You Own Me (Owned 1)

I nodded along, not really listening to what she was saying. I was watching her; watching for a clue that let me know how she felt about me. Nada.

“So, really,” Zoe continued, “Why are you here? It’s got nothing to do with me, I know.”

Ouch.

“I’m really sorry, Zoe,” I said. “I’m no good at friendships. The only friends I’ve ever had were in high school and those were only the fucking kind.”

Zoe crossed her arms and eyed me up and down, deciding if I was still worth her time. “Well, here’s a tip: friends don’t completely ignore friends and then show up only when they want something.”

I nodded.

Zoe unfolded her arms, apparently accepting me again. “Okay, so why are you here?”

“It’s not important,” I said, wanting to leave. I wasn’t about to start Zoe Friendship 2.0 off on the wrong foot.

“It’s fine, Nox. I know you came here for something,” Zoe said, obviously still annoyed.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She waved me off.

“Just ask what you want,” Zoe said sharply.

I had come here to ask Zoe a question, figuring that if we were never going to acknowledge “the night” then maybe we could still be friends. That didn’t appear to be the case; Zoe seemed to be harboring some resentment unrelated to Dean. Zoe was my first real friend, and somewhere along the way I’d screwed that up.

“What is it?” Zoe prompted me.

“I . . . um . . .” I eyed my suitcase. It had fallen over to its side because I had once again overstuffed it with every contingency item I could manage. I wanted to pick it up and run to Vic’s. I wanted to Google “how to be a good friend” and then come knocking on Zoe’s door afresh. I had been stupid to think that Zoe and I could go back to the way we were. What had been the way we were, anyway? Apparently, Zoe felt we had had a shitty friendship.

“Nox, just spill,” Zoe said.

“How are you happy?” I blurted out. Here goes nothing right? I already have the reputation of a selfish taker, so I may as well get some advice before she cuts me out of her life altogether.

She and Lissie had been dating since I introduced them at the bar. I’d seen their relationship statuses change on social media. They posted pictures of themselves together—cooking dinner, out on the town, curled up on a couch eating popcorn. Their relationship was going well; they were happy together. Happy. I only understand the meaning of that word from reading the dictionary entry.

Zoe squinted her eyes, puzzled. “What?”

“How are you happy?” I repeated. “Before Dean—” I caught myself, realizing this was the first time Dean had been mentioned since that night. Quickly, I started over. “Uh, before when I’ve had boyfriends, everything would be going great, but I felt compelled to break up with them, because I was convinced there might be something better. Like, I would think to myself, ‘this can’t be all that’s out there.’”

Zoe raised her eyebrows.

“I know. It sounds so egotistical.”

“No, it sounds naive.”

It was my turn to raise eyebrows. I’d been called a lot of things, but naive had never been one of them.

Zoe continued. “Love, life, they aren’t fairy tales. You don’t meet a man (or a woman), fall in love, and live happily ever after. Happiness is constant work. If you want to be happy, you have to work for it every day.”

I nodded my head, processing, disbelieving. How is it possible that happiness is work? It was contrary to everything that I had been told, contrary to everything that the world put out. Happiness was something that happened. One minute you were sad, and the next moment everything fell into place. You weren’t supposed to have to continually work for happiness. If you were sad, something was wrong with you. You took pills, or you changed your friends, or you changed your significant other. I told her as much.

Zoe shook her head vehemently.

“God, no! That’s why this world is so fucked up. Everyone is so goddamn lazy.” Zoe wrung her hands together. “Sorry, I mean, we’ll work for everything but happiness. We’ll work for a car or we’ll even work for a boob job, but we won’t work for happiness. Because we think that working for everything else will make us happy. But when it doesn’t? We switch gears. ‘Maybe it wasn’t a boob job I needed, maybe I need a nose job.’ ‘Maybe it wasn’t a new car I needed, maybe I need a new house.’ So on and so forth until we are up to our eyeballs in debt and just plain miserable. Divorces upon divorces, debt upon debt. It happened to my parents. It’s happening to my siblings.” Zoe paused, apparently thinking about something. Probably her siblings.

I didn’t even know she had siblings, some kind of friend I am.

“It’s happening to me,” I mumbled. I looked up at her, nonplussed and completely out of whack. “What do I do?”