Zoey & the Moment of Zen

Chapter One

I definitely should have checked the restaurant's website before telling my friends Darlene and Dexter that this place is the new hot spot everyone is talking about. Chez Jean-Luc was probably all the rage at the turn of the century with its white lace tablecloths and matching doilies. But Dex and Dar don't seem suspicious of the fact that I asked them to drive to the middle of nowhere to eat here.

I stretch my neck and look at the entrance where the hostess is talking to a chubby blond man who looks nothing like my Braden. He should have been here twenty minutes—and three glasses of wine—ago. Maybe I misunderstood the voicemail and got the address wrong? I shake my head—impossible. I listened to the message twenty times. This is definitely the place.

I'm sure he's just late. In all the years I've known Braden, he's never been on time for anything. I've waited for him outside movie theaters, concert venues, and I've sat in countless restaurants like this one waiting for him to show up and make up a random excuse. That's just the way he is.

Why do you keep looking at the door? Dar asks, stabbing a piece of romaine lettuce with her fork. Are we waiting for somebody?

Before I can answer, Dex smiles and looks over at Dar. Maybe Zoey thinks we're too boring and she can't wait to leave.

I shake my head. Nothing could be further from the truth. Dar and I have been best friends since we were kids and I've known Dex since college. I was maid of honor at their wedding last year and Braden was the best man. We're practically family.

I look up when a familiar voice makes its way to me and I feel the usual racing in my chest. Braden is talking to the hostess. He's smiling and––even though I can't see her face from where I'm sitting––I bet she's being charmed by the adorable dimples that frame his boyish grin and the way he runs his hand through his mop of unruly chestnut hair. And those piercing green eyes. It's a lethal combination.

Of course we're not waiting for anybody, I tell Dar, quickly peeling my eyes away from the door. I'm just looking for the waitress so she can give us more wine.

I look down at my seafood linguine and try to watch Braden from the corner of my eye. Dex and Dar haven't noticed him yet but then again, they wouldn't notice if a tornado ripped through this restaurant and catapulted us across town. They're too busy holding hands and looking deep into each other's eyes and being annoyingly in love.

The hostess guides Braden through the maze of tables and he sits down at a booth next to the window. After staring into the darkness of the parking lot for a minute, he takes his Blackberry out of his pocket and starts typing. He's probably texting his friend Mike. It always used to drive me crazy when he texted during dinner. When we went to couple's therapy two years ago, our counselor said that Braden's fear of commitment made him unable to be in the moment without looking for a way to escape. Braden was too busy texting Mike about the Mets game he was missing to say anything. I was just so happy he showed up for the session I didn't ask him to put his phone away and that, also according to our therapist, was the other half of the problem. We never went back after that.

Earth to Zoey, Dex says, waving his hand in front of my face. You've barely said a word since we got here. Anything the matter?

Yeah, what's up? Dar asks. I've been meaning to ask you—have you tried talking to your aunt about expanding the shop again?

I shake my head. You know Nessa. She fears change like the plague. It took her ages to agree to let me change the design on our napkins. She'll never agree to expand the business even if it's a golden opportunity.

Try again. She might surprise you, Dex says, turning around to get the waitress' attention. Hey, wait. Isn't that...?

Busted.

Who? Dar asks, following his stare. I'm shocked he wasn't able to tell her telepathically.

It's Braden. He's sitting over by the window. What are the odds?

Dar narrows her eyes at me. "Yeah, Zoey. What are the odds that of all the restaurants in Connecticut, you and your ex both end up in the same hot spot?" The way she uses air quotes to emphasize hot spot makes it clear she doesn't believe my story about celebrities lining up to get into this place.

I consider lying to her again, but I know that Dar has already seen right through me. Not very big, I say, shrugging my shoulders. A quick glance over at Braden's table tells me he is completely oblivious to the commotion. What else is new?

Please tell me you didn't listen to his voicemail again?

I can't bear to look at Dar so I search Dex's face to know if there's any chance we might start laughing about this. But he's looking at me with something horrifying in his eyes. Is that pity? I turn away from him and face Dar's accusing stare. Yes, I did. But it's not my fault. I was calling to check my messages and I accidently dialed his number. Remember when we bought our cell phones together and our phone numbers ended up being just a few digits apart?

Dex signals the waitress for the check and I see a thin blonde woman walking towards Braden's table. Even though I can't hear her from where I'm sitting, I just know she's the owner of the chirpy voice who's been leaving him all those flirty messages. She smiles and Braden gets up to help her with her chair.

Dar rolls her eyes. Even if I believed that you dialed his number by mistake, which I totally don't, it doesn't explain why you entered his password and listened to his messages.

Can we go home now? I ask, grabbing my purse. I've seen what I wanted to see. And now I can't un-see it.

