles sting a little. Still nothing. A knot of unease begins to form in my stomach. Maybe he stepped out. Maybe he’s downstairs. Maybe he’s not–

The door jerks open so fast that I almost stumble forward. When I raise my head up, I freeze.

A woman is standing in front of me, wearing nothing but one of Joe’s long-sleeved shirts. Wait…the exact same shirt I bought him as part of a birthday set. The shirt hangs mid-thigh on her, wrinkled and slightly off one shoulder.

Her hair is messy. Her lips look swollen. She’s barefoot. And behind her, the studio reeks of sex and sweat and something else I don’t want to name. I stare at her in shock, unable to conjure up any words.

“Yes?” she says, eyes sweeping over me slowly. “What do you want?”

My tongue feels heavy. “I’m… looking for Joe.”

She crosses her arms, the shirt riding up a little. “And you are?”

His girlfriend. Apparently his fool too.

“I’m his—”

“Babe? Who’s at the door?” a familiar voice drifts from inside. Joe’s voice. The man that's supposed to be my boyfriend. The man that I've given so much of my time to. He just called someone else 'babe'

please tell me this is all a bad dream.

***