Aren't you going to talk to him?

Dex puts his hand on Dar's arm. Sweetie, please. Let's just go.

No, we're here now. Go talk to him.

I shake my head. If he talks to me I'll be civil, but I'm not going to go out of my way. I instantly regret my words when I see Dar's face cloud over.

Of course not. But you're willing to access his voicemail, listen to his messages, and make us drive forty-five minutes just to stare at him from across the room. It's been almost a year since you broke up, Zoey. Shouldn't you be over him by now?

The million-dollar question. Yes, it's been almost a year. I'm reminded of that fact every time I see the sparkling diamond on Dar's ring finger or when she and Dex reminisce about their fairy-tale wedding while planning their upcoming first anniversary. How can I forget when their magical day is also the day Braden broke up with me? Or, rather, it was the day he decided that he didn't want to end up like Dar and Dex.

I know, I say, getting up and running after Dar who's already heading for the exit. I'm sorry. I take one last look at Braden and the mystery lady with the designer jeans and shiny, bouncy hair. They're gazing at each other as if they’re the only ones in the room. My heart sinks right down to the floor.

Dar doesn't talk to me for the entire drive home. Every time I try to say something or even start to apologize again, she turns up the radio or ignores me and talks to Dex.

I sit back and stare out the window as the unfamiliar buildings whizz by. What have I done? Dar and Dex are my best friends and I used them to get to Braden. This would never have happened if I had my own car. But I think that how I got to the restaurant is beside the point. The question is why. Why do I do this to myself?

I still love him, I say, and my words seem to linger in the silent car. Dex looks at me through the rear-view mirror for a few seconds but Dar doesn't move.

I wish you'd just let him go, she finally says, her voice slightly softer than it was in the restaurant. I wish you'd stop holding on to something that died a long time ago.

I nod and close my eyes. Sometimes I wish that too—but part of me is convinced that Braden will come back and we can start over. I'm sure Dar would say it's the crazy and delusional part. I'd prefer to think it's the hopeless romantic in me. But tonight the emphasis is on hopeless.

Do you want to come up for a minute? I ask when Dex parks the car in front of my building.

No thanks, Dar says. I just want to head home.

Watching her sitting there with her arms folded across her chest, I know Dar is really angry with me. One of the perks of inheriting a coffee shop from my parents is a pantry overflowing with different varieties of coffee. She never leaves my apartment without a week's worth of caffeine.

Just promise me something, Dar says as I exit the car. No more checking his voicemail. Please.

Okay.

She nods and looks away, staring at the opposite side of the street.

Dar will come around, Dex says, walking me to my door. Just give her some time.

I'm sorry about tonight.

I can read the awkwardness all over Dex's face. He used to be Braden's best friend but they've barely spoken since Dar decided they were going to be loyal to me. I hate the fact that he's stuck in the middle because of us.

Don't worry about it, he says, slapping me on the shoulder and giving me a tight smile.

I walk up the stairs and unlock my door. Hey, Mocha, I say, as my four-year old tabby leaps from the table and lands at my feet, purring and wrapping herself around my leg. I know she's only happy to see me because I'm going to fill up her bowl with food but, still, it's nice to know that not everyone feels the need to run away from me.

There's a framed picture of me and Braden in the living room—it's the first thing you see when walk into the apartment. It was taken three years ago at a Christmas party. While Braden is flawless in his crisp white shirt, I look like a sea creature. My makeup is smudged and my hair is matted down. I'd dyed it jet black in a moment of temporary insanity a few months earlier and—by the time this picture was taken—my red roots were clearly showing. I can tell by the smug smirk on my face and by the way I'm clutching Braden's arm that I've had too many fruity pink cocktails. I look away in disgust. Why haven't I ripped this picture to shreds?

If Dar had her way, I'd throw away every single thing that reminds me of Braden. Burning this entire place to the ground would be the only way to erase everything. Because it isn't only pictures that remind me of Braden—it's the dent he made in the kitchen wall when we were moving the fridge and it's the coffee mug collection we started together that grew so large we had to put most of it in storage. We'd laugh every time one of us brought a new cup home—the tackier the better—because we both had our favorites and never used any of the new ones. My red London Calling mug—which I still drink from even though it's chipped—is right next to Braden's I Hate Mornings mug on the kitchen counter and I swear Dar would send both of them smashing to the ground if I had my back turned long enough. But I never do.

Who's a hungry little girl? I ask, scooping kitty food into Mocha's bowl. She looks up at me and I know what she must be thinking—less talking, more scooping, Crazy Cat Lady.

What do you think Bongo Joe is going to play tonight, Mocha? I ask, looking at my watch. He should be starting soon.

When Braden and I moved into this apartment, we got a few surprises. Most of them involved leaky faucets and shoddy wiring—plugging in the toaster and the coffeemaker at the same time is still a fire hazard—but the biggest surprise was Bongo Joe, our next-door neighbor. Without fail, he starts banging on his drums at ten o'clock every night and doesn't stop for the next two hours. But after a few months it just became another background noise, like the traffic outside or the slamming doors.

After a quick shower, I settle into bed and reach for my phone. I've already dialed half of Dar's number before I remember what happened earlier. Right. She's probably not going to want to talk. Maybe I'll try to send her a text message. Dar practically has her phone glued to her hand so she usually answers with lightning speed. Her record is five seconds.

I'm really sorry for tonight. Forgive me? Zo x

I wait for the familiar ping of Dar's answer but five seconds turns into five minutes and staring at my phone doesn't make it answer faster. Maybe if I try again.

Zoey Everwood is a huge idiot who doesn't deserve her awesome best friend. Agree or disagree?

There's no debating what the right answer is. Still, I'm hoping Dar will crack a smile and text back. But when the phone remains silent, I know something is seriously wrong. This isn't just a little spat. What if I went too far this time? I knew bringing Dex and Dar on my doomed stalking adventure was a huge mistake—yet I still did it.

I can count on one hand the number of times Dar and I haven't spoken before going to sleep. Dar is like the sister I never had. And now it looks like I don't have her anymore. Just like I don't have all the other people I love. I look around my room and see the happy faces of the ones who've left me. Mom and Dad. Braden. And now Dar. I stare at the alarm clock on my bedside table. 10:30. For the first time in years, Bongo Joe is late. Even he can't stand me anymore. I slip out of bed, almost tripping over Mocha, and head over to the computer.

Unlike Mom and Dad, Dar and Braden are still alive. And I'm going to win them back.

Don't look at me that way, I tell Mocha's accusing kitty eyes. Dar made me promise to stay away from Braden's voicemail. I turn and face the computer, my fingers sliding over the keys. She didn't say anything about email.

What Dar doesn't know is that Braden's email password is his old pet name for me, so it's not crazy to hope that I'm still on his mind. Each and every day, his fingers spell out something that can't help but remind him of me. The day he changes the password, I'll be forced to admit he might have moved on.

I sit down with the laptop resting on my knees and type ZoeyCakes into the login screen, praying I don't get an error message. After a few agonizing seconds, Braden's inbox appears before my eyes. Five unread messages. I feel a pang of guilt and hear Dar's disapproving voice ring in my ears.

I ignore it and click on the first message.

Chapter Two

There's nothing like a Monday morning rush at Everwood's Coffee Shop to make you forget your best friend isn't talking to you. But, truth be told, I'd rather be thinking about Dar than revisiting the contents of Braden's inbox in my mind—which is what I've been doing since the moment I woke up. Not that I got much sleep.

Ma'am. Miss. Hello?

Sorry, I say to the man standing in front of me. How long have I been staring into space? Welcome to Everwood's. What can I get you?

Large coffee, please. To go.

Sure. I'll get that for you right away. But my feet stay glued to the ground and my heart starts pounding against my ribcage as I look at the line of people waiting. Waiting for me to move.

Aren't you going to take my money? the man asks, slapping a fistful of change on the counter.

Large cup of Joe to go! Order up! Owen calls out from the other end of the counter.

Right. That's how it works. I take the orders and Owen prepares the coffee. That's how we've been doing it for years now. Wake up, Zoey. Owen raises his eyebrows at me and I give him a reassuring smile, sprinting through the last of the line-up.

Half an hour later, most of the students from nearby Messina College have all left and the regular cast of writers and retirees are staring at their laptop screens or flipping through newspapers.

Are you okay, boss? Owen asks, staring at me with his nineteen-year-old puppy dog eyes. You seem distracted. I'm only asking because I need a day off next week and I've been wondering whether I should wait to ask you later.

Owen knows he can get away with anything just by flashing his pearly white smile and being his usual charming self. Yeah, it’s fine. I sigh. Whatever you need. Just make sure to clear it with Nessa. I'm going to go get some air, okay?

I don't look back at Owen but I'm sure he must be staring at me again. It's not like me to just walk out and leave him alone but, then again, we're all full of surprises, aren't we?

Lisa. That's her name. The blonde with the chirpy voice and fabulous hair. Before last night, I hadn't broken into Braden's email in months and now I feel like an alcoholic who fell off the wagon and spent the night with a bottle of tequila. Even this morning's extra-long shower couldn't wash away the icky sheen of shame clinging to my skin.

I don't know what I was expecting to find in that inbox. Maybe an endless thread of emails telling everyone he knows how badly he regrets walking out on me? No such luck. Instead, he's getting lovely misspelled messages from Lisa. She ends every sentence with a smiley face—he can't be taking her seriously.

As I walk down Main Street, flashes of our last proper conversation at Dar and Dex's wedding ring through my ears. He was pacing in the parking lot of the reception hall, his hands stuffed inside his tuxedo pockets, barely able to look at me. When pigs fly, Zo, he'd shouted. I don't want to get married. Not to YOU. Not to ANYONE. Is Lisa going to be the one who changes his mind?

I have no idea where I'm going but my feet keep moving. Mrs. Merchant waves at me as I pass in front of her flower shop. I should stop and say hello but I don't. Even though I'm trying to clear my head, all I can think about is Braden. It's crazy and it's stupid and it doesn't make sense but I love him. I've never stopped loving him. If he appeared out of thin air right now, I'd take him back no questions asked. But who am I kidding? He doesn't want me back. The solution to my problem is very simple. I have to make him want me back. I'll transform myself from boring, old Zoey-Who's-Not-Good-Enough-To-Marry to an awesome new version of myself.

I don't know how I'm going to go about this transformation, but one thing's for sure—it needs to be a secret. If Dar or Nessa find out, they'll try to talk me out of it. Well, that's if Dar ever decides she wants to talk to me again.

As soon as I walk back into Everwood's, I see Nessa interrogating Owen. I immediately check my phone. Of course. Three missed calls. The noise from the traffic must have drowned out my ringtone. I brace for impact.

Where were you? she asks, closing the gap between us with two giant steps. My fifty-five-year-old aunt moves like an Olympic athlete when it's time to pounce on her prey.

I went to get some air.

Why didn't you answer your phone? A few customers turn around and watch as I get scolded like a child.

I didn't hear it, Nessa, I say, walking past her and Owen to disappear inside the office that my aunt and I share.

You know I'm just worried about you, right? Nessa asks, leaning in the doorway. I don't mean to nag.

I nod and pretend to go through a pile of papers. I just needed to clear my head.

You look so tired. Is it the expansion project? she asks. Are you still trying to come up with a way to get me on board?

I can't tell her the truth—I'm exhausted because I spent half the night going through Braden's emails and I now actively hate a girl who I've seen for all of three seconds. I nod again and repeat what I've been telling Nessa for the past month. I just think it would be such a great thing for the shop. If we don't buy the empty store next door, somebody else will. And we'll lose our chance. How amazing would it be to expand this place? More tables, maybe even a stage for some spoken word evenings or local artists.

I'm getting excited just thinking about this again. And Nessa knows as well as I do that—if I decided to ignore her protests—I could go ahead and expand without her approval. Everwood Coffee Shop is mine—my parents left it to me. But they died when I was five and Nessa ran this place until I was old enough to take over. We're co-managers and I wouldn't dream of doing anything without her blessing. We've seen eye to eye on pretty much everything until now. When Oliver Health Foods went under, I was sure she'd agree with me that tearing down the wall between the two stores and expanding our little shop was the smartest thing to do.

My brother, Nessa says, looking at the ceiling. "Your father. (As if I could forget.) He loved this place so much. He was proud of every inch of this store—every wall he painted, every nail he hammered—and he served every cup with a smile. He wanted you to take over this place. This place, Zoey. Not some impersonal coffee factory that looks like every other coffee place out there. I just want to keep my brother's vision alive."

What am I supposed to say to that? How can I argue when she brings up my dead father's vision and almost makes me cry?

Okay, Nessa. I understand, I say, trying to smile. At this point I'd say anything to get her out of the office so I can mope. But I know that, in a few minutes, Owen will leave for his classes and I'll have to go out there and be friendly and charming and live out my father's vision—when all I want to do is crawl into bed and forget that everyone hates me.

The rest of the afternoon is a blur of customers, paperwork, and coffee orders. I check my phone a few times every hour to see if Dar has called or texted. Nothing.

Sorry I'm late, Owen says, rushing in at a quarter past six carrying a black backpack almost bursting at the seams. It's probably filled with novels as thick as phone books. I don't know how he can come to work early in the morning, go to class, and then come back to work an evening shift. I wish I had that kind of energy. Professor O'Neill was lecturing on The Bostonians and he got a little carried away. You know? Henry James.

I nod, looking around at the empty tables and the quiet street outside. I think I saw the movie.

Books are always better, Owen says, coming out of the back room and tying an apron around his waist.

You're going to make a great English professor, I say. I'm sure all the girls will have crushes on you.

I'm counting on it. There goes that grin again.

Are you sure you don't want me to stick around? I ask. It's quiet now but you know how it is. It might get crazy in a minute. I'm hoping he'll fall for it and ask me to stay. I don't want to go home to my empty apartment. It's fair to say that I can't be trusted with a